Leaning forward, Murtagh started to drag.

  As before, he avoided the main roads, making his way between fields and outbuildings until he was able to slip into the city proper without being seen.

  A mongrel dog with reddish fur matted with mud came skulking after him, sniffing the trail of slime Muckmaw’s head had left. “Go on,” said Murtagh in a low voice. “Shoo. Be gone.”

  The cur’s lip quivered, and his ears flattened.

  Unwilling to risk the dog barking, Murtagh said, “Eitha!”

  The mongrel uttered a small yelp-whine and ran off with his tail tucked between bony legs.

  Murtagh shook his head.

  From the cramped back garden of one house, he appropriated a small cart. He plopped Muckmaw’s head into it, made sure the lump of fish meat was well covered by his ruined cloak, and then trundled off toward the fortress.

  Long shadows speared westward from each building as the sun broke free of the horizon. Within seconds, the air started to warm, and a flock of sparrows darted across the flushed sky, chasing insects rising off the lakefront.

  Murtagh’s watchfulness sharpened as he neared the fortress; an unusual number of soldiers were moving through the city, and several elves stood by the front gate of the stronghold.

  His misadventure at Oromis and Glaedr’s barrow seemed to have put the entire garrison on high alert.

  Murtagh spotted a manservant holding the reins of a white mare by the front garden of a large house. He swung across the street and said, “ ’Scuse me, master. Could y’ tell me where I might find th’ barracks of th’ city guard?”

  The manservant eyed Murtagh and the cart with undisguised disdain. His hair was pulled into a short ponytail, and his shirt was made of fine bleached linen, and he stood with the poised grace of a dancing instructor. He sniffed. “Up that street, on the right. Although I’ll be much surprised if they’ll speak to the likes of you.”

  Murtagh bobbed his head. “Thank’ee, master.”

  He continued on, feeling the servant’s eyes boring into his back until he turned the corner.

  The barracks were a series of stone-sided buildings set against the fortress’s outer wall and protected with a much shorter wall around their perimeter. The entrance was a narrow gatehouse with a black oak door studded with iron nails. Two pikemen stood watch at the open door.

  Through it, Murtagh could see men walking about a paved courtyard, sparring, drilling, and loosing arrows at straw targets. They were each garbed in the watch’s standard uniform: a red tabard over a padded gambeson stitched with the Varden’s emblem.

  Murtagh lifted his chin and let his stride acquire some of the regulated crispness of a marching man. Here goes, he thought.

  The pikemen crossed their weapons as he pushed the cart to the gatehouse. He noted that their tabards were neat and in good repair, which spoke well of Captain Wren’s command.

  The two men looked more bored than concerned or aggravated by his presence. A good sign for things to come, he hoped.

  “ ’Ey now,” the man on the right started to say, and Murtagh whipped the cloak off Muckmaw’s head.

  The men’s eyes widened. The guard on the right whistled. He appeared a few years older than his counterpart. “Well, blow me sideways. Is that there what I think?”

  Murtagh let go of the cart and stood straight. “It is. Muckmaw himself.”

  The guards gave each other a glance. The older man pushed back his helm and leaned over the cart for a better view. “Son of an Urgal. It’s ’im, all right…. An’ I suppose you’re the one as caught ’im, is that it?”

  “Yessir. And I’d like to join up. Sir.”

  The pikemen looked at each other again, this time more seriously. The older one rubbed his chin and said, “Don’t sir me. I’m as common as dirt. Thing is, I’m ’fraid Captain Wren isn’t looking for no green recruit. Standing orders. You’ll be wanting a different company. They’re always eager for—”

  The younger man tugged on his companion’s arm. “It’s Muckmaw, though, Sev. Muckmaw!”

  The elder pikeman gnawed on his lip, his expression doubtful. “I don’t know, now. The captain’s orders were plain as day. If—”

  Murtagh drew himself up and snapped his heels together. “I’m not green. And I’d like to serve Captain Wren.”

  The man frowned, but then, to Murtagh’s relief, he turned to the yard and raised a hand. “Oi! Gert! Over here!”

