I understand now why the Riders warned Galbatorix against venturing so far, Murtagh said.
He and Jarnunvösk were not alone, were they?
No, two others went with them. Riders both, all of the same age. Galbatorix was their leader. Always he craved power, and always it was his undoing.
A slow beat of Thorn’s wings punctuated their conversation. The dragon said, Did Galbatorix ever tell you why they flew north?
Murtagh snorted. For the daring of it, I believe. To show their mettle, despite their elders’ disapproval.
A sorrowful cast darkened Thorn’s mind. And so they paid the price of their folly.
We all did.
It was Urgals who attacked them upon the ice, was it not?
Murtagh scratched his chin. So he said. But they must have been skilled and mighty Urgals indeed to overcome three dragons and two Riders. In truth, I’ve always wondered about it, but Galbatorix was never inclined to answer questions. He again looked down upon the ridged peaks. For an instant, sympathy flickered within him. How horrible it must have been to travel all this on foot, alone, and after losing his dragon.
It would have driven anyone mad, human or dragon.
Just before noon, they spotted threads of smoke rising from a narrow valley deeper in the mountain range. Thorn diverted to investigate, and they saw a small collection of huts—which looked like the hulls of overturned ships—in a meadow by a stream. Tall, multicolored banners hung outside each hut.
“Is that—” Murtagh started to say. But it wasn’t the Dreamers. Even as he spoke, a figure emerged from one of the huts. An incredibly tall figure with grey skin and horns that curled about his enormous head.
Urgals, said Thorn with a mental growl.
And a Kull at that. No other Urgals grew as tall. Not one of them stood under eight foot, and many were far larger. Murtagh still found it impressive that the dwarves had been able to hold their own against the gigantic creatures during the Battle of Farthen Dûr.
Murtagh watched with fierce interest as Thorn circled the village, trusting his spell of concealment to keep them hidden. He saw what he took to be Urgal women—a first for him—washing clothes in the stream, and half-naked Urgal children—also a first—running about the meadow, shooting at one another with bows and padded arrows. Several males were chopping wood; others were sparring with staves and spears and clubs.
Both Galbatorix and the Varden had allied themselves with the Urgals over the course of the war, but never during Murtagh’s time with either one. Before that, his only interaction with Urgals had come when he’d gone on patrol with Lord Varis’s men. A band of Urgals had been raiding the holdings on Varis’s estate, and it was thought that a show of force might scare them off. If that failed, their goal was to hunt down and kill the Urgals, and specifically, their chieftain, who was—according to the reports of survivors—violent, ruthless, and given to fits of insanity.
Murtagh had been seventeen and just coming into his strength. He was eager to prove himself and to use the skills Tornac had taught him. (Tornac would have argued against the expedition, but then Tornac had been back in Urû’baen.) So Murtagh convinced Varis to let him accompany his men.
The Urgals had ambushed them by a small stand of firs just outside one of the villages on Varis’s lands. The fight had been short, loud, and confusing. In the midst of it, an Urgal had knocked Murtagh out of his saddle. He barely got back to his feet before the brute was upon him, swinging a heavy chopper—more like a sharpened mace than a sword.
Murtagh’s shield split, and he knew he had only seconds to live. All his training with a sword was little help against the sheer strength and violence of the Urgal’s assault.
But then another Urgal had pulled away the one attacking him, and Murtagh had found himself facing the leader of the band. The chieftain had a crimson banner mounted over his shoulder, and on the banner was stitched a strange black sigil.
The chieftain had smiled a horrible smile; his teeth were sharp and yellow, and his breath stank like that of a carrion eater. Then the rest of the Urgals left their kills and formed a circle around Murtagh and the chieftain, and they’d shouted and bellowed and beaten their chests as the two of them closed with each other.
Murtagh had known what was expected of him. And he tried. But the chieftain wielded a long-handled ax, and Murtagh did not know how to defend against it. The ax was like the worst parts of a spear and a pike combined, and the Urgal quickly gave Murtagh a cut on his left shoulder, a cracked rib, and another cut on his right thigh. He’d fallen then, and he surely would have died if not for Varis.
The earl had ridden up with another, larger group of soldiers. They had driven the Urgals away, killing many, but not, to Murtagh’s regret, the chieftain.
And it had been that same crimson-bannered Urgal who had led the Kull who chased him and Eragon deep into the Beor Mountains….
Murtagh shook himself and brought his attention back to the village below. Ostensibly a treaty had been signed between Urgals, humans, and elves—and indeed, Eragon had even added the Urgals to the pact that joined Riders and dragons (though the thought of an Urgal Rider still gave Murtagh pause). But whether word of the treaty had reached this isolated village was an open question.
How do you think they would react if we showed ourselves? he asked Thorn.
Amusement colored the dragon’s thoughts. They would all want to fight you, to prove themselves.
Probably. Part of Murtagh was tempted. He held no love for the Urgals—he still had nightmares about the chieftain, and about fighting hordes of Urgals during the Battle of Farthen Dûr—but he was curious. If there was one thing the past few years had taught him, it was the importance of knowing and understanding both himself and the world around him. And he didn’t feel as if he had a good understanding of the Urgals. Recognizing his own curiosity surprised him. He really would be willing to sit down and talk with an Urgal, despite the atrocities they’d committed throughout the land. After all, he’d committed his own share of violence.
At the realization, some of the tension eased from his muscles, and he loosened his grip on the front of the saddle. The Urgals were dangerous enough, it was true, but so were he and Thorn. It did not mean they were not worthy of investigation.
A thread of acrid smoke streamed back from Thorn’s nostrils and passed over him. The dragon said, I would roast them with fire and eat them if they attacked us.
Eat an Urgal? Really? I can’t imagine they would taste very good. Besides, they’re not animals.
Thorn snorted and turned back toward the bay. They are meat. Meat is good.
Once again, Murtagh was reminded of the differences between them. He made no attempt to hide his revulsion. Would you eat a human as well?
Indifference was Thorn’s response. If I did not like them. Why would I not?
Because it’s wrong. You might as well be a Ra’zac, then!
A sharp hiss came from Thorn. Do not compare me to those foul creatures. I am a dragon, not a carrion picker.
Then don’t act like one. Promise me you won’t eat any humans, elves, or Urgals. For my sake.
Hmph. Fine.
It was, Murtagh reflected, not without reason the elves had forged the initial bond between themselves and the dragons. He frowned as he thought of all the dragon eggs Eragon had taken to Mount Arngor. Some of them were enchanted that the younglings inside might bond with Riders, but the rest were wild dragons, unbound and free to act as they would. How well would those wild dragons fit into Alagaësia once they were old enough to return?