The shadowed privacy of the gloaming loosened Murtagh’s tongue, made him feel as if he could speak of subjects that normally were too painful to give voice. But he knew it was a false sense of anonymity, so he chose his words with care.
“I lost…I lost a friend. More like a father. Killed by Galbatorix’s men.”
“Ah now, that’s hard, and there’s no denying it.”
“Not as hard as others have it.”
Mallet looked down from the sky. “Well, far as I see it, there’s no putting a price on pain, if’n you follow. Everyone’s entitled to their own. Would be a strange thing t’ say that some pain is easier ’an others without knowin’ what it’s like in another’s shoes, if’n that makes sense.”
“It does.”
Mallet harrumphed and nodded, and then surprised Murtagh by patting him on the shoulder. “Y’ seem like a man who wants his space, so I’ll leave y’ to it, but if y’ change your mind, I’ll be over thatwise.”
And the blacksmith moved off around the base of the mound until he was a dark outline at the far side, leaving Murtagh standing alone in the shadow of the barrow.
Murtagh let out a small, choked laugh that was nearly a cry. Faint from distance, Thorn said in a carefully neutral tone, What a strange man.
Not really, said Murtagh.
He concentrated on his spell then, working the water through the ground with greater speed. So far, it didn’t seem to have triggered any protective spells.
Foot by careful foot, he pressed the water past stone and pebble, worked it into interstitial spaces, penetrated mud and clay and packed layers of ash—the mortal remains of the great dragon Glaedr. The dragon had been enormous by most standards. Smaller than Shruikan but still several times the size of Thorn or Saphira. And his pyre had left a thick stratum of incinerated muscle, organs, bones, and scales.
Murtagh wasn’t sure if any scales had survived. The fires elves made with their magic burned hotter than those of a forge.
But he kept searching. Every inch of progress felt like a transgression. He was not by nature weak of stomach—blood did not sicken him, nor did the gore and viscera of battle—but knowing that the tendrils of water were passing through what had once been the innards of a creature such as Thorn made Murtagh increasingly queasy.
He fervently wished to be quit of the task, and he cursed the werecat with what energy he could afford.
Then, just as he began to despair…there! A shift in the flow of water as it touched an object near the center of the barrow. A scale, he hoped. The water caressed the object, formed a pocket around it, and, gentle as a mother’s touch, drew it forth from the womb of the earth.
It was hardly an unlabored process. Rocks and bones blocked the way, and every few inches, an obstacle forced the water to divert. Each time, he struggled to return the scale to its intended course, and each time, he succeeded. That was, until the scale met an enormous stone that defied his every effort to bypass.
“Barzûl,” he swore. He couldn’t seem to find the edges of the stone; the scale kept getting caught on unseen ridges.
With no other option, he increased the flow of water, pushed more and more into the barrow until it softened the soil beneath the stone, turned it into a pool of mud.
Thin rivulets of water seeped out by his feet, and the belly of the barrow sagged slightly, as if to collapse.
“Hold,” he muttered, willing the mound to stand.
Within the ground, he felt the stone sink into the morass he’d created. The scale slid forward in a rush of pressure released, and he quickly reduced the amount of water to the bare minimum needed to keep the scale moving.
Like a mountain spring burst to life, a patch of dew welled from the surface of the grassy barrow, and then the soil parted. From within the dark interior a gleaming, golden scale emerged, bright as a faceted gem of topaz. In the dusk, the scale was a shield-shaped piece of evening sunlight, a condensed pool of illumination, still possessed of a sense of life and motion.
Wonderstruck, he ended his spell and took the palm-sized scale from the ground.
The instant his hand touched the scale, a foreign mind touched his, and a mental attack struck him with such strength, he staggered and clung to the staff in order to remain standing.
Murtagh reacted without thinking, old reflexes taking charge. He recoiled deep within himself, armoring his mind and focusing on the phrase he used to block out any other thoughts. “You shall not have me. You shall not have me. You shall not have me,” he muttered, over and over.
Despite his speed, he wasn’t fast enough. The other mind bore down upon him with implacable force. Whoever it was possessed incredible mental discipline and, it seemed, complete mastery of their emotions, for Murtagh felt nothing but fiercely controlled intent.
He tried to move, tried to drop the scale, but the invading consciousness held him in place through sheer overwhelming strength.
Murtagh assumed his assailant was an elf, one from Gil’ead set to guard the barrow. Normally a mental projection of such intensity required the magician to be relatively close. At least within half a mile. However, Murtagh guessed that the scale was somehow enchanted to act as a scrying mirror or a magnifier—a conduit between whoever touched it and the ones protecting the barrow.
Even so, time was short. It wouldn’t take an elf long to ride from Gil’ead to the barrow. Minutes, if that.
If Thorn were trying to help, Murtagh couldn’t tell. He hoped the dragon wouldn’t leave the hollow.
Between the words of his defensive chant, he again tried to move the hand touching the scale. Nothing.
“You shall not have me. You shall not have me.”
As determined and disciplined as the other mind was, Murtagh knew he was stronger. When it came to resolve, he could hold his own with the largest, oldest, and wisest creatures in Alagaësia. Galbatorix may have been able to break Murtagh’s defenses, but he had never broken his will—and that gave Murtagh courage that, no matter how dire the situation, his self would prevail.
Then from the intruding mind came a questing thought, in both the human tongue and in the ancient language: Who are you?
Alarm threatened to disrupt Murtagh’s focus. He couldn’t wait any longer. If his attacker learned his name…He had to find a way to disrupt the elf’s attention and slip away.
With his off hand, he fumbled at his belt until he found the hilt of his dagger. He drew it, and then—with grim-minded determination—stabbed his right forearm.
Not deeply. Not enough to cause major damage but enough to cause pain, and it was pain he wanted.
His face contorted with agony, and the dagger fell from his fingers. The unexpected spike of pain passed through his mind into the elf’s, and as Murtagh had hoped, it broke his attacker’s focus.
Freed from the immobilizing influence, Murtagh dropped the scale. As it left his hand, the mental contact vanished, and with it a sense of oppressive weight.
The reprieve would be short-lived.
Using the corner of his cloak as a protective mitten, he again picked up the scale. The layer of cloth was enough to avoid triggering whatever spell had been placed on it. He dropped the scale into the purse on his belt and then went to retrieve the dagger.
A few paces away, Mallet was watching, a look of horror on his face. The smith sputtered and pointed and said, “That’s…you’re…You’re no friend. Graverobber! Desecrator!” His voice rang out in the evening air, cutting through the lamentations of those around the barrow. The men and women turned, their expressions alarmed and hostile. Mallet was still shouting. “He took a scale of th’ dragon! I saw it! Thief! Graverobber!”