That made sense. He nodded slowly. “I’m nearly…free. Can you…help ready Thorn?…water…food…saddle…shackles?”

  She hesitated. The hair still covered her face, and she made no move to brush it aside. Soft as a falling petal, she said, “I will try, Kingkiller.”

  “…thank…you…. We could use…supplies of…our…own…as well.”

  Again a pause, and then she turned away and departed.

  Murtagh remained where he was, watching.

  “She still uncertain, Murtagh-man.” It was the first thing the Urgal had said in hours.

  Murtagh grunted as he lowered himself onto the stones. “She’ll do…what’s right.”

  Uvek’s head swung from side to side. “Depends on what she thinks is right.”

  “…always…does.” Murtagh looked over at the Urgal. He felt inexpressibly tired. Worry, guilt, and the constant fight to think had consumed his limited strength. Just for a moment, he wanted to forget Bachel and everything about Nal Gorgoth. “…tell me a…story, Uvek.”

  The Urgal’s heavy forehead wrinkled as he lifted his brow. “What sort of story?”

  “…of your people.”

  “Hrmm. I have many peoples. My family. My clan that I left. My fellow Urgralgra.”

  Murtagh waved a hand. He was too tired to bother with details. “…you…pick.”

  For a minute more, Uvek was silent, ruminating. Then his brow cleared. “I know. I will tell you of son of Svarvok, Ahno the Trickster. This was in time of red clover, when rivers tasted of iron. Ahno had changed himself into deer, and Svarvok sent wolves to chase him, nip at his heels, but Ahno laughed at father and changed himself into wolf instead. Seven winters Ahno ran with wolves, lived as wolf, ate as wolf. Was part of pack. Led pack. You hear, Murtagh-man?”

  “…I hear.”

  “Good. Hrr. Problem was, wolves did not choose Ahno. Did not want him. But could not drive him from the pack. Ahno was too strong, even in shape of wolf. But—” Uvek’s eyes gleamed with sly delight, and the tips of his fangs showed between his lips. “Wolves are cunning. A black-skin she-wolf known as Sharptooth went one night to gathering of wolves beneath full moon. Was bright as day with light from moon on snow. Wolves howl and growl and Sharptooth convinces pack to help her. Next day, Ahno’s pack goes hunt red deer. They run deep in forest, where shadows and big antlers live. Then Sharptooth came to Ahno and lured him away from pack.” Uvek’s expression grew rather goatish. “He liked her shape, her fur, and her teeth. You understand, Murtagh-man?”

  “…understand.”

  “Hrr-hrr. Sharptooth ran and ran, and Ahno followed, until they arrive at cliff. All packs wait there, hidden in bush. On cliff, Sharptooth let Ahno approach. Then she bite Ahno, and other packs come and snap and growl and run at Ahno, and they drive him”—Uvek made a diving swoop with his hand—“over edge of cliff. Fall not kill him, Murtagh-man. Wolves know this. Ahno son of Svarvok very hard to kill. At bottom of cliff was cave, and in cave lived ûhldmaq. You know?”

  Murtagh shook his head. “…no.”

  “Is Urgralgra who became bear. Very dangerous. Is told of in the stories of before times. This ûhldmaq was named Zhargog, and he was very old, very hungry. He came at wounded Ahno and fought with him, and ground shook and rocks fell, and at last, Ahno had to give up wolf form and return to being Horned. Then he fled, and Svarvok spoke to him, say, ‘Ho! now, Ahno! You have given up your teeth and paws and fur. What have you learned from this, my son?’ And Ahno laugh despite hurts and say, ‘It not good to run with pack that does not want me. I will find pack that does want.’ Then he change into eagle and fly away. And how Svarvok dealt with son then is another story entirely. Hrmm.”

  Murtagh returned his gaze to the ceiling. “…are there…many…stories of Ahno?”

  “Oh yes, Murtagh-man. Entire winter’s worth. Ahno was very clever, got into much trouble. In end, gods put him on mountaintop, tie him to stone so they not have to listen to his constant talk.”

  “Did he ever…find his pack?”

  “For a time, Murtagh-man. For a time.”

