Murtagh raised his gaze and looked anew at the corpses of the slain. All human, and not just men but women and…smaller bodies too.

  He began to shake as, in an instant, the fever of battle changed to sick revulsion and the seductive promises of misbegotten dreams became grim reality. Bachel had not sent them to attack a convoy of armed warriors but a group of tribespeople, and the only reason he could imagine for such folk to be on the move in the winter was because they were seeking safety—safety from those such as the Draumar.

  Even in his addled state, Murtagh felt like vomiting. The pain from the arrow in his shoulder came to the forefront with crippling strength, and he gasped without meaning to. He wanted to deny the evidence of his eyes, but he was too practical-minded for delusion. He knew what his hands had done.

  No, not his hands. Him.

  He looked at Thorn, and found the dragon staring at him with a haunted expression Murtagh recognized from their time imprisoned in Urû’baen. The fires died in Thorn’s nostrils, and he shuddered and let out the faintest whine.

  Thorn started to take a step forward, and from his back, Grieve barked, “Stay!” Thorn froze.

  As Grieve slid to the ground, Thorn and Murtagh continued to stare at each other, hopeless to break the compulsion that bound them.

  Bloody snow crunched under Grieve’s boots as he walked over to Murtagh. He studied the arrow in Murtagh’s shoulder. “It would have been better if they killed you,” he said in a flat tone. Then he took a bird-skull amulet from within his robe and pressed it against Murtagh’s shoulder and pulled free the arrow.

  The pain caused Murtagh’s vision to fade out, and his knees buckled.

  He came to on all fours. He looked: no blood spurted from his shoulder. The wound had sealed over and was red and puckered, as if a week of healing had taken place. He sat back on his heels and moved his left arm. It still had little strength, but the muscles seemed to work.

  He shivered again.

  “Back on your feet, wormling,” said Grieve, and turned away. To the warriors on horseback, he shouted, “Gather the supplies that the dragon may carry them, and be quick about it. Bachel grows impatient. When we are gone, take what horses you can and bring them to Nal Gorgoth.”

  As a group, the men responded: “As it is dreamt, so it shall be.”

  * * *

  Murtagh sat next to Thorn and watched as the cultists piled bundles of supplies—food, clothes, skins of drink—before them. Grieve had spared him the task of helping, not out of mercy, but because Murtagh’s injured arm meant he could be of little use.

  His gaze returned to the bodies lying in the trampled snow. Then he dropped his eyes to his bloodstained hands and to Thorn’s gore-splattered feet.

  He pulled his cloak tighter. He still hadn’t stopped shivering.

  Thorn’s snout touched his shoulder. The gesture seemed as if it ought to have provided a sense of comfort, but Murtagh felt no improvement. The only thought that came to his mind was: No. A statement of denial, of rejection. Not toward the dragon, but toward the circumstances that bound them.

  The cultists used ropes to tie the supplies together. Then Grieve had Murtagh climb onto Thorn’s back—as did Grieve himself—and Thorn grasped the ropes between his reddened claws and took off with labored beats of his wings.

  * * *

  The flight back to Nal Gorgoth was cold and silent, and no slower than before, despite Thorn’s additional burden, for the wind was at their backs and it eased their progress.

  Murtagh wished it wouldn’t.

  Fingers of dull orange light were extending beneath the clouds to the west and filtering between the jags of the mountain peaks by the time the village came into sight.

  Thorn landed in the temple courtyard, and Bachel came out to greet them along with her litter-bearers, warriors, and attendants. Alín stood near the witch, face pale and drawn, and her eyes widened as she saw Thorn’s paws and Murtagh’s hands.

  Also with Bachel and her retinue were the recently arrived guests, and among them the man Murtagh couldn’t place, and—

  “Murtagh! You look as if you slipped and fell in a butcher’s killing yard! Rather clumsy of you, I say!”

  Lyreth. Lyreth in all his embroidered finery, a chalice of wine in one hand, the other pressed against the waist of a female cultist. Once his words would have bothered Murtagh. Now they were as chaff in the wind.

