On still wings, Thorn soared into the cleft. The soft ceiling of clouds mu๏ฌed the air, and the silence only heighted Murtaghโs anticipation as he leaned forward in the saddle, peering over
Thornโs neck to see what lay ahead.
The mountains formed blue-white walls to either side, broken by cli๏ฌs of bare grey granite that protruded from the ranks of snowbound trees. Below, the river ๏ฌowed swift and narrow along its course, the water so clear Murtagh could count the rounded rocks beneath its rippling surface.
As they neared the back of the valley, the smell of rotten eggs grew stronger, and to Murtaghโs surprise, the air seemed to grow warmer as well, as if winter had yet to lay its frozen ๏ฌngers upon the northern reaches.
Beneath the scrim of smoke draped over the foothills piled before them, he saw a collection of closely built stone structures. They were dark grey with domed roofs, unlike the style of construction elsewhere in Alagaรซsia. Some were houses, he thought, but there were other buildings as well: a narrow tower that would not have been out of place in Urรปโbaen and, set into the base of the near hill, what looked to be a palace or temple with a large open courtyard and a tiered roof.
Figures were visible in the streets, but distance and smoke obscured them.
The land surrounding the village was charred black like the surface of a burnt log, cracked and brittle, with tendrils of smoke rising from hollow
pockets where the surface of the ground had collapsed. The few trees that stood upon the scorched earth had died, their branches bare and grey, and the bark had sloughed o๏ฌ the trunks in great sheets.
Wariness dampened Murtaghโs anticipation. For all their powers, they were alone, he and Thorn. Not so di๏ฌerent from Galbatorix and Jarnunvรถsk. If things went badly, they could expect no reinforcements. Lord Varis wouldnโt ride to their rescue, Tornac wouldnโt parry a blow meant for his neck, and Eragon and Arya were too far away to reach them in time.
A short growl rumbled Thornโs sides between his knees.ย Galbatorix and Jarnunvรถsk were brash and foolish. We will not repeat their mistakes.
โLetโs hope not. Turn around for now. Iโd rather not rush into anything.โ Thorn banked andโwithout a ๏ฌap of wing or sweep of tail that might have betrayed their presenceโglided back toward the mouth of the cleft.
There was a beaten path along the river, and Murtagh thought he saw weirs and nets set in the crystalline water.
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. โWhat do you think?โ
The scales along Thornโs neck prickled.ย No village has the means to build such shells.
โThe houses? I agree. Not without a great deal of help. That or they used magic.โ He scratched his chin; his shave should be good for another day. Without a dagger or camp knife, heโd 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 Murtaghโs shoulder.ย How long do you think you will be gone?
โI wonโt be gone at all.โ Murtagh smiled. โThis time, I think we should do things di๏ฌerently. This time, the situation calls for some thunder and lightning.โ
Thornโs long red tongue snaked out of his mouth and licked his chops in a wol๏ฌsh way.ย That seems most agreeable to me.
โI thought it might.โ
Do you mean to kill Bachel?
โI mean to talk with her. If we have to ๏ฌght, we ๏ฌght, butโโ Murtaghโs brows drew together as he frowned. โWe need to ๏ฌnd out what she and the Dreamers are about. Whatever their goal, theyโre pursuing it with serious intent.โ
And you want to scent out how many of them are in Nasuadaโs realm.
โThat too, although I doubt Bachel will tell us. At least, not willingly.โ He scratched Thorn atop his snout. โEither way, we have to be careful.โ
Our wards should protect us from her wordless magic, same as any other.
He gave the dragon a grim look. โMaybe. Itโs hard to say. If things go badly, it might be best to ๏ฌee.โ
Flee or ๏ฌght, I shall be ready. โThen let us be at it.โ
Murtagh walked along Thornโs glittering length to where the saddlebags hung. He opened them and removed in order: Zarโroc, his arming cap and helmet, his greaves and vambraces, his iron-rimmed kite shieldโfrom which heโd scraped the Empireโs emblemโhis 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 wasnโt mobility nor even protection he was after. It was intimidation.
So, for the ๏ฌrst 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 himselfโor 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. Galbatorixโs idea of humor. Heโd 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 re๏ฌection. 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 ๏ฌght himself.
He nodded. โThatโll do.โ Then he eyed Thorn. โA pity we donโt have armor for you.โ
Thorn sni๏ฌed.ย 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 Zarโroc and then closed the saddlebags and climbed back onto Thorn. โLetta,โ he said, and ended the spell that concealed Thorn in the air. โAll right. Letโs go meet this witch Bachel.โ
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 ๏ฌew into the cleft.ย Make sure you have plenty of room. If it does come to a ๏ฌght, I donโt want you to get pinned or cornered.
For a moment, Thornโs ๏ฌerce enthusiasm dimmed.ย You need not worry. I will not allow there to be a repeat of Gilโead.