  * * *

  That night, the dreams that came to Murtagh exceeded all bounds of normal constraint. They possessed such vivid, horrific immediacy that reality itself seemed to have broken into blazing fragments: each an image that contained an epic’s worth of meaning—meaning that was understood perfectly and utterly and without words.

  He careened through hallucinations of the highest order, where the air seemed to twist and bend, and every emotion, every fear and hope and joy, was given its shining instant beneath the black-sun sky.

  The night felt endless, but even eternity itself could not endure, and at last the visions grounded themselves in something Murtagh knew far, far too well and that—given the choice—he would have rather forgotten.

  The air was cold with winter’s last breath, and steam rose from the droppings in the stable. He was trying to be quiet as he and Tornac hurried to saddle their horses. The animals nickered and pawed impatiently, eager to be gone. They hadn’t been ridden for over a week and were excited for release from the city.

  “Easy there,” said Murtagh, petting his charger.

  His sword kept getting in the way, tangling with his legs, as he wrestled the saddle onto the charger’s back. Both he and Tornac were armed, and under his cloak, Murtagh wore a coat of fine mail.

  They moved with hurried fear. Blankets, saddles, harnesses, bags laden with the supplies they’d need to get far from Urû’baen.

  “What if he comes looking for us?” Murtagh whispered. He still couldn’t believe they were leaving the capital once and for all, leaving behind everything he’d known for the last fifteen years.

  Tornac looked over the back of his horse, a roan mare with a white star on her breast. The swordmaster’s lean, tanned face was deadly serious, but there was a light to his expression that bespoke anticipation and, perhaps, a portion of excitement. Danger always quickened the blood. “Then we hide. Dragon eyes are keen, but even they can’t see through leaves or branches, and the king can’t take the time to search every copse and grove in the Empire. As long as we get enough of a head start, he’ll never find us.”

  Murtagh was still troubled. “What if he uses magic? He must have spells to search. And I’ve heard he can reach out with his thoughts and find a person, even if they’re on the other side of Urû’baen.”

  Then Tornac gripped Murtagh’s shoulder and fixed him with a firm gaze. “The charms I had off the hedge-witch will protect us from any sort of spying. The king is not all-powerful, Murtagh. No one is. Were every whisper about Galbatorix true, the Varden would have long since fallen to his might. As would the elves and dwarves.”

  Murtagh pulled on the charger’s girth, tightening it the appropriate amount. “You shouldn’t have said his name,” he muttered.

  Tornac paused in his own work. “Do you not want to leave?”

  “…I do.”

  A nod from Tornac as he returned to adjusting the roan’s saddlebags. “Then enough of this. We need to be well gone before dawn breaks.” Murtagh grunted, and Tornac gave him a considering look. “We agreed. You can’t stay. If you do, the king—”

  “If I do, the king will turn me into my father. He’ll make me into another one of his bloody-minded lackeys, same as Barst or Yarek,” said Murtagh, with no attempt to hide his bitterness.

  “It’s not just that,” said Tornac. “Even if you weren’t Morzan’s son, this isn’t a good place for you, Murtagh. Those leeches at court will ruin you if you stay.”

  Pride made him reply, “I’d never let them.”

  Tornac stopped and stared at him over the back of the roan. “You say that now, but they’ll keep grinding you down, year after year. That sort of attention cripples a man’s soul. I’ve seen it happen.” He returned to working on the horse’s tack. “You need to be free. Free of Galbatorix. Free of court. Free to make your own choices. Only then will you become the man I know you can be.” The care in his voice surprised Murtagh, but Tornac’s face was hidden behind the horse’s side. “You deserve a chance to find your way, and blast it if I’ll stand by and let them make you into something resembling Lyreth or his like. Trust me. Leaving is for the best.”

  Only then had Murtagh realized that Tornac’s true motivation had nothing to do with opposing the king, and he felt a sudden sense of gratitude. “I trust you.”

  Once their steeds were ready—their hooves muffled with rags—they departed. The boy who slept in the stables was still asleep, and the watchman whose duty it was to walk rounds through that part of the citadel was at the far end of his route. Tornac and Murtagh had planned their escape most carefully.