  When Murtagh dismounted, Bachel had her warriors relieve him of his sword. Then, at her order, they took him to be washed and, after, dragged him back to his cell beneath the temple.

  As the cultists left, one of them brushed against the lantern at the end of the dungeon hallway, and the breath of air snuffed out the flame, leaving the cells in pitch-black.

  Murtagh lay on the stones, cold beads of water dripping from his hair onto the back of his neck. The darkness felt like a tomb for his guilt; it wrapped around him with horrifying strength, turning his insides and strangling his breath.

  The force of it froze him in place for a boundless span, the gut-wrenching sense of wrongness as painful as any wound.

  From it, a truth formed in the center of his clouded mind, a hard core of inescapable reality: he could not continue as he was, but neither he nor Thorn could change things. Doing so was beyond them.

  A gritty scrape sounded across the hall, as of a heavy weight shifting across the flagstones. Then: “Murtagh-man, what is wrong?”

  It took all of Murtagh’s newly acquired mental acuity to force a word from his mouth. And he said:

  “…help.”

  CHAPTER XX

  Qazhqargla

  “I cannot help you, Murtagh-man,” said Uvek in what seemed to be a sorrowful voice.

  “…please…help…I—”

  Quick footsteps approached near the entrance of the hall, and then they faltered and there was a soft cry of annoyance. After a moment, flint and steel struck.

  Murtagh struggled to sit. Using his right arm, he pushed himself into a slumped position against the metal bars. The iron was so cold it seemed to burn. He tugged his cloak closer around his thin woolen shirt.

  A flame flickered to life in the lantern at the head of the hall, and then Alín hurried to Murtagh’s cell, carrying a bowl of watery soup with half a loaf of bread in it. She hesitated upon seeing him. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, and thrust the bowl between the iron bars. “It was never supposed to be like this.” And she rushed away, her footsteps light as feathers on the stones.

  Across the hall, Uvek turned his massive head back toward Murtagh. Lit from the side by the lantern, the Urgal’s cragged face was somber and careworn, and there was a wise sorrow in his yellow eyes. “Was it so bad, Murtagh-man, what they had you do?”

  “…yes.” Murtagh cracked his eyelids open and, without moving his head, looked over at the Urgal. “…help…me…. I can’t…can’t go…on….” Speaking took every scrap of strength he had, and after he went limp and had to concentrate on his breathing while he waited for the floor to steady beneath him.

  “Hrmm.”

  When Murtagh recovered enough to open his eyes again, he saw Uvek watching him with concerned intent.

  The Urgal said, “Cannot Thorn-dragon help Murtagh-man? Dragon and Rider together? Dragons very strong.”

  “…not…not this…time.”

  “Hrmm. I not know what to do. I am shaman; I speak to spirits. You know spirits, yes?”

  Murtagh managed to nod.

  “I speak to spirits. Sometimes they speak back. But they cannot hear me now. Not in this place, not with poison in stomach.”

  Gathering his strength, Murtagh said, “…if I could…use…magic…could…free…” The effort was too much; he couldn’t maintain his mental focus long enough to keep talking.

  Uvek picked at his thick lower lip with one clawlike nail. “Hrmm. Look, Murtagh-man.” From his rough leather belt, Uvek produced a small object: a piece of carved blackstone tied with a thin strip of woven cord. “You see? I have charm here. Hornless did not take because they think just rock. Hrr-hrr-hrr.” It took Murtagh a moment to realize the Urgal was laughing. Then Uvek held the stone up so that it caught the lantern light. The surface glittered as if embedded with flecks of gold. “Charm is for healing. Could help with Breath, but…”

  “…but?”

  “But no strength in charm, Murtagh-man. Charm empty. I used to heal deer with broken leg. I try give charm strength, but”—Uvek shook his head—“weirding not work. But maybe work for you. You are Rider.”

  The faintest flicker of hope formed in Murtagh. “…maybe.” He struggled to sit upright.

  Uvek hunched forward, cupping the blackstone as if it were fragile as a bluebird egg. “If you escape, Murtagh-man, will you free me? Will you free Uvek Windtalker?”

  “…yes.”

