A black sun rimmed by black flame hung against a darkling sky. The stars were faded, guttering; the air cold and dry, and a bitter wind blew from the north.
The world was dead. All the ground was cracked and charred as by Nal Gorgoth. Bare trees stood on the flanks of slumped mountains, the sharpness of their peaks defeated by the passage of uncounted eons. No birds or beasts were to be seen; if he wandered to the ends of the land, he knew he would find nothing but bones and ashes.
Existence was a tomb wherein the sins of the past lay interred. But no…not entirely.
Ahead of him, close to the dim grey horizon, an enormous section of the ground heaved upward, as if the world itself were breaking apart, but the sawbacked enormity moved and shifted as only a living creature could. Flecks of red flashed from the silhouette, like coals seen through smoked glass.
Dread consumed him. Total, thought-destroying dread that caused his limbs to go limp and his mind to go slack with unremitting fear. All had been lost, and there before him lay the instrument of their destruction.
The beast rose rampant against the black sun—a wingless dragon, apocalyptic in size, terrifying in presence. Destroyer of hope, eater of light, snake-tongued and hook-clawed.
And the beast turned, and its flaming eye settled on him, and he shrank before it, feeling death’s cold touch seize his heart, feeling the helpless, inevitable surrender
before what could not be changed, what could not be stopped.
The dragon’s mouth parted, and withering flame lit its maw, and—
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“Wake! Wake, Kingkiller!”
Murtagh’s eyes snapped open, and he jolted upright with a panicked yell as fire coursed through his veins and his heart convulsed like a dying rabbit.
Bachel stood over him, blood-smeared, black-bladed dagger in one hand, spear in the other. Grieve and her warriors ringed them, and half a dozen dead hogs lay on the trampled ground nearby: a battlefield in miniature, but no less fraught or deadly because of it.
Before Murtagh could collect himself well enough to understand what had happened, much less speak, Thorn crashed through the forest of mushrooms, roaring as he came. He stopped directly over Murtagh and turned and snarled as he searched for foes. The sun was behind Thorn, and his scales sparked red and bright.
The sight caused Murtagh to flinch as he remembered his vision of desolation. Deathly fear again gripped him.
Thorn reached for him with a paw, as if to pick him up and fly away, and Murtagh raised a hand. “No,” he croaked. “I’m fine.” He wasn’t, and Thorn knew it.
The dragon said, Are you wounded?
Murtagh got to his feet, unsteady. He checked himself. None of the blood seemed to be his, but his right elbow throbbed, and it was already starting to swell. He bent and extended his arm; it still moved as it should. So nothing torn. He cast a quick healing spell—careful to speak the words without sound—and only then noticed how deeply exhausted his wards had left him. His hands and feet were cold, and there was a gnawing hunger in his belly. Nothing too serious. Did you see what I saw?…The dragon?
No, said Thorn, baring even more of his teeth. Your mind was closed to me. Murtagh was so shaken, he didn’t pause to consider the wisdom of his action as he shared the memory with Thorn in all its terror-inducing
immediacy. A deep hiss came from Thorn, and he dug his claws into the ground. Murtagh felt his own fear reflected in Thorn’s thoughts.
It was just a dream, Murtagh hastily said.
An evil one, though. Perhaps it was more than just a dream. A premonition? They can’t reach that far into the future.
Thorn shivered and lowered his head until his eyes were level with Murtagh’s. Is that known for sure? Who has proved it?
I—
“My son, are you hurt?” asked Bachel. She pointed with her dagger at the blood on Murtagh’s chest. His jerkin was torn, and the air was cold against his skin. “You are covered in gore.”
The tip of the dagger was uncomfortably close. Murtagh fell back a half step. His hand moved to Zar’roc’s hilt. “Not hurt, no. Thank you for… helping.”
The witch nodded, satisfied. She wiped her dagger on her leather vambrace and sheathed it. “It is better to hunt as part of a group than to hunt alone.”
“You might be right.” He shivered and rubbed his arms, trying to coax warmth back into his limbs. “When I was on the ground, I saw…I saw a vision. An evil one.”