  One of the guardsmen broke away from sparring and headed toward them. Gert was heavy-shouldered, broad-handed, with the sort of determined stride that Murtagh had seen in dozens of veteran weaponmasters. He wore thick, short-cropped sideburns shot through with white, and his brow seemed permanently furrowed with exasperation at the stupidity of his troops.

  As Gert reached the gatehouse, the pikeman said, “Look there. He caught Muckmaw!”

  Gert’s tangled eyebrows rose as he surveyed the slimy, gape-mouthed head. “Muckmaw, eh?” He spat on the paving stones. “About time someone put an end to him. That creature’s been a blight on the lake fer an unnaturally long time.”

  “An’ our friend here wants to join up,” the older pikeman said. “Says he has experience.”

  Gert’s scowl returned as he looked Murtagh over. “That so. You’ve carried arms before?”

  “I have.”

  “Used them?”

  “Yessir.”

  Another grunt, and Gert smoothed his sideburns with one thick hand. “It’s against company policy, but any man that can kill the likes of Muckmaw is the sort of man the cap’n wants in his ranks. But afore I go bothering the cap’n ’bout you, you’ll have to prove yourself to me, Gert. The cap’n’s a busy man, you see. He has no time for nonsense.”

  Murtagh nodded. “Of course. I understand.”

  “Mmh. All right. Bring that stinking mess of a fish in here, and we’ll see what you’re made of.” The weaponmaster strode back into the yard, and after a moment’s hesitation, Murtagh picked up the handles of the cart and followed.

  “Leave him there,” said Gert, pointing to a spot just inside the gatehouse.

  The other guards stopped what they were doing and watched as Murtagh deposited the cart where indicated. Gert led him to one of the sparring rings made of packed dirt and retrieved two spears with padded heads from a rack set against the inner wall of the yard.

  He tossed a spear to Murtagh.

  Murtagh caught it one-handed and slipped off his bedroll. He hadn’t trained much with spears—they were the main weapon of the common footman—but he knew the basics. He hoped that would be enough.

  “Right,” growled Gert, taking a ready stance opposite him, spear extended. “First position. Show me what you know.”

  Murtagh obeyed. As Gert barked out orders, he mirrored the other man. Lunge, stab, block, thrust, deflect. Advance, retreat. With every motion, he felt the bruises Muckmaw had given him. Then Gert closed the distance between them, and they battled spear against spear for a few blows. Murtagh was fast enough that he thought he didn’t totally embarrass himself, even though Gert knocked him once on the outside of his left knee.

  Afterward, Gert grunted. “Not half bad. Not half good either.” He held out a hand, and Murtagh gave him the practice spear.

  “I’m better with a blade,” said Murtagh.

  Gert raised his tangled eyebrows. “Uh-huh.” He returned the spears to the rack and then picked up a pair of wooden wasters made in the style of arming swords.

  The other guards started hooting and shouting:

  “Get ’im, Gert!”

  “Show ’im what for!”

  “Put a good mark on him.”

  “Give him stripes! Beat him black-an’-blue!”

  Gert handed one waster to Murtagh.

  The wooden sword was lighter than Zar’roc, and shorter too, and the balance wasn’t quite the same as a real sword, but the shape was familiar, and after hefting it a few times, Murtagh felt confident he could use it to good effect.

  “No head strikes,” warned Gert, raising his waster.

  “No head strikes,” Murtagh agreed. Neither of them was wearing a helmet. He spun the sword about in a quick flourish.

  Gert gave him no warning. The man attacked with a speed that belied his bulk, beating Murtagh’s waster and stabbing at his liver.

  If the stab had landed, Murtagh knew he would have been curled up on the ground, unable to move. But it didn’t land. He parried the stab and took advantage of the resulting opening to poke Gert in the right armpit.

  The man fell back a step, his expression surprised. He recovered quickly, but before he could launch a second attack, Murtagh feinted toward Gert’s left hip.

  Gert moved to block, and Murtagh whipped his waster around—changing directions in midair—and rapped Gert against his upper arm, near the elbow.

