“…No.” Murtagh frowned and looked at the wood-braced ceiling. I should have known better than to give my word. Another thought followed close behind: Thorn won’t like that I did. But he knew he couldn’t ignore Carabel’s request, even if, right then, he rather hated the werecat. “Get the scale, catch the fish, find out what’s behind the door. Is that it?”
Carabel nodded. “Exactly. But you must be quick about it, human. We have heard whispers of men moving in the night, wagons readied, horses freshly shod…. By tomorrow evening, Silna may no longer be in the city.”
Murtagh silently cursed. This isn’t going to be easy. Then his resolve hardened, and he leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. If the werecat child was in Gil’ead, he’d find her, even if it meant pulling the city apart beam by beam.
“Then we’d best not waste any time.”
A savage, toothy smile spread across Carabel’s face.
CHAPTER III
Barrow-Wights
It was late afternoon when Murtagh exited the secret tunnel underneath Gil’ead’s fortress. Shadows had filled the streets, and only the rooftops remained bathed in light warm and gold.
The stone door closed behind him with a grinding sound as Bertolf, the sleeveless servant, pulled it shut.
Cautious, Murtagh climbed the stairs from the hidden entrance, half expecting a band of soldiers to jump him at any moment. At the top, he paused long enough to make sure no one was watching, and then he slipped through the garden, through the front gate, and into the street.
He had to force himself to pay attention to his surroundings as he hurried back toward Gil’ead’s southern entrance, but his mind kept returning to his encounter with Carabel. A wry chuckle escaped him. Quests from a werecat. It was the sort of thing one heard about in stories, where the earnest young hero proved his doughtiness and won the hand of a princess.
Only Murtagh knew the world didn’t work like that. More often than not, the hero ended up dead in a ditch, or else forced to carry out orders from the king he hated….
His mood soured as he arrived at the edge of Gil’ead. With long strides, he hurried away from the buildings until he felt himself a safe distance. Then he moved off the road, to the top of a small hummock, and focused his mind in the direction of the hollow where Thorn lay hiding.
Can you hear me? he asked.
Thorn’s response was immediate: a rush of concern and aggravation. Of course. Are you safe?
Safe enough.
Where are you?
Murtagh impressed an image of his surroundings onto Thorn. The dragon huffed, and Murtagh heard the sound in his mind. Were you able to speak with Ilenna?
Not quite. Opening his memories, Murtagh shared his recollection of his conversation with Carabel. It was faster than using words to explain every little detail.
Afterward, Thorn snorted. The cat got the best of you, I think.
I know, he agreed mildly. There wasn’t much I could do about it.
Still, it will be good if you can help the hatchling.
I’ll do my best. You don’t mind about Glaedr’s scale, do you?
Why should I? His scale is not my scale. Besides, Glaedr’s body is dead. Why should a dragon care what happens to them when they are gone?
Many people do.
Thorn made the equivalent of a mental shrug. If I am not here to know or feel, what does it matter? It is fear that drives such care, and I do not fear the worms.
No. There are far worse things than death.
Murtagh could almost feel Thorn staring at him. You are part dragon, I sometimes think.
Of course. We are joined, you and I, aren’t we? He looked at the sky, gauged how much time until nightfall. I’m going to get the scale, and then I might need your help with the fish.
Rainbow flecks of excitement colored Thorn’s thoughts. We will hunt together?
Yes.
The flecks brightened, variegated lights sparking as Thorn imagined the successful conclusion of the chase, of teeth sinking into fishy flesh.
Soon, Murtagh promised.
With a purposeful stride, Murtagh headed west, toward the oak tree grown atop the mound where Oromis and Glaedr’s remains were buried. As it grew near, he saw numerous people gathered about the oak, some kneeling, others standing, and he heard distant singing.
Among the people, he saw what looked to be a white-robed elf next to the twisted tree trunk.
“Barzûl,” Murtagh swore, and turned aside. There was no sure way to conceal himself or what he was doing from elven eyes, which were the keenest and most perceptive of all the races’.
He hated to delay—every hour that passed lessened the chances that he could rescue Silna—but there was no help for it. He would have to wait.
Frustrated, Murtagh studied the fields around him. There. A small stand of willows near a bowl-like depression filled with lush grass, cattails, and a few crabapple trees heavy with their sour fruit.
He glanced at the road to make sure it was clear, and then trotted over to the stand of willows. There were midges and biting flies flitting about the grass, and his boots sank into marshy ground, but Murtagh was willing to put up with the annoyance in order to have some cover.
A fly bit his neck, and he slapped it away.
He wedged himself into the willows in an angled position that would keep him from falling onto the wet ground. Then, from the purse on his belt, he took some dried apple and a piece of cold bacon and chewed them slowly, savoring every bite. It was all the food he was going to get for a while.
He was thirsty too, but he didn’t want to drink whatever stagnant water he could find in the depression. That was a good way to end up bent over sick for the next few days.
There has to be a way to make water safe with a spell. He remembered something of the like from Yngmar’s memories, but the details had been vague.
Still thinking on it, he crossed his arms over the staff, pulled his hood over his face, and closed his eyes.
The hum of busy insects soon lulled him to sleep.
Soft flesh fumbling at his skin, teeth scraping, unwelcome wetness along his hand, then a flare of yellow pain bright enough to make him yelp.
Murtagh jolted awake, shouting, wild-eyed. He thrashed with the staff, hoping to knock back whatever was hurting him.
A bony, dolorous face hung before him. Sideways pupils rimmed with dirty gold, cruel, inhuman; a profusion of black and white bristles; grasping lips searching like blind worms for food; splayed, flat-topped teeth yellowed around the bases, grinding, gnashing, snapping only inches from his cheek; breath like a putrid pond.
Murtagh recoiled. The face was a terrifying, uncaring hunger set to devour the world.
The yellowed teeth closed on his hand again, hard and painful. Repulsed, Murtagh reacted without thinking and shouted, “Thrysta!” while funneling his strength into the spell.