Thorn glided high over Leona Lake, appearing to have caught flame whenever his crimson hide reflected the dying sunlight.
Thorn, Murtagh said. There can't be any point searching this far down the lake. A child can't have travelled this far in under a week.
The girl didn't travel Murtagh, her horse did, Thorn said pointedly.
Whatever. They can't have gone this far.
Well, what do you suggest? Thorn's voice was irate. We've been scouring the northern roads of Leona Lake for hours. There's only stinking fishermen and pathetic tradesmen. She is not there, she has to be down here.
Murtagh sighed and slumped against the dragon's shoulder. They had flown from Uru'baen three days ago, to assist the Ra'zac investigate a tip-off that told Galbatorix that Marcus Tabor, ruler of Dras Leona, had been concealing a dragon egg from him. Thorn hadn't slept or eaten since they had left. Neither of them had truly believed the spy's accusations against Tabor until they arrived at his palace.
Acting on the King's orders Murtagh had murdered Tabor - after extracting the nessessary information he needed to track down and retrieve the egg from the Lord's mind. Sifting through Tabor's memories, Murtagh scoffed when he identified the egg's courier - A young thief girl. She certainly did not look hardened, with her chestnut hair and large eyes, and she looked a few years younger than himself. Easy, he had thought. But now he wasn't so sure. The girl can ride, I'll give her that, Murtagh said, voice laced with frustration. She's already proving to be a problem. The only thing Tabor had known about the girl was her appearance and destination, and so that was all the information Murtagh had to find her.
Thorn did not reply. His wings ached; Murtagh could feel the pain in his own arms. They flew on. The evening turned to night, and still they hadn't found any luck regarding their search. Murtagh could feel his friend's wing beats becoming heavier and more strained as he battled the wind to stay airborne.
In the darkness this high in the sky, Murtagh's eyes were useless. He searched with his magic, examining any lifesource that he came across.
Until finally, when the moon had long since reached its peak and the stars were beginning to dim, Murtagh detected a group of consciousnesses that looked as if they might be what they had been looking for. They were settled in a small cove on the lake shore. It was far from the road, and looked difficult to find on foot. Murtagh quickly identified the first being as a horse and the second as a young human. That made him hopeful, and he directed Thorn over to the camp. The third consciousness however, puzzled him. The mind was small and new, though had a great capacity for intelligent thought.
What do you think it is? Murtagh asked, pointing it out.
Lets find out. Thorn circled over the cove, like a hawk searching for prey. The most Murtagh could make out were two shadowy blotches around a pile of dying embers. However Thorn pitched forward, his wingbeats disrupted with shock. He parted his jaws, and a low, startled rumble sounded deep in his chest.
What is it, Thorn? What do you see?
Thorn didn't just show his rider the image, he threw it at him. Murtagh saw the cove as Thorn saw it; as clear as if sunlight struck the rocks. Murtagh identified the gray horse and the sleeping girl, and then cursed when he saw what was curled up against the girl's chest. The consciousness that confused him was a dragon hatchling.
The egg hatched for the child! Thorn snarled his disbelief. This complicates things.
Galbatorix will want her, Murtagh muttered. Her fate is no longer a happy one.
Assuming it ever was. Come, we must take her back to the King - at least he will be pleased. Thorn locked his wings and tilted into a slow, spiraling dive.
Murtagh shifted uncomfortably. The presence of a second rider under Galbatorix was good news to him; she would share his burdens and his grief and his frustration. No longer would he be the King's only outlet. Some part of him, however, twinged with guilt when he thought of the pain and torture the pair would go through. No more freedom for them. Can I willingly hand them over to my own fate?
Willingly? Thorn hissed mockingly. What does your will have to do with this...? He then added in a gentler tone; You have no choice. Just get on with it. Murtagh grimaced and grasped Zar'roc's hilt as Thorn sank ever closer to the gray rocks below.
Thorn's talons clattered onto a large outcropping twenty feet from the camp. Murtagh dismounted, then jumped down onto the sandy pebbles below the rock. A shrill squeak split the air as Murtagh landed and he stumbled, unbalanced. The hatchling! Must've been awake all along...
Don't do anything stupid, Thorn told him. We don't want them hurt.
The baby dragon's tail and haunches were raised, its neck bristling as it tried valiantly to stare down the intuders. Behind him, its rider was getting warily to her feet, pulling daggers from her belt.
He is a brave one, Thorn said quietly. He stayed put on the ragged ledge, silently observing the scene as Murtagh slowly advanced towards the girl and her young dragon. She rushed forward and gathered up the hatchling, removing him from Murtagh's path. Thorn had felt all his tiredness chased away by the sight of another of his kind, but the thought that it must now share his fate suppressed his euphoria - however indifferent he had seemed to his rider.