I know. Murtagh patted the dragonโs neck.ย But letโs 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 villageโhis form now fully visible to those below, and shouts and screams echoed among the buildings, and bells began to clang with urgent alarmโand then down again he swept and pierced the veil of smoke.
Murtaghโs 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 ๏ฌoor seemed to contain no peat or coal that might fuel an ongoing ๏ฌre.
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 Zarโroc then, and held it over his head. The bloody blade ๏ฌashed in the dull winter light, a ๏ฌtting match to Thornโs scales.
Raising his voice as if he were addressing an assembly of troops, he shouted, โHear me! My name is Murtagh, and I have come to speak with the witch Bachel! Come forth, Bachel, that we may have words!โ
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 Thornโs feet.
One by one, a number of robed individualsโmen and women alikeโ 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 heโd expected.
You would think theyโd be more scared of a dragon and Rider, he said to Thorn.
The dragon licked his teeth.ย I can correct that mistake. Murtagh hid a smile.ย Later, perhaps.
โBachel!โ he shouted. โCome forth, Bachel!โ
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 widowโs peak, while his shaved cheeks were sunken and pitted from pox. Murtagh found it impossible to place the manโs ancestry. His brow was heavy, his cheekbones protruded, and he had a ๏ฌerce, un๏ฌnished look, as if he were an earlier form of human. Unlike the others, his robe had stripes of purple sewn around the cu๏ฌs.
To Murtaghโs surprise, the man bowed in a formal manner and said, โWelcome, Dragon. Welcome, Rider.โ His accent reminded Murtagh more of an Urgalโs speech than any human tongue. โCome. This way. Bachel awaits.โ And then the rawboned man turned and walked back into the village, heading up the main road. As if at an unseen signal, the rest of the group dispersed among the buildings.
โBlast it,โ Murtagh muttered. He was no lapdog to be summoned at Bachelโs convenience, and yet he and Thorn were the intruders here. Or, if he were being charitable, they were the guests. To expect Bachel to come out to meetย themย might be unreasonable, depending on the customs of her people.
And he wasnโt prepared to be unreasonable. Not yet.
Still, he hated to enter the village. It would be the perfect place for an ambush, if the Dreamers were so inclined. There was also the matter of Thorn: the buildings looked uncomfortably close for him.
I will be all right, said Thorn.ย Do not worry about me.ย How can I not? Maybe I should go alone.
Thorn growled.ย No! I would rather bite o๏ฌ my own tail. We stay together.ย Are you sure? Absolutely sure?
Yes!
Fine. But if you need to leave, we leave, no matter what. Donโt wait until itโs too
late.
I promise, said Thorn, and hummed his appreciation.
Murtagh tapped Zarโrocโs blade against his thigh as he studied the village
a moment more. Let the witch play her little games. It mattered not, and he
refused to wait outside her doors, like a supplicant peasant seeking a favor. Now she might see them enter her domain, proud and unafraid. โAfter him, then.โ
Thorn pressed his wings close against his sides and started forward. His claws clacked loudly against the mossy ๏ฌagstones that paved the road as they entered the village.
As Murtagh had feared, there was little space for them between the buildings, and Thorn grew tense beneath him. Murtagh could feel his apprehension as if it were his own. Still, for the time, the dragon kept himself under control.
Murtagh had never seen buildings such as the ones in the village. The stonework was dwarven in quality, but with an elven grace, and there were strange runesโneither dwarven nor elvenโcut into the frames and lintels of the arched doorways. Sculptures of dragon-like beasts adorned the cornices, and their frozen snarls gave Murtagh an uneasy sense of being watched, as if the entire village were a living creature crouched close to the earth, waiting for its prey.
The most unusual feature of the village was the raised patterns covering walls, set into mosaics, and painted onto shuttersโswirling, branching, crystalline patterns that seemed to repeat themselves as they diminished: variations on a common theme. The patterns were dangerously fascinating; Murtagh felt as if he could stare into them for the rest of his life and still ๏ฌnd new things to see. They contained an obsessive, seemingly impossible amount of detail, and the longer Murtagh looked, the more his vision swirled and swayed. The decorations reminded him of the involuted depths of an Eldunarรญโฆor of shapes that appeared only in the deepest of dreams.
With an e๏ฌort, he focused elsewhere.
The curious craftsmanship of the village disturbed him. To ๏ฌnd such accomplished, well-formed creations in such an isolated place didnโt make sense. There ought to be a long lineage of like works elsewhere, but there wasnโt. Not in Alagaรซsia, at least, and if the tradition came from across the ocean, well, that was hardly more explicable.
Murtagh shifted in his seat, feeling as if the ground had tilted beneath them. There was a deeper mystery here than he had anticipated.
Careful now, he said.
A sense of terse acknowledgment came from Thorn.
The goateed man was waiting for them halfway through the village. Seeing them, he turned and continued walking at a steady pace, long arms swinging, oversized hands nearly at his knees. Each step, he put his whole foot ๏ฌat on the ๏ฌagstonesโa ๏ฌrm, unwavering stamp, heel and toes landing as oneโand then pushed o๏ฌ in a similar fashion. Stamp, lift. Stamp, lift.
