By unspoken agreement, Thorn settled along the side of a hill one mountain over from the cleft, where a sharp-edged ridge hid them from the narrow valley.
Murtagh loosened the straps around his legs and slid to the ground. He stretched his arms and looked across the Bay of Fundor before turning back to Thorn. “What do you think?”
The scales along Thorn’s neck prickled. No village has the means to build such shells.
“The houses? I agree. Not without a great deal of help. That or they used magic.” He scratched his chin; his shave should be good for another day. Without a dagger or camp knife, he’d been forced to use a spell to remove his stubble, which made him more nervous than did a good, honest blade.
Thorn crept closer and placed his head by Murtagh’s shoulder. How long do you think you will be gone?
“I won’t be gone at all.” Murtagh smiled. “This time, I think we should do things differently. This time, the situation calls for some thunder and lightning.”
Thorn’s long red tongue snaked out of his mouth and licked his chops in a wolfish way. That seems most agreeable to me.
“I thought it might.”
Do you mean to kill Bachel?
“I mean to talk with her. If we have to fight, we fight, but—” Murtagh’s brows drew together as he frowned. “We need to find out what she and the Dreamers are about. Whatever their goal, they’re pursuing it with serious intent.”
And you want to scent out how many of them are in Nasuada’s realm.
“That too, although I doubt Bachel will tell us. At least, not willingly.” He scratched Thorn atop his snout. “Either way, we have to be careful.”
Our wards should protect us from her wordless magic, same as any other.
He gave the dragon a grim look. “Maybe. It’s hard to say. If things go badly, it might be best to flee.”
Flee or fight, I shall be ready.
“Then let us be at it.”
Murtagh walked along Thorn’s glittering length to where the saddlebags hung. He opened them and removed in order: Zar’roc, his arming cap and helmet, his greaves and vambraces, his iron-rimmed kite shield—from which he’d scraped the Empire’s emblem—his padded undershirt, and his breastplate. When not marching into open battle, he preferred to wear a mail shirt for the mobility it provided, but it wasn’t mobility nor even protection he was after. It was intimidation.
So, for the first time since Galbatorix had died and the Empire had fallen, Murtagh decided to substitute spectacle for subterfuge.
As he donned the armor, its familiar weight settled onto his frame with cold, forbidding constraint. Piece by piece, he assembled himself—or rather, a version of himself he had hoped to abandon: Murtagh son of Morzan. Murtagh, the dread servant of Galbatorix.
Murtagh the betrayer.
There was a circlet of gold about the helm, reminiscent of a minor crown. Galbatorix’s idea of humor. He’d introduced Murtagh as his right-hand man in the Empire. A new Rider, descended of the Forsworn, sworn to the king and devoted to his cause. Before the crowds, Galbatorix had treated Murtagh as all but his son, but in private chambers, where the truth could not hide, Murtagh had been nothing more than a slave.
He placed the helm upon his head and then walked to a marshy pond lined with cattails and studied his reflection. He resembled a princeling sent to war. With the added harshness his visage had acquired during the past year, he found himself thinking he would not want to fight himself.
He nodded. “That’ll do.” Then he eyed Thorn. “A pity we don’t have armor for you.”
Thorn sniffed. I need none. Besides, it would have to be made anew every half year.
It was true. Like all dragons, Thorn would continue to grow his entire life. The rate of growth slowed in proportion to overall mass, but it never entirely stopped. Some of the ancient dragons, such as the wild dragon Belgabad, had been truly enormous.
Murtagh belted on Zar’roc and then closed the saddlebags and climbed back onto Thorn. “Letta,” he said, and ended the spell that concealed Thorn in the air. “All right. Let’s go meet this witch Bachel.”
A rumble of agreement came from Thorn. Then the dragon lifted his wings high, like crimson sails turned to the wind, and drove them down. Murtagh clutched the spike in front of him as Thorn sprang skyward, and cold air rushed past with a promise of brimstone.
Land in front, Murtagh said to Thorn as they flew into the cleft. Make sure you have plenty of room. If it does come to a fight, I don’t want you to get pinned or cornered.
For a moment, Thorn’s fierce enthusiasm dimmed. You need not worry. I will not allow there to be a repeat of Gil’ead.
I know. Murtagh patted the dragon’s neck. But let’s not chance it all the same.
Down swept Thorn from the roof of clouds, eddies of mist whirling from the tips of his batlike wings. He circled the village—his form now fully visible to those below, and shouts and screams echoed among the buildings, and bells began to clang with urgent alarm—and then down again he swept and pierced the veil of smoke.
Murtagh’s eyes smarted, and an acrid taste formed in the back of his mouth.
With a threatening roar, Thorn settled on the blasted earth in front of the village. The crusted dirt cracked under his feet, and he sank inches into the ashy soil. The sight reminded Murtagh of the Burning Plains, though on cursory examination, the valley floor seemed to contain no peat or coal that might fuel an ongoing fire.
Bells continued to sound, and Murtagh saw grey-robed men and women running through the streets as they sought cover in the nearby buildings. Not that it would provide much protection against a dragon.
Murtagh drew Zar’roc then, and held it over his head. The bloody blade flashed in the dull winter light, a fitting match to Thorn’s scales.
Raising his voice as if he were addressing an assembly of troops, he shouted, “Hear me! My name is Murtagh, and I have come to speak with the witch Bachel! Come forth, Bachel, that we may have words!”
The bells ceased tolling, and an eerie silence fell over valley and village. In it, Murtagh became aware of a faint hissing from the vents discharging vapor near Thorn’s feet.
One by one, a number of robed individuals—men and women alike—emerged from the buildings and gathered along the main road. They were a disparate collection: some were of pale northern stock, others were as brown as Surdans, and a few possessed the same deep black skin as Nasuada. They peered at Murtagh from under their hoods, their expressions angry and concerned, but not as fearful as he’d expected.
You would think they’d be more scared of a dragon and Rider, he said to Thorn.
The dragon licked his teeth. I can correct that mistake.
Murtagh hid a smile. Later, perhaps.
“Bachel!” he shouted. “Come forth, Bachel!”
The knot of people parted as a tall, goateed man stepped forward and, with a cold gaze, inspected Murtagh and Thorn. Two streaks of white banded his beard, and he had a pronounced widow’s peak, while his shaved cheeks were sunken and pitted from pox. Murtagh found it impossible to place the man’s ancestry. His brow was heavy, his cheekbones protruded, and he had a fierce, unfinished look, as if he were an earlier form of human. Unlike the others, his robe had stripes of purple sewn around the cuffs.