Bachel’s expression grew intense, and she stepped forward and grasped his shoulder with her free hand. Surprised, he resisted the urge to knock her hand away. The witch’s grip was like heated iron. “A vision,” she said, her voice low and forceful. “Describe it to me, my son. Quickly now, before your memory fades. It is important.”
Annoyed but also curious, Murtagh complied, speaking in swift, short sentences, eager to force the words out so he could stop thinking about the black sun and the impossibly large dragon….
Grieve and the warriors listened with close attention, and they murmured with what seemed to be either awe or reverence as he described the dragon.
“Ah,” said Bachel. “You are indeed fortunate.” She released him and circled her hand above her head, indicating both the small side valley and the
cleft that contained Nal Gorgoth. “All who come here dream, but few there are who receive such clear portents, and those who do often become Speakers themselves.”
“Have there been many Speakers?” asked Murtagh.
“My Lady,” said Grieve in a tense voice. “It is not right for an outsider to kn—”
“Tsk, tsk,” said Bachel. “Our guest is no ordinary person. Indeed not.” A disapproving scowl settled on Grieve’s seamed face, and he pulled at the cuff of his blood-splattered robe in a nervous, angry manner, as if what he really wanted to do was wrap his thick fingers around Murtagh’s neck.
In a grand voice, the witch said, “There have been many Speakers— some false, some true—through the ages. We are Du Eld Draumar, and we have lived in these places of power since before elves were elves. We were known to the Grey Folk themselves…known and feared.”
Murtagh translated in his head. Du Eld Draumar was a fancy way of saying The Old Dreamers, but as it was cast in the ancient language, the name held more truth than it would have in any other tongue. “I believe you,” he said, and he meant it. Although he doubted Bachel would give him a straightforward answer, he asked, “What, in your judgment, does the vision mean, O Speaker?”
“It is a gift. The exhalations of this land have shown you a vision of the sacred mystery that lies at the heart of our creed. What you saw, Kingkiller, is a portion of what may yet be.”
“As a warning?”
She surprised him by taking his hand and pressing it flat against his chest, over his heart. Her fingers were sticky with blood. And she answered in a low, serious tone with no hint of anything but utter sincerity. “As a promise.” Then she let go.
A hot-cold touch of his dream-born fear gripped Murtagh. He shrank in on himself and found he had lost his taste for further questions.
She lies, said Thorn.
If she does, she believes the lie.
Murtagh looked back at the warriors and counted. Two more were missing. Through the mushroom trees Thorn had knocked over, the open field was visible. In the center of it lay several lifeless hogs, as well as the three downed warriors. One of the men was still moving, albeit feebly. Splattered blood, human and animal alike, stained the mushroom caps in a reddened ring.
“The beasts have cost us,” said Murtagh.
Bachel nodded in a serious manner, though she seemed neither sad nor upset, but rather prideful. “My men have served well today, Kingkiller, and those who fell, fell in service of our faith. Their sacrifice will not go unforgotten or unrewarded.”
The warriors bowed their heads and, as one, said, “As it is dreamt, so it shall be.”
At that, Murtagh thought Bachel would attend to her wounded, or at least dispatch some men to do so. Instead, she gestured at the boar he had slain. “You have taken a fine beast, Kingkiller. I expected nothing less.”
In death, the boar seemed smaller, though still imposing; it must have been equal in weight to several large men. His spear projected from the center of the animal’s chest, the haft a broken splinter.
With a bow and an extended hand, as if requesting a dance at court, Murtagh said, “And without the aid of the slightest charm or spell, my Lady.”
“So I saw,” Bachel replied. “But were it not for our help, would you have lived? Does such a victory count as a victory in truth?”
Murtagh raised an eyebrow. He did not feel like bandying words, but he could not allow her challenge to pass uncontested. “I killed the boar, my Lady, and dead he would have been no matter what happened to me. As that was my goal, yes, I would count it a victory.”
A small smile touched Bachel’s lips. “A fair point, my son.” In the open field, the wounded man let out an agonized groan. The sound drew her attention, and she turned from Murtagh. “Come,” she said, and strode toward the field.
The command annoyed Murtagh, but he followed nonetheless. Should I offer to heal him? he asked Thorn.