The street ascended at a steep incline toward the far side of the village. As they went, Murtagh kept a close watch on the roo๏ฌines, the alleys, the corners: anywhere that foes might be waiting. But no one showed their face, and he didnโt want to risk opening his mind to search the area. That was a good way to invite a mental attack.
The more Murtagh saw of the settlement, the more he gathered an impression of extreme age. The sculptures were weathered, the steps hollowed; walls bowed from centuries of weight, and more than a few structures had collapsed on themselves and remained as crumbling, lichen-covered ruins.
I do not like this place, said Thorn.
No. Murtagh reset his grip on sword and shield. Maybe heย shouldย have contacted Eragon before entering the village. There were many secrets in the world, and some of them were older than even the Riders.ย Nasuada has to be told of this, he thought.
The man led them into a modest square in front of the temple-like building. A fountain stood in the center of the yard, but it was dry and full of dust and overgrown with moss, and the ๏ฌuted ๏ฌnial atop had cracked and split sideways, leaving a chisel tip of stone pointing toward the dismal sky.
The templeโfor so Murtagh had decided it wasโhad a two-tiered roof, with the topmost roof a ribbed dome the same as the other buildings in the village. A double row of columns guarded the shadowed entrance, while a line of dragon sculptures loomed outward from between the slitted windows. And wrapped around the columns and pedestals and the scaled statues were
the same crystalline patterns seen elsewhere: a membrane of eroded veins, rotten and raveled and pocked by time.
Even new, the temple would have possessed a grim and disagreeable presence. In its current state of decay, the buildingโs gloom-ridden bulk was all the more daunting; it projected an ancient and enduring strengthโ ironhard, obdurate, and devoid of forgiveness.
The goateed man stopped and took up position beside one of the pillars that framed the recessed entrance. He clasped his heavy hands in front of himself.
A horn sounded within the temple, a long, wavering note with a haunting quality, and the sound echoed with dire e๏ฌect o๏ฌ the walls of the buildings and the ๏ฌanks of the mountains. The nape of Murtaghโs neck prickled, and he lifted Zarโroc to the ready.ย Remember who you are, he told himself.
Footsteps approached from inside the temple: tromping boots marching in matching time. From the shadowed entrance, a double line of fourteen armored men emerged, shields and spears held upright. Their helmets and breastplates were dented and tarnished and of an unfamiliar design. But the blades of their spears were sharp and free of rust, and they wore arming swords at their waists.
The formation parted in half, and the warriors arranged themselves on either side of the entrance. They displayed admirable discipline, moving with an alert precision that told Murtagh they werenโt just ceremonial guards but warriors with actual ๏ฌghting experience.
Behind them came another fourteen ๏ฌgures: these white-robed, with hoods pulled low over their faces so nothing could be seen of their features. Men and women alike, and each held a metal frame set with rods of iron from which hung open-mouthed bells. They shook the frames with every step, and the tongues of the bells wagged in a discordant chorus.
There was an air of ancient ritual about the procession, as if such a thing had been done for a thousand years or more.
The bell-shakers went to stand behind the warriors, where they continued their jarring cadence.
Last of all appeared four men in black armor that gleamed like lacquer. And on their shoulders, they carried a covered litter draped with diaphanous white veils.
Through the veils, a ๏ฌgure was partially visible.
Without word or signal, the four litter-bearers stopped upon the edge of the square and stood in place. They stared straight ahead, unblinking and seemingly una๏ฌected by the sight of Thorn.
The bell-shakers ceased shaking.
With a whisper of sliding fabric, the veils parted.
A woman rose to stand upon the litter. She, like everything about the village, was singular. Her hair was black and shiny as obsidian and arranged in an elaborate edi๏ฌce upon her head, the coils pinned and piled into a bewildering pattern. Bands of carved ivory stood stark against the amber hue of her forearms, and she wore a dress made of knotted straps. The knots traced the shapes of unfamiliar runes, long lines of them, as if she were armored with palings of words. A small dagger hung from a gilded girdle about her waist.
She was tallโtaller than most menโwith strong limbs, an angular face, and a dark red mouth that sat askew upon her face. Her almond-shaped eyes were rimmed with soot, which gave them the bruised look of the fruit of the blackthorn. She appeared neither young nor old; there was an agelessness to her features that made it impossible to determine her years.
So striking was the woman, Murtaghโs ๏ฌrst thought upon seeing her was:ย An elf!ย But then he looked more closely and realized that, no, her features werenโt quite elven. However, neither were they entirely human. A deep disquiet stirred within him.
Then the woman smiled at Thorn and him with such warmth, it took Murtagh aback. โWelcome to Nal Gorgoth, O Exalted Dragon,โ she said. Her voice was low and melodic, and it thrummed with the power of conviction. โAnd welcome to you as well, Rider. I have been waiting for you, my son.โ