  Out they went through the side gate of the citadel keep, open and unguarded during festival week, and headed toward Urû’baen’s outer curtain wall. The clopping of the horses’ hooves was a soft accompaniment as they made their way between the rows of sleeping houses. The sky was nearly black, and the great shelf of stone that hung over the eastern half of the city blocked any view of dawn’s first light.

  The relatively short distance to the wall seemed at least a league, for their nerves were stretched to the point of breaking, and at every slight breath of wind, Murtagh expected Shruikan’s black form to burst from the citadel as the king came to accost them.

  They soon arrived at the postern gate set within the back portion of the city’s defenses. Murtagh had bribed a watchman to leave it open, and so it was. He held the reins while Tornac unbarred the door, and then, together, they hurried through the dark, tunnel-like exit that led through the enormous curtain wall.

  Then dismay. Fear. Hopelessness. Waiting for them in the field outside was a group of soldiers. Twelve spearmen, with a proud captain at the fore, his white-plumed helmet catching the last remnants of starlight.

  At first Murtagh had a wild, horrible thought that Tornac had betrayed him. But then he saw the swordmaster’s face; Tornac was as distressed as he. Perhaps more so.

  “So, the wayward sheep have been found,” said the captain with entirely too much glee. “The king will be pleased. Release your steeds, Murtagh son of Morzan, Tornac son of Tereth, and drop your weapons, and you shall not be harmed. This you have on my word, and as royal decree.”

  There was no choice. Murtagh let go of the reins, as did Tornac, and reached for the buckle of his sword belt.

  If he had not known Tornac so well, he would have missed the man’s intention. The slight shift of the swordmaster’s stance as he grounded his feet, balanced his weight—it was all the warning Murtagh got.

  Tornac feinted with his hand, first appearing to grasp his own belt, but then, with deadly speed, diverting to grasp the hilt of his sword and draw the blade.

  The captain barely managed the first note of a high-pitched screech before Tornac caught him in the throat with a perfectly placed lunge.

  The soldiers yelled and scattered while Murtagh scrabbled to draw his own sword. It snagged in the sheath, and freeing it took precious seconds.

  In that time, Tornac wounded two more soldiers and had begun advancing on a third. The men found their courage then and closed in around the swordmaster with their spears a ringed thicket of stabbing points.

  Then the sheath released Murtagh’s sword, and he fell upon the soldiers from the side, and for the second time in two days, he fought, and he killed.

  Never before had Murtagh let loose with such a combination of cold-minded ruthlessness and desperate savagery. But he was not only fighting for himself—he was fighting to help Tornac, and he would have sooner taken a blow than see the swordmaster harmed.

  The soldiers were veterans all: trained fighting men who had been rewarded for their loyalty and doughtiness with a post guarding the citadel of Urû’baen. But they had been surprised, and the quick felling of several of their number confused them, caused them to fall back, and every time they faltered, Tornac or Murtagh extracted another life in exchange.

  For the most part, they fought in silence, save for grunts and clashes of metal and the occasional quick cry. No one had the wind to speak. They were panting and fearfully focused, and sweat dripped into their eyes.

  And yet…for all of Tornac’s skill, and Murtagh’s too, the numbers were badly against them. Twelve against two. Even with surprise on their side, it was hardly a fair fight. Murtagh glimpsed a blot of blood on Tornac’s right shoulder and more streaming from a cut on his scalp, and he felt a burning line somewhere on his own hip.

  The swordmaster fought like a cornered cat, twisting and bounding and lashing out with blinding speed. Gone were the stylized forms used at court duels. Gone were the perfect angles and distances of sparring. And yet it was a dazzling, daring, dashing display that would have won applause from even the most jaded audience. At that moment, Murtagh truly believed that no man could have stood before Tornac.

  But like all perfect moments, even in dreams, it could not last.

  Murtagh tripped, and he felt the point of a spear jar his ribs as a soldier rushed him. He fell. Before he could make sense of what was happening, Tornac was standing over him, sword buried in the soldier’s side.

  Then another soldier came at Tornac from behind and, with a long-bladed knife, stabbed him between the shoulder blades and bore him to the ground.

