The thin man collapsed with a gurgle and a clatter of jarred teeth.
The bearded man was still moving; he’d gotten onto his hands and knees and was struggling to stand.
A quick forward step, and Murtagh rapped him near the back of his skull. A rabbit blow, but not hard enough to kill.
“Ahh!” cried the bearded man, and he curled up, covering the back of his neck and head with his hands.
Murtagh paused for a moment to check for more enemies. Finding none, he looked back at the two unfortunate would-be thieves.
His teeth drew back in a snarl, his blood molten in his veins. He strode back to bird-chest and kicked him in the side. And again. And again. A shout of rage and frustration burst forth from him as he swung his leg.
One or more ribs cracked against his shin.
He knelt and grabbed the man by the hair. Bird-chest’s eyes rolled, and red bubbles popped at the corners of his mouth. His lips moved in a mute attempt to plead for mercy.
“Be a better father,” Murtagh growled. “Or next time, I’ll beat you worse than this, you worthless sack of filth.”
The man groaned as Murtagh dropped his head.
A purse on bird-chest’s belt caught his eye. He grabbed it, as well as the man’s dagger. It wasn’t a particularly nice dagger, but the blade appeared sound enough, so Murtagh transferred the weapon into his empty sheath.
“Da!”
The cry sent a chill through Murtagh. He looked up to see the two urchins standing by the door of the tavern, anger and fright on their dirty faces.
“Get away from him!” the smaller one shouted, and threw a handful of pebbles. Several bounced off Murtagh’s shoulders.
He stood. “Your father needs your help. See to him.” Then he hurried away.
Halfway up the docks, with the tavern well out of sight, Murtagh’s gut clenched and his heart seemed to flutter. He half stumbled before his stomach relaxed and his pulse resumed its usual pace. He swore.
He almost wished he’d killed the man. The children might have been better off because of it. Or maybe not. It was impossible to know. All he could be certain of was that he hated the man and his brutish stupidity.
He quickly made his way out of the city and hurried back across the dark land toward where Thorn was waiting. Once he was no longer concerned about any watching minds, he reached out to Thorn and told him what he’d learned.
Thorn’s first comment was, Can you go anywhere without getting into a fight?
Doesn’t seem like it. It wasn’t my fault, though.
Is it ever?
Sometimes. Anyway, we’d best find Muckmaw, and then I can go open the door that’s always closed. If anyone of note is listening to the rumors and gossip around the city, they might realize something is amiss and start looking for us.
What about the fish?
Murtagh hopped a slat fence as he continued across a field toward Thorn’s hiding place. I can break the wards Durza placed on Muckmaw. That won’t be a problem. For that matter, I’m sure you could bite right through its protective spells. The idea seemed to please Thorn. We just have to find the fish.
Then let’s go find it!
As soon as I get there. I’m not— Before he could finish, Murtagh felt a surge of motion and excitement from Thorn as the dragon took flight. No, wait!
CHAPTER V
Muckmaw
Murtagh’s cry was too late. Ahead of him, he saw the dim sparkle of Thorn’s shape rise above the hill where they’d landed, and he heard the dull thud of the dragon’s wings.
“Blast it,” he muttered between clenched teeth. He quickly read the lay of the land and then sprinted toward a flat patch of wheat stubble a few hundred feet away.
He arrived just as Thorn drifted down from above. The gust of wind from the dragon’s velvet wings staggered Murtagh, forced him to spread his feet and brace himself against the press of air.
“Did you have to?” he said.
An amused sparkle lit Thorn’s eyes. No, but I wanted to.
“Gah. Let’s get out of here before someone notices.” He scrambled up Thorn’s side, the dragon’s scales sharp against his palms.
He grabbed the neck spike in front of the saddle and held on tight—not bothering to strap down his legs—as Thorn took off.
The crescent moon was near the top of the sky as Thorn sailed over the southern edge of Isenstar Lake, looking for the marshy area the fisherman had mentioned. Murtagh considered casting the spell he normally used to hide Thorn from people on the ground but decided against it. No boats lay on the dark water below, and he wanted to save his strength.
He thought as they flew, and the more he thought, the more uneasy he felt.
What’s wrong? Thorn asked.
I’m worried that Durza might have done something unreasonably clever with Muckmaw.
How so?
Spells take energy, yes? And that energy has to come from somewhere. Durza couldn’t sustain the wards he set on the fish when he wasn’t here. So the energy has to come from Muckmaw.
Where is the problem in that?
Murtagh shrugged, feeling an itch between his shoulder blades. Maybe there isn’t one. Only, when Muckmaw was small, how could it have maintained wards strong enough to deflect spears and swords and the like?
For a moment, the only sound was the sweep of Thorn’s wings. Perhaps no one tried to kill the fish until it was bigger.
Maybe.
…Do you think Durza used the same spell to grow Muckmaw that Galbatorix used on me?
A sudden tiredness came over Murtagh. Remembering the past always left him feeling old and sad. There’s no way to know, but I wouldn’t be surprised.
Mmh.
They flew in silence until a patch of bright-tipped reeds appeared along the shore: the tops of the cattails catching the moon and starlight.
Thorn descended on silent wings and landed on a wide slab of slate that hung over the edge of the lake. Murtagh slid to the stone and looked across the silvered water. In other circumstances, he would have found the sight beautiful, but knowing that a creature such as Muckmaw lurked beneath the surface gave it a dread feeling—the water a great, dark unknown.
Murtagh shivered and rubbed his hands. His breath showed in a pale plume.
From the saddlebags, he fetched the bow Galbatorix had given him. Murtagh hooked the nocked end of one limb behind his right ankle and, with effort, bent the bow until he could slide the string’s loop over the tip of the other end.
He checked the alignment of the string and, satisfied, slung his quiver over his shoulder.
The bow was made of dark yew bound with magic. Most men, and perhaps even some Urgals, would have found it too strong to draw. The white-fletched arrows were appropriately heavy and crafted of solid oak, for any lighter, weaker material would have shattered when the string was released. And as with his lost dagger, Murtagh had set spells on the arrows: spells to make them easier to find should he miss his mark, spells to help them buck the wind, and spells to help them drive deep into their target, no matter what protection, arcane or otherwise, guarded it.
Also from the saddlebags, he dug out Glaedr’s golden scale—still in its protective wrapping of cloth—as well as a skein of cord. With deft fingers, he tied a foursquare knot, the strands of which he kept loose and open and laid out on the ground like an iron bear trap. Then he donned his gloves and removed the scale from the cloth.