He shivered again.
“Back on your feet, wormling,” said Grieve, and turned away. To the warriors on horseback, he shouted, “Gather the supplies that the dragon may carry them, and be quick about it. Bachel grows impatient. When we are gone, take what horses you can and bring them to Nal Gorgoth.”
As a group, the men responded: “As it is dreamt, so it shall be.”
Murtagh sat next to Thorn and watched as the cultists piled bundles of supplies—food, clothes, skins of drink—before them. Grieve had spared him the task of helping, not out of mercy, but because Murtagh’s injured arm meant he could be of little use.
His gaze returned to the bodies lying in the trampled snow. Then he dropped his eyes to his bloodstained hands and to Thorn’s gore-splattered feet.
He pulled his cloak tighter. He still hadn’t stopped shivering.
Thorn’s snout touched his shoulder. The gesture seemed as if it ought to have provided a sense of comfort, but Murtagh felt no improvement. The only thought that came to his mind was: No. A statement of denial, of rejection. Not toward the dragon, but toward the circumstances that bound them.
The cultists used ropes to tie the supplies together. Then Grieve had Murtagh climb onto Thorn’s back—as did Grieve himself—and Thorn grasped the ropes between his reddened claws and took off with labored beats of his wings.
The flight back to Nal Gorgoth was cold and silent, and no slower than before, despite Thorn’s additional burden, for the wind was at their backs and it eased their progress.
Murtagh wished it wouldn’t.
Fingers of dull orange light were extending beneath the clouds to the west and filtering between the jags of the mountain peaks by the time the village came into sight.
Thorn landed in the temple courtyard, and Bachel came out to greet them along with her litter-bearers, warriors, and attendants. Alín stood near the witch, face pale and drawn, and her eyes widened as she saw Thorn’s paws and Murtagh’s hands.
Also with Bachel and her retinue were the recently arrived guests, and among them the man Murtagh couldn’t place, and—
“Murtagh! You look as if you slipped and fell in a butcher’s killing yard! Rather clumsy of you, I say!”
Lyreth. Lyreth in all his embroidered finery, a chalice of wine in one hand, the other pressed against the waist of a female cultist. Once his words would have bothered Murtagh. Now they were as chaff in the wind.
When Murtagh dismounted, Bachel had her warriors relieve him of his sword. Then, at her order, they took him to be washed and, after, dragged him back to his cell beneath the temple.
As the cultists left, one of them brushed against the lantern at the end of the dungeon hallway, and the breath of air snuffed out the flame, leaving the cells in pitch-black.
Murtagh lay on the stones, cold beads of water dripping from his hair onto the back of his neck. The darkness felt like a tomb for his guilt; it wrapped around him with horrifying strength, turning his insides and strangling his breath.
The force of it froze him in place for a boundless span, the gut-wrenching sense of wrongness as painful as any wound.
From it, a truth formed in the center of his clouded mind, a hard core of inescapable reality: he could not continue as he was, but neither he nor Thorn could change things. Doing so was beyond them.
A gritty scrape sounded across the hall, as of a heavy weight shifting across the flagstones. Then: “Murtagh-man, what is wrong?”
It took all of Murtagh’s newly acquired mental acuity to force a word from his mouth. And he said:
“…help.”
CHAPTER XX
Qazhqargla
“I cannot help you, Murtagh-man,” said Uvek in what seemed to be a sorrowful voice.
“…please…help…I—”
Quick footsteps approached near the entrance of the hall, and then they faltered and there was a soft cry of annoyance. After a moment, flint and steel struck.
Murtagh struggled to sit. Using his right arm, he pushed himself into a slumped position against the metal bars. The iron was so cold it seemed to burn. He tugged his cloak closer around his thin woolen shirt.
A flame flickered to life in the lantern at the head of the hall, and then Alín hurried to Murtagh’s cell, carrying a bowl of watery soup with half a loaf of bread in it. She hesitated upon seeing him. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, and thrust the bowl between the iron bars. “It was never supposed to be like this.” And she rushed away, her footsteps light as feathers on the stones.
Across the hall, Uvek turned his massive head back toward Murtagh. Lit from the side by the lantern, the Urgal’s cragged face was somber and careworn, and there was a wise sorrow in his yellow eyes. “Was it so bad, Murtagh-man, what they had you do?”
“…yes.” Murtagh cracked his eyelids open and, without moving his head, looked over at the Urgal. “…help…me…. I can’t…can’t go…on….” Speaking took every scrap of strength he had, and after he went limp and had to concentrate on his breathing while he waited for the floor to steady beneath him.
“Hrmm.”
When Murtagh recovered enough to open his eyes again, he saw Uvek watching him with concerned intent.
The Urgal said, “Cannot Thorn-dragon help Murtagh-man? Dragon and Rider together? Dragons very strong.”
“…not…not this…time.”
“Hrmm. I not know what to do. I am shaman; I speak to spirits. You know spirits, yes?”
Murtagh managed to nod.
“I speak to spirits. Sometimes they speak back. But they cannot hear me now. Not in this place, not with poison in stomach.”
Gathering his strength, Murtagh said, “…if I could…use…magic…could…free…” The effort was too much; he couldn’t maintain his mental focus long enough to keep talking.
Uvek picked at his thick lower lip with one clawlike nail. “Hrmm. Look, Murtagh-man.” From his rough leather belt, Uvek produced a small object: a piece of carved blackstone tied with a thin strip of woven cord. “You see? I have charm here. Hornless did not take because they think just rock. Hrr-hrr-hrr.” It took Murtagh a moment to realize the Urgal was laughing. Then Uvek held the stone up so that it caught the lantern light. The surface glittered as if embedded with flecks of gold. “Charm is for healing. Could help with Breath, but…”
“…but?”
“But no strength in charm, Murtagh-man. Charm empty. I used to heal deer with broken leg. I try give charm strength, but”—Uvek shook his head—“weirding not work. But maybe work for you. You are Rider.”
The faintest flicker of hope formed in Murtagh. “…maybe.” He struggled to sit upright.
Uvek hunched forward, cupping the blackstone as if it were fragile as a bluebird egg. “If you escape, Murtagh-man, will you free me? Will you free Uvek Windtalker?”
“…yes.”
“Hrmm. Urgralgra have many bad dealings with hornless. Hrr. And hornless many bad dealings with Urgralgra. Before I give charm, I need Murtagh-man swear oath that he never break word with Urgralgra.”
“…can’t swear…won’t…”
Uvek’s expression remained as stone. “Then I not give charm.”
Frustrated, Murtagh let his head fall back against the bars. He didn’t have the strength to keep fighting, and yet he couldn’t give up, no matter how painful it was to continue. “…can’t…can’t swear to…whole race…won’t be…bound…” He paused, trying to force past the fog in his brain. “…bound again…like that.” The whole reason he was in the cell, after all, was because he and Thorn refused to give their word to Bachel.