  A series of cries went up from the onlookers.

  Gert grimaced and shook his arm, and Murtagh allowed himself a quick grin. The blow hadn’t looked like much, but he knew it hurt badly.

  Then Gert feinted as well and attempted a short slash across Murtagh’s ribs, although it was an obvious attempt to lure Murtagh into a disadvantaged position. The man was skilled, but nowhere near the level Murtagh was accustomed to.

  He allowed the slash to fall past without blocking or parrying, and when Gert drew back in an attempt to regain position, he struck the flat of Gert’s waster. Hard. Harder than most men should have been able to hit.

  The man’s blade flew wide, and Murtagh brought his wooden sword up, faster than the eye could see, so that the dull edge touched the side of Gert’s neck.

  They stood like that, Gert breathing hard, Murtagh’s chest barely moving. Did I dare too much? Yet he also felt a fierce satisfaction at a move well executed, at a duel well fought and won.

  He lowered his waster, and the guards watching started shouting and hollering.

  “I had a good teacher,” said Murtagh. He held out the waster, hilt first.

  Gert shook his head with a wry expression. “That you did, boy.” He took the waster and returned the wooden swords to the rack. Then he looked round at the onlookers and bellowed, “What are ye lollygagging ne’er-do-wells doing? When you can beat old Gert w’ the sword, then you can waste the day away staring at what’s none of yer business. Back at it, or you’ll have scrubbing from evening to morn.”

  He gestured to Murtagh. “You’d best follow me. The cap’n had better see you after all.”

  CHAPTER VIII

  Masks

  Murtagh scooped up his bedroll and fell in next to Gert as the stocky man headed away from the courtyard, toward a stone structure attached to one of the barracks. It looked more like a square-sided watchtower than a house, but Murtagh guessed the tower contained the officers’ living quarters.

  As they walked, Gert said, “Where’d you learn to handle a sword like that, boy?”

  “There was a man in our village who had some experience soldiering when he was young. He taught me as I was growing up.”

  The guard grunted, and Murtagh wondered if he believed him. The skills Murtagh had demonstrated hardly matched those of the average foot soldier. But Gert had the good manners not to inquire further.

  The interior of the tower was cool and dark, illuminated only by the occasional arrow slit or wall-mounted torch (few of which were lit). The stones smelled of damp, and the smell reminded Murtagh of the bolt-hole tunnel he had used when meeting Carabel: a mossy, moldy scent that spoke of caves deep underground and of dripping stalactites and blind fish nosing against cold rocks.

  Gert led him straight through the building to a closed door by one corner. He knocked and said, “It’s me, Cap’n. Mind if’n I come in?”

  “Enter,” answered a man from within, strong and clear.

  Gert gave Murtagh a stern look. “You wait here now an’ don’t move.” Then he pulled open the door and stepped through.

  Murtagh glanced up and down the stone hall. It had an arched roof similar to some of the dwarf tunnels around Tronjheim. There was a low wooden bench against one wall, but he decided it was better to stand. Next to the bench was a planter full of artfully arranged bundles of dried baby’s breath.

  He wondered who had requested the flowers.

  Gert kept him waiting for over ten minutes. Then the door swung back open, and the weaponmaster poked his head out. “Cap’n will see you now.”

  Murtagh hefted his bedroll and walked in.

  The captain’s study was a modest affair, as such things went. Murtagh had seen officers commission or commandeer far more ostentatious chambers in order to flaunt their family’s wealth or improve their chances of climbing the ranks of power at court. Wren’s tastes were more restrained, if somewhat unusual.

  The walls were the same bare stone as the outside, but they were lined with racks of scrolls, over which hung maps of Gil’ead, maps of the Empire, and maps of Nasuada’s new queendom, the Spine, and Alagaësia as a whole. A broad table dominated one side of the room, and even more maps—these pinned with small flags and carvings of soldiers—lay strewn across it, along with scrolls and piles of parchment covered with writing.