  “Hrmm. Urgralgra have many bad dealings with hornless. Hrr. And hornless many bad dealings with Urgralgra. Before I give charm, I need Murtagh-man swear oath that he never break word with Urgralgra.”

  “…can’t swear…won’t…”

  Uvek’s expression remained as stone. “Then I not give charm.”

  Frustrated, Murtagh let his head fall back against the bars. He didn’t have the strength to keep fighting, and yet he couldn’t give up, no matter how painful it was to continue. “…can’t…can’t swear to…whole race…won’t be…bound…” He paused, trying to force past the fog in his brain. “…bound again…like that.” The whole reason he was in the cell, after all, was because he and Thorn refused to give their word to Bachel.

  “Hrmm.” Uvek closed his hands around the blackstone as he sat hunched, thinking. Then he said, “There is other way, if you want, Murtagh-man, but…” The Urgal shrugged. “Is not often done, and never with hornless. Is rite of qazhqargla. You become blood brother to Uvek. Then your word is mine, and mine is yours, and we share our honor.”

  Murtagh set his teeth as he stared at the dark ceiling. His choices were few, and if he and Thorn couldn’t break free of Bachel…Thorn. He sent his mind seeking toward the dragon and, with what energy he could muster, tried to impress on Thorn the nature of his dilemma.

  In return, he received a vague, unfocused response, tinged with understanding and resignation. Murtagh knew what Thorn meant. The dragon would accept whatever choice Murtagh made. He trusted Murtagh, and Murtagh never, ever wanted to break that trust. He already felt guilty enough about bringing Thorn to Nal Gorgoth and not departing earlier, when Thorn had suggested….

  “What say you, Murtagh-man?”

  Murtagh grimaced as he pushed himself more upright. “My honor…is questioned by…many…. You…may…not want it.”

  Uvek’s top lip wrinkled, showing his fangs in a grotesque smile. “I will take chance, accept burden, Murtagh-man. Will you?”

  The cool underground air soothed Murtagh’s throat as he filled his lungs and tried to clear his head. He didn’t feel smart enough to solve the most basic problem, and regardless of how he looked at the matter, he couldn’t think of another solution.

  The walls he and Thorn had built about themselves could not hold. Not any longer.

  “All right,” he croaked. “I…will become blood brother.”

  “Is not so easy, Murtagh-man.”

  “…never is.”

  Uvek began to mutter in his native language then, rocking back and forth. Murtagh closed his eyes and let the harsh words wash over him in rhythmic waves. After a minute, Uvek grunted. “This you will need to say, Murtagh-man.” And he spoke several lines of Urgalish that, as far as Murtagh was concerned, might as well have been a convoluted exercise specifically designed to keep him from completing the rite.

  For what seemed like the better part of an hour, Uvek coached him in the proper pronunciation of the words. Murtagh had to often rest, and just as often he forgot what Uvek had already taught him.

  At last, the Urgal made a huff of frustration and said, “Will do. Gods will understand your intent.”

  A belated realization occurred to Murtagh. “…wait…. You don’t have me swear in…ancient language?”

  Uvek cocked his head. “You mean weirding words, Murtagh-man? No. They are not of Urgralgra, so why use? If man or Urgralgra will not keep oath in one language, they will not keep in another.”

  Relief and a slight sense of amusement made Murtagh chuckle. “…suppose…you’re right.” He had thought Uvek would have him use the ancient language, which was a large part of why Murtagh had been so reluctant.

  “Hrmm.” Then Uvek tapped his forearm and motioned toward Murtagh. “To finish qazhqargla, must join blood and speak words. You understand?”

  Murtagh gave a weary nod. “Why…why is it always…blood?”

  “Blood is powerful, Murtagh-man. Blood is life. Surely hornless know this too?”

  “…we…know.” Murtagh rolled back the sleeve on his left arm and then stared blankly at his bare skin for a moment. “…problem…I don’t have…knife.”

  Uvek’s heavy brow beetled. “Why need knife, Murtagh-man? Use nails.” He held up his left forefinger, showing the thick, shovel-like nail growing from the tip.

  Murtagh held up his own finger. “…too weak.”