The little dragon wound its way up to the girl's shoulders. It spread its wings behind her head, and screeched once more. The young rider stood her ground as Murtagh approached. He stopped within just four feet, a distance he thought she would surely be uncomfortable with. Murtagh was right; she took a few hasty steps backwards. He studied her. Everything about her was feral and tense; her stance, her expression, the fists clasped around jagged daggers, and the gleam in her eyes as she looked from Murtagh to Thorn.
I'm impressed, Murtagh said to his dragon. She's not what I expected.
What did you expect - Some helpless farmer's maid?
She glared at him, and Murtagh glared back. They stood still, waiting for a sign from the other. Neither did the dragons move. The only motion was from the girl's ragged cloak, fluttering about her knees in the gentle night air.
Murtagh spoke first. "What are you called?"
She did not answer, instead switching her bright-eyed gaze to Thorn. His hulking, black silhouette loomed over the cove, tinged red where the moonlight was reflected onto it from the lakewater. "You're Murtagh, ain't you?"
Murtagh inclined his head. He still had a hand on Zar'roc, though he did not draw his sword.
"You found me so quickly. Was this some trap of Tabor's all along?" Her voice was laced with defiance. There was also the hint of an accent, a rough one, though Murtagh couldn't tell to which city it belonged.
"No - Tabor is dead. Executed for treason."
"So the King found out about his secret." The hatchling crept closer against her neck and trilled. She told it to hush.
"Tell me your name," Murtagh said, firmer than before.
"I won't," she replied, having learnt many years ago that no good ever came from giving your name to people you do not trust.
"You'll regret it," Murtagh warned her simply. The girl remained silent, a challenging glint in her eyes. Murtagh sighed. Gathering himself, he pushed against her mind. He found her defenses weak, unpractised, and broke through easily before she understood what was happening. She doubled over and cried out in pain, eyes scrunched shut, hands around her head. The dragon swayed on her shoulder, squeaking surprise.
He found her name, triumphant. Murtagh intruded deeper, examining her motives and experiences since she began her journey. He did not linger on her older memories, though what he did see made him curious. He saw through her eyes as a young child, scampering barefoot through crowds in Dras Leona accompanied by equally dirty, pitifully thin children, as they cut the purses and picked the pockets of the adults they passed. Murtagh withdrew, and Lyra straightened up with a shudder, her features contorted from wariness to fear.
"Lyra," Murtagh said, his lip lifting in a smirk as he took a step forward, limiting the small space between them. "You need to come with me."
She shook her head, soft lips parting and round eyes narrowing. "I won't serve your King."
Murtagh opened his mouth to reply, then paled. He felt an overwhelming presence against his mind. It seeped through his defenses, weaving into every deep, dark corner of his thoughts, demanding total control. Galbatorix wanted a report. Murtagh shrank back as the king searched for the information he wanted.
Oh, now this is interesting... Far better than I had expected, chided the King in mild surprise, using Murtagh's eyes to view the scene. Murtagh fell rigid and silent. He sensed the King's mild, almost off-hand surprise at discovering the egg had hatched. Ahh, think of the possibilities, Murtagh. A second rider brought to my disposal! Now, I want her in Uru'baen by week's end. Alive, preferably.
I was planning on it, my Liege. Murtagh was aware of Thorn padding towards him, to keep watch on Lyra. The girl was confused at his change of expression, but looked ready to capitalise on the apparent distraction and bolt from the cove.
Of course you were, Galbatorix mused, observing Lyra stumble backwards as Thorn got too close. The dragon stretched out his long neck to within a foot of her, examining her and the hatchling with a cruel ruby eye. I'm sure she'll adore Shruikan.
I will do as you say - she'll get there.
The Ra'zac approach. Follow them to Helgrind, they will drug her for the journey. It will not do for her to be causing unnessessary trouble while captive.
Understood.
Good. And Murtagh? If she does not reach me, be sure you will not be able to blink without writhing in agony. This is one oppurtunity I cannot let pass.
Murtagh ran a hand through his hair as the king left, and looked up. Lyra gazed at him with a mixture of curiosity and alarm, clutching her hatchling to her chest. She still held her knives.
"I won't hurt you," he told her.
"You're lying," she said, perfectly calm.
Murtagh's temper wound a little tighter. "Alright then; I don't want to hurt you. Drop those daggers and I won't have to."
Lyra shifted her dragon to her shoulders once again. She had a dark, difficult look on her face. "Didn't you hear me? I won't serve your king, I'd rather die!"
"So be it," Murtagh complied menacingly. "Though, he would like a word with you beforehand."
She scowled and stepped away. Murtagh began to close the gap seperating them, and Thorn growled deeply in his chest. Deciding the time for talk had passed, he muttered a spell. The knives Lyra held were yanked from her grasp, and plunged into the sand beside Thorn. She cursed, falling backwards into a group of rocks that barred her way.
As he prepared a spell that would bind Lyra, Murtagh smirked; he wouldn't even have to draw Zar'roc.