  The captain himself sat behind the desk, marking runes on a half sheet of vellum. He looked to be in his mid-thirties, with a touch of grey at his temples and a few fine wrinkles about his eyes from years spent drilling in the sun. Lean, focused, with an intelligent and perceptive gleam to his gaze, he struck Murtagh as the sort of man who could both plan a campaign and execute it, while also earning the love of his men.

  His hair was neat, his tabard and jerkin neater. Even his nails were clean and trimmed. The one flaw in his appearance was his hands; the knuckles were swollen and the fingers twisted with arthritic distortion in a way Murtagh had only seen before among the extreme elderly.

  On the wall behind the captain was the room’s most notable feature: two lines of wooden masks mounted on the stone. They weren’t the ornate party masks of the aristocracy, with which Murtagh was well acquainted. Rather, they were rough, barbaric-looking creations that evoked the faces of different animals: the bear, the wolf, the fox, the raven, and so forth, including two animals that he didn’t recognize. In style and execution, they resembled no tradition he was familiar with; if pressed, he would have said they had been crafted with the crudest of stone tools.

  And yet the masks had a certain entrancing power; Murtagh found his gaze drawn to them as a lodestone drawn to a bar of iron.

  Wren put down his quill and, with a slight grimace, flexed his hand. He eyed Murtagh. “So you’re the one who caught Muckmaw.”

  At the back of the room, Gert slipped out and closed the door.

  Murtagh stood at attention and nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “How did you manage it, son?”

  The run to Gil’ead had given Murtagh plenty of opportunity to think of an answer. As always, the best deception was the one that hewed most closely to the truth.

  He adopted a somewhat abashed expression. “Truth be told, I weren’t trying to. I were out fishing for eels, and Muckmaw grabbed my bait and pulled me into the water. I’m not ashamed to say, I thought my last moments were upon me. I saw the fish come at me, and I tried to use my dagger on him, but it just bounced off his hide.”

  Wren nodded, as if this were expected. “And then what?”

  “Well, he knocked me down into the mud, and I’m pretty sure he were fixing to eat me, but I meant to make it a real pain for him. I caught hold of what I thought were a stick, and I gave him a good poke in the head. You can imagine my surprise when the stick went right in and that were the end of him. After I got out of the water, I saw it weren’t no stick but a piece of bone from some unfortunate soul. You can see it if’n you want, out in the yard.”

  “So his weakness was bone,” Wren murmured. “No wonder it escaped discovery until now.” He gestured at Murtagh’s clothes. “I see you managed to dry off since your misadventure.”

  Blast it. Murtagh shrugged. “It were a long walk back to Gil’ead dragging that monster’s head. It’s bigger than a bull’s.”

  “I see.” Wren tapped his fingers against the desktop. “What’s your name, son?”

  For the second time in as many days, Murtagh had to choose a new name. And not just a name, an identity. “Task,” he said. “Task Ivorsson.”

  Wren picked up the quill again and made a note. “Well, Task, you’ve done a great service for the people of Gil’ead, and you’ve more than earned your reward.” From a small box on the desk, he counted out four bright gold crowns into Murtagh’s palm.

  Murtagh felt a small shock as he saw Nasuada’s profile stamped onto the front of each coin. It was the first time he had encountered the new currency of the realm, and he allowed himself a moment of inspection, disguised as the gawking of a man who had never before held so much gold.

  The likeness was an uncanny one. So skilled was it, Murtagh felt sure magic had been used in its creation. The sight of Nasuada’s all-too-familiar profile—proud and perfect in resplendent relief, with a modest diadem upon her brow—set a familiar ache in his heart, and he touched the image with hesitant fingers.

  Wren noticed. “I take it you haven’t seen our new queen before.”

  “Not as such, no.” It was an unfortunately ambiguous answer, and Murtagh berated himself the instant he spoke, but to his relief, the captain didn’t request further clarification.

  “Her Majesty’s treasury issued these near winter’s end,” said Wren. “I understand all the coinage is to be replaced in due course.”

  Murtagh closed his hand over the crowns. It made sense. Nasuada would hardly want images of Galbatorix circulating throughout the land for the rest of her reign. He slipped the coins into his pouch.