  Murtagh scrambled free and slew the soldier before he could pull the knife out of Tornac’s back. Then another minute of desperate fighting followed as he contended with the last four soldiers.

  The men were no match for Murtagh, but he knew they were sworn to Galbatorix with the most solemn of oaths. They could no more retreat than he would surrender.

  In the end, in the grey predawn light, only he remained standing amid the scattered bodies. The roan mare had run from the field, but his charger stood by the gate, snorting and pawing.

  Anguished, Murtagh staggered over to Tornac and turned him on his side. Frothed blood dripped from the swordmaster’s lips, but his eyes were still open, and he smiled as he saw Murtagh. “Did you end them rightly?” he asked.

  Murtagh nodded, struggling to find enough breath to speak. “All dead.” He grasped the swordmaster’s hands. They were startlingly cold.

  Tornac smiled again. “I taught you well, Murtagh.” Then his expression caught, and his grip weakened. “Tell…tell Ola I’m sorry…. If you get the chance.”

  “Of course,” said Murtagh. He couldn’t bear to think how the pleasant, round-cheeked woman would take the news.

  “She’s going to hate me for this.” Tornac’s eyes wandered, and then his gaze sharpened again, and for a moment, he was as lucid as Murtagh ever remembered. “Go. You have to go, blast you. Take my charm and leave me. I’m done. Go and be free and forget…me….” A harsh rattle sounded in his chest, and his body went limp, and the gleam faded from his eyes.

  Then Murtagh wept, and he was not ashamed.

  …

  A disjunction, and Murtagh once again found himself cowering on the desolate plain, at the end of all things, with the black sun rippling with tendrils of black flame while the monstrous, mountainous, humpbacked dragon rose wingless against the horizon, blotting out light and hope.

  …

  Another disjunction. A field of golden grass blanketed the gentle curve of a hill. Standing amid the grass was Nasuada clad in a dress of red velvet. She turned to look back at him, and she held out her hand toward him, but her expression was sorrowful, and no matter how he reached for her, he could not close the distance.

  Then the sky darkened, and the sun lost its luster, and land and sky both became the color of tarnished pewter. Tears traced lines down Nasuada’s cheeks, but he felt them on his own, hot with regret and the pain of parting.

  Stars pricked the blackened sky, and a sense of impending and unavoidable doom hollowed out his chest. And far in the distance, a humped mass stirred along the horizon and began to ascend to eat the guttering sun….

  * * *

  Murtagh woke covered in cold sweat, disoriented, uncertain of what was real and what wasn’t, and yet consumed by a sudden conviction that time was desperately short.

  The clash of chimes and bells and brazen cymbals sounded outside the temple, loud enough that the commotion filtered through the stones of the building. And wild, barbaric cries too, as if the entire village had gone mad.

  Across the hall, half-shadowed Uvek looked out with a grim, heavy-lined expression. “Time of black smoke has arrived, Murtagh-man.”

  Fear spurred Murtagh to action. He pawed through his cloak until he felt the yellow diamond hidden within the hem. Where was the charm Uvek had given him? Where? Where? Where? For a moment, he couldn’t remember. Then he recalled: tucked deep in his left boot.

  He grasped the charm and reached for the energy stored in the diamond. The swirling vortex tickled his brain, tantalizingly close. He could almost touch it. The drug vorgethan must have been nearly purged from his body, but try though he might, he couldn’t quite unlock the flow of energy.

  Clang!

  The unseen door at the end of the hall opened, and boots tromped toward the cells. Cultists come to fetch him.

  Murtagh yanked his hand out of his boot and stood. He cursed to himself. He’d been too slow. Time had run out. Now he had to face whatever the Draumar had planned.

  Black smoke. Black sun. Doom.

  CHAPTER XXII

  Black Smoke

  “Are ye going to th’ festival?” asked one of the cultists, a red-bearded dwarf who leered at Murtagh through the bars of his cell. “ ’Course you are, Kingkiller. ’Course you are.”

  The dwarf and the man who was his companion dragged Murtagh from his confinement. Murtagh put up no resistance. Until he could move and think of his own accord, he was at Bachel’s mercy…and she possessed precious little of that particular virtue.