A grim look darkened Lyra's expression as Murtagh stepped within a few feet of her. She twisted fluidly; after dipping her right hand into a bag at her belt, she pulled it upwards and flicked her arm through the air. A pair of throwing knives flew at Murtagh. He lunged reflexively, with barely enough time to recognise what they were before his wards caught the little blades inches from his chest.
She is beginning to vex me, he told Thorn, as Lyra turned and swiftly and began to scale the rocks behind her. Murtagh started forwards, realising the girl knew exactly what she was doing; she climbed like an expert, pulling herself up without hesitation and finding the most obscure of handholds.
The rocks were piled perhaps fifteen feet high. Murtagh followed Lyra's path upwards, his strength assisting him as Lyra's experience assisted her.
He looked up to see the hem of her cloak whip out of sight over the grey outcrop, but he didn't hurry himself - if it came to a run, he'd catch her before she could blink. Thorn glided over him. She's in the trees, he said, as his rider clambered over the edge.
Murtagh sprinted towards the old, musty beeches. Lyra was not in sight. Reaching out, he sensed her presence. She wasn't far ahead, and he glimpsed the hatchling's pure scales between the trunks.
Lyra leapt between the trees in the darkness, with the reassuring weight of her dragon on her left shoulder. The trees were widely spaced at first, but then grew closer together, slowing her down. Jumping a tree root, she looked up through the tall branches to see Thorn gliding low over the leaves.
Then somebody growled inside her head, You cannot run forever. The voice was fanged, rumbling; Thorn's voice.
Lyra ran faster, vaulting a moss-covered rock. Hearing pounding footsteps behind her, she had to face truth. She could not outrun Murtagh - His pace was inhumanly rapid. Without breaking stride, she lunged up the nearest tree and swiftly clambered to the mid branches, out of Murtagh's line of sight. Not noticing the hatchling leave her shoulder, she leapt from tree to tree as a leopard would; padding along the thicker branches and avoiding large patches of foliage that would rustle loudly. The years spent clambering over Dras Leona's roofs and railings had taught her many useful talents.
But it didn't take as long for Murtagh to adjust to her new tactic as she had hoped it would. He ran below her shouting a strange word, causing the branches around her to splinter with almightly cracks. "Magic!" She cursed, narrowly avoiding a broken bough. All her life she'd seen or heard naught but a whisper of it, and now here it was, tumbling menacingly all around her.
Lyra was suddenly, horribly aware of the absence of her dragon. She gripped the nearest trunk and whirled, chest heaving, scanning the black branches for a flash of silver scales.
Murtagh wove beneath her and cried, "Jierda!"
The limb beneath her feet shattered. She jolted, clasping the branch above her and dragging herself onto it. Lyra leapt to the next tree just before Murtagh broke her second branch.
Distressed over the missing hatchling, Lyra ran carelessly. She heard Murtagh cursing below her, yelling out loud at Thorn. But where was his red dragon?
A rocky stream wound between the tree trunks. Holding on to a bough above her as she ran, Lyra prepared for a swinging jump across it.
Murtagh shouted "No, Thorn!", before a huge amount of fright and pain bounded into her from the link she shared with her dragon - the hatchling was hurt.
Lyra twisted in shock, and lost her grip on the branch. She plummeted through snagging branches and tumbled into shallow water. Landing on a jutting rock in the middle of the stream, she yelled out as she heard a sickening crack and pain lanced up from her elbow. Lyra turned on her side, grimacing and cradling her arm from the water's flow. Her vision blurred, and the forest became a mist of greys and blacks. She had no idea which pain was hers, and which was the hatchling's.
Murtagh's voice rang out, alarmingly close by. "Genius, Thorn! Why don't you kill them both while you're at it?"
He came into view seconds later. Lyra fought weakly as Murtagh wound one hand in her hair, the other in her shirt, and dragged her roughly from the stream. As Murtagh shoved her down on the mossy ground, Thorn swept in to land next to the stream, crushing trees and flattening foliage. When Lyra saw her silver dragon clamped between his jaws, she cried out and Murtagh pinned her down with a firm hand against her shoulder.
But Lyra did not lie still; her dragon was bleeding. She yanked a knife from her boot, and tried to slice at the arm restraining her. Murtagh caught her wrist easily with his free hand, and didn't hesitate before twisting it back behind her head. He clenched his fist tightly, forcing her to drop the blade. Lyra groaned and turned her face away; far too much pain wracked her body.
Murtagh leaned over her, rolling a knee onto her chest and turning her jaw, forcing her to look at him. Lyra struggled miserably for a moment, then stilled. Their faces were less than half a foot apart.
"You," Murtagh whispered, draping each word with threat, "have been far too irksome."
Lyra gazed determinedly into his harsh blue eyes, her eyelids half closed in exhaustion. She shivered, cold water dripping from her hair and running down her shoulders.
Something loosened in Murtagh's features. He pulled her into a sitting position and put a palm on her brow. "Slytha," he muttered bitterly.
Lyra felt herself thrust into darkness, and knew no more.
