The smith swiped at him, trying to grab Murtagh with his long, hooked arms.
Murtagh spun and ran. He ran like a common thief, and he hated himself for it with every step.
I shouldn’t have told him my name was Tornac, he thought. The elves might know enough to realize who he was. And if not they, then perhaps the magician from Du Vrangr Gata.
A pulse of pain from his forearm caused him to look down as he sprinted across the landscape. A blot of blood had soaked through his sleeve, and his whole forearm was hard, knotted, as if cramped.
He pressed his left hand over the wound. “Waíse heill,” he growled. Be healed. It was a risky spell to cast without knowing the exact nature of the damage he was attempting to repair, but he trusted it wasn’t too much, and his guess proved correct. His arm burned and stung, and he felt lightheaded for a moment, enough to make him stumble a few steps. But the pain vanished and his muscles relaxed, and he was able to open and close his hand as before.
Losing the dagger hurt nearly as much as stabbing himself. He’d had the weapon since Galbatorix had armed him in Urû’baen, and it had served him well in the years after. Moreover, Murtagh had set spells on it—spells to strengthen it, to protect the sharpness of the edge, and to help it pierce the wards of other magicians.
I’ll have to get another one and start all over. It was a matter of practicality, if nothing else. He needed a knife for many of the tasks around camp.
He threw back his hood, slung his cloak over the crook of his left arm, and concentrated on running. Behind him, the angry shouts of the mourners faded into the night.
A bad start, Murtagh thought. But he couldn’t stop. Silna was still in danger, and there were answers to be had from Carabel.
Grim, he quickened his pace.
CHAPTER IV
Fish Tales
Murtagh ran until the burning in his lungs forced him to slow to a quick walk. Then he ran again, then walked, then ran. In like fashion, he hurried back to the hollow where Thorn was waiting.
Always you stir people up, like a hill of ants. Thorn was crouched, tense and ready to take off from within the ring of willows and poplars.
“I know,” said Murtagh, leaning over with his hands on his knees. “It seems to be a bad habit.”
Will the elves find us here?
“I don’t know,” he said, straightening. “But I don’t think it’s safe to stay.” He went to the waterskin he’d left hanging on a branch by his bedding, unstoppered it, and drank his fill. The water was warm and somewhat stale, but it was a welcome treat after a day of thirst.
Thorn watched, unblinking. Let me see the scale.
Murtagh wiped his mouth. He tossed the empty skin onto his blankets, fetched his gloves, and then carefully removed the gleaming scale from his purse.
With an excited hum, Thorn crept forward until his nose nearly touched the topaz plate. The dragon’s hot breath created droplets of moisture on the scale, and they reflected its inner light in a dazzling display.
The stubbed end of Thorn’s tail slapped the ground. A crow rose cawing from the top of a poplar.
Murtagh studied the puckered white scar that marked where Glaedr had bitten off the last three feet of Thorn’s tail. His tail was a normal length now—Galbatorix had seen to that—but the healing had been a forced, imperfect thing. What had been lost could not be replaced, so instead the king had set spells on Thorn to stretch the bones and muscles left to him. It had taken Thorn weeks to relearn how to balance himself in flight.
Thorn let out a long breath. Glaedr was a worthy foe.
“Yes, he was,” said Murtagh.
He died as every dragon should: fighting on wing, in the sky.
“He’s not entirely dead.”
Thorn blinked. But he can no longer fly. He cannot move. He can only think. I would sooner crash myself into the side of a mountain than live like that.
“I know,” said Murtagh, soft. They had been fortunate Galbatorix hadn’t forced Thorn to disgorge his Eldunarí. Young as he was, Thorn would have ended up with a severe mismatch between the size of his mind and the size of his body.
After Murtagh wrapped the scale in cloth and carefully stowed it in a saddlebag, Thorn said, What now?
Murtagh checked the sky. The stars were fully out, and the horns of a crescent moon were peeking over the horizon. Perfect. Just dark enough to help conceal them from watching eyes, but not so dark they couldn’t see their work.
“Now,” he said, rolling up his blankets, “we go fishing.”
Murtagh let out a sound of frustration and slumped back in Thorn’s saddle.
An hour of flying around and across Isenstar Lake had proved fruitless. The lake was huge, and they had no idea where to look for Muckmaw. Moreover, it was impossible to see anything useful in the dark water, even with the help of the crescent moon, and Thorn didn’t dare fly too close to the surface, lest night fishermen spot them. Murtagh had used his mind to search for creatures in the water, but from high above and at speed, it was easy to overlook the cold thoughts of a fish. Especially if it were sleeping. In any case, he didn’t know what Muckmaw’s consciousness felt like.
They landed upon several sections of isolated shore and he dangled Glaedr’s scale in the still waters, hoping it would attract the fish’s attention, as Carabel had claimed. But the waters remained smooth and untroubled, and the hoots of sleepy loons echoing across Isenstar were the only sign of animal life.
Frustrated, they took to the air again.
This isn’t going to work, said Murtagh, using his mind so the sound of his voice wouldn’t carry over the moonlit water. We could spend days patrolling Isenstar and have nothing to show for it but flies in our teeth and elves on our tail.
Thorn gave an irritated shake of his head. It is a good night for hunting, but only if we know where to hunt.
Exactly…. Murtagh glanced back toward Gil’ead. A scattered constellation of lanterns and torches lit the city, forming a warm welcome in the darkness. If he were a fisherman, he thought the sight would have been comforting indeed. He tapped Thorn on the shoulder. Turn around. I have an idea.
Why do I have a feeling in my belly that your idea will be dangerous?
Because you can read my mind, that’s why. And it won’t be that dangerous. Not if I’m clever.
Try not to be too clever. Clever fails more often than simple.
Mmh.
At Murtagh’s direction, Thorn landed behind a small hill half a mile from the northeastern side of Gil’ead. Hopefully the elves wouldn’t be looking there. Surrounding the hill was a dense patchwork of cultivated fields: clover, wheat, and close-planted rows of various root vegetables.
Murtagh slid to the ground and took a moment to study the land. There was a farmhouse to the north, closer than he would have liked. “You’ll have to be careful. There could be dogs.”
I know how to hide, said Thorn, sounding vaguely offended.
He smiled. “Yes, you do. But listen, if I’m not back in a few hours, leave. Don’t wait for dawn. Farmers rise early, and if they see you—”
They’ll cause no more trouble than we’ve faced before. Thorn huffed, and white smoke billowed up from his muzzle.