Wait to see what magic the witch can work. If she cannot heal the man, then offer to help.
A good idea.
Quickening his pace, Murtagh drew abreast of Bachel and gestured at the dead boars ahead of them. “You made a heroic kill, Lady Bachel.”
She hardly seemed to react to the praise, as if it were merely her apportioned due. “It was of a kind with all my kills, Rider.”
Of that, Murtagh was convinced.
As they approached the churned mess of blood and crushed mushrooms in the center of the field, it became evident that the two warriors who lay motionless on the ground were already dead.
Bachel knelt by the man who still breathed. His jerkin draped inward along the great divot in his chest where his ribs were broken. Bloody slaver coated his chin, and his breathing was hitched and shallow. A punctured lung, Murtagh guessed, if not worse.
With a gentle hand, Bachel smoothed the man’s brow. He opened his eyes and looked up at her, and in his gaze, Murtagh saw utter devotion.
“Shh,” said Bachel, her voice calm and vast as a windless ocean. “Be of good heart, Rauden. You have served well.”
The man nodded. Tears filled his eyes, and with enormous depth of feeling, he whispered, “Mehtra.”
Affection softened Bachel’s face, and she bent close to him. “Sehtra.” Then, with a smooth, quick motion, she drew her black-bladed dagger, placed it under the man’s chin, and shoved it into his head. He convulsed and went limp.
“Shade’s blood!” Murtagh swore, and started forward. Around them, the warriors raised their spears. “I could have healed him!”
Bachel withdrew her dagger and wiped it clean on the man’s shirt. “He was beyond healing, my son.”
“Not for me! You should have let me try!”
Bachel rose and turned to face Murtagh. Her expression was fierce and terrible but also sorrowful. “Do not think to question me, Rider! You do not know our ways! We seek to serve the Dreamer however we can, each and every one of us, and when our time is come, we yearn to return to He who dreams us. It is our greatest desire.”
“Yes, but—”
“The matter is closed, Murtagh son of Morzan. Enough!”
Disapproval pinched Murtagh’s features, and he set his jaw. As if by magic, Bachel seemed to transform before him; he saw cruelty in her features now and the stubbornness of deluded certainty. And he wondered at his own credulity. Then cold settled in his gut as he became aware of the potential danger of the situation and all emotion abandoned him, leaving him a hollow shell. He affected the same bland, noncommittal aspect that had served him so well at court. “Of course, my Lady. My apologies.”
Bachel inclined her head and then turned back to the dead man and placed a hand upon his brow. She murmured something and closed the man’s blank, unseeing eyes.
The witch was silent for a moment, her features inscrutable. Then: “Grieve, see to it that our kills are collected and our fallen too. Bring them to Nal Gorgoth, that we may feast upon our triumph.”
“Speaker.”
Bachel nodded and strode forth from the bodies and broken mushrooms toward the horses.
Murtagh watched her go. Then he looked at Grieve, who was directing the warriors to gut and truss the boars. “What does mehtra mean?”
Grieve gave him a sullen glare and bent to help another man with a boar. “It means mother, Outlander. For Bachel is as our mother in all things, and we trust her as such.”
“And sehtra?” “Son.”
In a daze, Murtagh walked to Thorn. She’s as ruthless as Galbatorix. The dragon agreed. And yet her people still care for her.
Rauden called her mother even knowing she was about to kill him. Galbatorix never inspired such love. Only fear.
For a moment, Murtagh debated following Bachel and riding back upon the liver chestnut mare. But he didn’t want to be anywhere near her. Not right then.
He turned to Thorn. “No more horses.” And he reached for the stirrup hanging down Thorn’s left side.
The dragon crouched lower so that Murtagh could catch the loop of boiled leather and pull himself up onto Thorn’s back. Good.
“Can you bring my boar? I would rather not wait on B—”
The name was still in his mouth when Thorn lurched up to his full standing height, startling the warriors, who leapt away. Light as a cat, Thorn padded over to where Murtagh had made his kill.
With one foot, Thorn scooped up the hog’s bloody carcass. Then he jumped skyward and flew away from the field of slaughter.