  “Ghra. I forget how soft hornless are. What if—”

  “Wait.” Murtagh unfastened the clasp that held his cloak around his neck. There was a pin on the back, and while it wasn’t particularly sharp, he thought it would work. “…use this.”

  Uvek grunted. “Good. Cut here.” And he drew a line just below his hand. “Then we touch, share blood.”

  Murtagh grimaced slightly but nodded. The hall was narrow enough that they ought to be able to reach across it.

  “Ready now, Murtagh-man?”

  “…ready.”

  In his cell, Uvek hunched over his arm, and he scraped his left thumbnail across his right wrist with a slow, deliberate movement. The Urgal showed no sign of pain as the thumbnail cut into his thick hide, and a line of black blood welled from his flesh.

  Murtagh looked away. He took a breath, clenched his jaw, and then—fast as he could, and with as much strength as seemed necessary—dragged the point of the pin across the skin of his left wrist, creating a red-hot stripe of pain.

  He cursed under his breath. The pin had only cut halfway or so through his skin. He clenched his jaw again and, without pausing to anticipate the pain, yanked the pin across his wrist a second time.

  Blood flooded the angry red stripe, and he let out his breath in a gasp.

  Then Uvek pushed his arm between the bars of his cell—it was a tight fit, but with some force, he managed—and Murtagh did the same from his side, and they pressed their blood-slicked wrists together. The Urgal’s arm was hot to the touch, and his blood burned against Murtagh’s skin.

  Uvek spoke his half of the oath in Urgalish, and then it was Murtagh’s turn. He took his time, sounding the words as Uvek had taught him and striving to avoid mistakes. The meaning of the words was, or so Uvek had claimed, something to the effect of: “I, Murtagh Dragon Rider, join myself as brother to Uvek Windtalker. Let his blood flow in my veins even as mine flows in his. This I swear by Great-Horned Svarvok, and if I fail to uphold this sacred bond, may all manner of misfortune befall me and my tribe.” The oath may not have been worded in the ancient language, but it was a serious matter all the same. Murtagh felt the weight of the words as he spoke them.

  Upon completion, they withdrew their arms and tended their wounds. Uvek grunted. “The qazhqargla is complete. Now we are brothers, Murtagh-man.”

  “…brothers.” It felt strange to say. The only brother—half brother, really—Murtagh had known was Eragon, and their relationship had hardly been fraternal. And though Murtagh still worried about the obligations his oath imposed, he found it…comforting in a way, to be joined as such with Uvek. The customs of Urgals differed from those of humans, but he felt sure that if he were to call upon Uvek for help, the Urgal would answer without hesitation.

  First, of course, they had to escape Nal Gorgoth.

  “Here, Murtagh-man. The healing charm. Perhaps it help you.”

  “…perhaps,” Murtagh mumbled, accepting the blackstone pebble from Uvek. The stone was warm in his palm, and the knotted strip tied around it pleasantly textured. He tried two things then: First to draw any remaining power from the pebble. In that, he met with total failure. Uvek had spoken true. Not the slightest scrap of energy still lay in the charm. Second to imbue some of his own strength into the blackstone. Even if he couldn’t directly cast a spell, Murtagh hoped that he could at least use the energy in his body to fuel the charm.

  The hope proved in vain. No matter how hard he tried, Murtagh could not break the dam in his mind that prevented him from loosing the power he contained.

  Uvek noticed his frustration. “Does not it work, Murtagh-man?”

  “…no…No!” Murtagh closed his eyes and felt tears leak from the corners. “…no…I need…strength for the charm, but…”

  “You cannot give because of Breath.” Uvek nodded sagely, and he appeared troubled. “I had same problem. Is there no solution?…Murtagh-man, are you still awake?”

  Murtagh forced his eyes open. “…yes…solution?…” He shook his head, miserable, and lowered himself to the floor. The flagstones were cold, so he dragged the cloak over him. “…need to…think…sleep…”

  “Murtagh-man. Murtagh-man! Open your ears, Murtagh-man. You…”

  But Murtagh heard no more, and for once he had respite from the livid nightmares of Nal Gorgoth.