Murtagh ran toward Thorn. “St—”
The dragon turned and placed a paw over Murtagh. The weight pushed Murtagh to the ground, and then Thorn’s claws curved around him, and a forceful yank caused his neck to whip as Thorn loosed an unearthly bellow and sprang into the air.
Murtagh struggled to move, struggled to see, but the cage of Thorn’s talons was immovable, unbreakable.
Thorn roared again. Beneath them, Murtagh glimpsed the soldiers fleeing through the streets, and he thought he saw Esvar’s face among the throng, the yellow-haired youth’s expression fear-stricken and accusatory. Closer to the fortress, he spotted two figures garbed in the dark robes of Du Vrangr Gata, and also a trio of elves standing by the corner of a building, the air shimmering between their hands as they chanted in what he knew was the ancient language.
No!
More arrows flew up toward them, and an enormous jet of flame shot out from Thorn’s maw. Even closed within Thorn’s paw, Murtagh could feel waves of searing heat rolling out from the fiery torrent.
The arrows flared red, white, and yellow and vanished like sparks in a campfire.
With another roar, Thorn bathed the buildings below in a stream of liquid fire. Yellow sheets billowed from the roofs, and the flapping of the ravenous flames drowned out a chorus of shouts and screams.
Murtagh was shouting as well, but Thorn wasn’t listening.
Then they were flying across the city, and as Thorn flew, he laid down a track of burning destruction. A spell of some kind caused the air about them to grow cold and thin, but whatever the intended outcome of the enchantment, the effects soon vanished, and Thorn continued as before.
They passed over the edge of Gil’ead, and then Thorn was climbing into the sky with desperate speed, and the only sounds were the rush of air and the heavy beats of his wings.
CHAPTER XVI
Aftermath
Thorn flew for hours.
Murtagh kept trying to talk with him, but the dragon’s mind remained closed, armored by unreasoning fear. Helpless to do more, Murtagh strove to impress a sense of calm and safety on Thorn, despite his own upset. He wanted to rage and curse and weep, but he knew that would only worsen Thorn’s state, so he crushed his own feelings and focused on maintaining an even frame of mind. Thorn needed to know that he wasn’t alone and that both he and Murtagh were safe. Only then would he regain his senses.
Every wingbeat caused a painful jostle as the scales along Thorn’s knobby fingers cut into Murtagh’s skin. The rush of cold air was loud and distracting and leeched the life from his limbs, though he clung to his bedroll for warmth. Soon he began to shiver.
Murtagh tried to track their path, but he could only see a small patch of the ground. He could tell they were heading north and east, and that was all.
The sight of the burning buildings kept filling his mind, and he kept pushing it away, not wanting his own distress to worsen Thorn’s. But he couldn’t help but feel a sick sense of inevitability at what they had done.
The sun was directly above them when, at long last, Thorn angled downward and glided to a stop upon a small hill by the edge of the vast eastern plains.
They landed with a jolt, and Thorn opened his paw. Murtagh dropped onto the dry grass hard enough to cause him to let out his breath in a whuff.
He unclamped his grip on the bedroll and slowly got to his feet.
Thorn was crouched next to him, shoulders and wings hunched as if to ward off a blow, eyes half closed, his entire body racked with tiny tremors.
Murtagh wrapped his arms around Thorn’s head. “Shh. It’s all right,” he said, both out loud and with his mind. “We’re safe. Be at ease.” He repeated the words until he felt the tremors begin to subside.
It is not all right. Thorn blinked and hunkered lower. It will never be all right.
“The elves will have put out the fires. It’s easy enough with a word or two.”
Thorn laid his head on the ground and let out his breath in a great sigh. His scales felt uncommonly cold to Murtagh; normally the dragon ran hotter than a human. How many do you think I killed?
“…I don’t know. Maybe no one.” But they both knew that was unlikely.
I hate this weakness in me. This is not how I should be. It is unbecoming for a dragon, much less a dragon with a Rider. I dishonor you and my kind.
“No, no, no,” said Murtagh. The words tumbled out in a rush. “This isn’t your fault. It never was.”
Thorn turned doleful eyes on him. Galbatorix is dead. My actions are my own. What he did to me—
“What he did to us.”
We cannot be blamed for it, but the fault here is still mine.
A strange desire to weep came over Murtagh. He remembered Thorn as a hatchling, pure and innocent, free of any misdeed, and despite all they had done, he saw the youngling in Thorn yet. “You’re not helpless,” he said with fierce conviction. “You can overcome this fear of yours. Nothing in this world is mightier than a dragon.”
Thorn snuffed the ground by his feet. Nothing but a dragon’s own mind. To that, Murtagh had no answer, and his helplessness turned into coiled frustration. Thorn noticed. But I will try, however I can.
“I know you will. Tomorrow, let’s find some trees, and we’ll work on this together.”
Together.
With his right hand, Murtagh stroked the scales along Thorn’s jaw. They were still cold against his palm. “Thank you for coming to get me. I would have died if you hadn’t.”
I flew…very fast. Thorn shivered again, and his eyelids drooped lower, although his shoulders and wings remained hunched.
“You need to eat,” said Murtagh. “Stay here. I’ll be back soon.”
No. Do not go….
But Murtagh was already trotting down the hill.
Thorn’s approach had scared away any nearby game, and Murtagh had to range longer and wider than he wanted before he spotted a herd of red deer grazing along the banks of a creek.
He stopped some distance away. A pair of does looked in his direction before returning to feeding. They seemed entirely unfrightened; he was too far away to be a threat, and he saw no settlements in the area. The animals weren’t used to being hunted by humans.
He cast about the ground, looking for a rock, but unlike the land near the Spine, the soil of the plains was rich and black and had no stones in it. What he found instead was a piece of wind-scoured bone, a fragment of a deer’s thigh or foreleg.
It would do.
He concentrated on the largest deer, lifted the bone on his outstretched palm, and said, “Thrysta!”
The shard flew faster than his eye could follow. With a thup, it struck the doe between her eyes. Her head snapped back, and the animal collapsed, hind legs kicking.
The rest of the herd fled.
Murtagh walked to the fallen animal. By the time he arrived, the doe had gone limp and still.
He looked at the deer, contemplating what he had done. The animal’s eyes were still open, and they were beautifuclass="underline" round and glassy and gentle. “I’m sorry,” he murmured.
Then he grabbed the deer by its legs, slung it over his shoulders, and started the long walk back to Thorn.
As he strode across the grassy plain, the weight of the animal warm and heavy around his neck, Murtagh again saw the stone cell where Galbatorix had kept Thorn imprisoned. The chamber had been long but narrow, with murder holes cut in the ceiling. Too large and cold and unfriendly of a place for a hatchling, but there Galbatorix had placed Thorn all the same and anchored him to the floor with chains of iron. Small ones at first, to match Thorn’s size, but bigger and bigger ones thereafter, until the links were as thick about as a man’s torso and too weighty in their combined mass for even a dragon many times Thorn’s age to lift. Whenever he moved, the chains made a harsh and horrible sound. Many a night Murtagh had lain awake in his own cell, listening for the distinctive clink.