Chapter 8
Murtagh swore. This is as far north as we can go. There's the edge of Du Weldenvarden over there.
Thorn twisted his body in the air, changing his direction west. I don't think the elves would be too happy to see us, he said calmly. His ruby scales caught the light, reflecting it into Murtagh's eyes, which watered in protest. He swiped his sleeve across his face and grimaced.
Back to the Spine it is, then.
Thorn growled, and Murtagh sensed within his partner the same impatience that Murtagh himself felt growing within him every day. We've been all over the Spine, as deep as we can go. We dare not chance upon an Urgal village. I am a dragon; my blood runs hot, and my ancestors lived for centuries without ever clapping eyes on a city. But I'm growing weary of running around in circles. There's got to be something we can do, some purpose that we're meant to serve!
Murtagh patted his partner's side. I'm not sure that there is one.
The red dragon stopped flapping his wings and simply glided in midair. As twisted as Galbatorix was, at least while we were under him we had things to keep us occupied.
Murtagh gritted his teeth. The wrong things. He recalled Nasuada's torture in Uru'baen and how he himself had participated, and he felt sick. If there's one good thing about us secluding ourselves, it's that we can ensure we never become him.
Do you think that's even possible?
Murtagh rubbed his face. His beard scratched his palm. With how much anger we carry in our hearts, and the power we hold, the power of the True Name? Of course it's possible. He sighed.
Thorn rumbled underneath him. Then it's in our best interest to ensure that never happens. But I cannot help feeling discontent. Perhaps it's time we turned our attentions elsewhere. Maybe we could visit the Haderac Desert?
Too hot, too dry, Murtagh replied vaguely.
I never would have guessed, Thorn said with a hint of sarcasm.
I guess we won't have much of a choice before too much longer. We could always search for other continents; there's supposed to be one beyond the Beors as well as beyond the ocean. Maybe sometime after-
A sense of alarm from Thorn made Murtagh stop mid-sentence. What is that, there in the distance?
Murtagh squinted. I don't see anything.
Look, Thorn insisted, his voice rumbling. Murtagh continued to stare in the direction Thorn had indicated until he caught a glimpse of something on the horizon; a thick column of smoke rising from a clump of trees.
A campfire, maybe?
Much too large. It's not deep enough in the Spine for Urgals or trappers, and too far in for casual hunting parties. He snapped his ruby jaws together eagerly. Perhaps we should check it out.
Murtagh didn't need any urging on, His own curiosity was roused, and he was eager to have something to do, some mystery to solve. Thorn dipped lower in the clouds, and Murtagh cautiously reached out with his mind. He grinned. They were slavers, about thirty of them. There was another mind that Murtagh couldn't quite grasp; it was shielded to him. Looks like there's the action you were wanting, Murtagh said, a hint of bloodthirst entering his mental voice. He despised slavery with every fiber of his being, and with very good reason; hadn't he been a slave nearly his entire life?
Are you sure?
Of course. We're doing Alagaesia a favor. How do you want to do this?
Thorn paused, his uncertainty leaking across the mental link that he shared with his partner. I don't know. Perhaps we should find out who it is that has their mind blocked from us first.
Of course. Murtagh reached out with his mind to the mind of a man who, from the men around him, he gleaned to be the leader. His lips curled back in a snarl as he learned the identity of the other person. Bring us in, Thorn. They can burn. I'll cast a spell to shield her, but the rest will never know what hit them.
Of course, Thorn said eagerly. He rose steadily in the air until he was directly above the camp but out of sight from the slavers.
The leader of the group, a big bear of a man named Reist, was sitting in the middle of the men by the fire; it was huge, more of a bonfire than a campfire, and fed with freshly- cut pine boughs, which explained all the smoke. Murtagh was absorbed in the man's thoughts, growing more disgusted by the minute. His limbs trembled with rage; for all the evil he had seen Galbatorix commit, all the wrongdoings he had seen in the world, he should be immune to the way this injustice affected him. Galbatorix has committed much worse things in the short span I was with him alone; why does this seem much worse, then?
After Murtagh absorbed all the details of the slaver's recent plunder, he pulled Zar'roc out of its sheath.
What are you getting that out for? I thought I was just going to burn them.
Them, yes, but I want to make an example of him first. He swung his legs over the side of the saddle and uttered the miscarry spells for slowing his progress through the air.
Reist stretched his feet out and crossed his arms. His displeasure was clear. The wandering band of dwarves had surprised him. During Galbatorix's reign, theyhad never been seen out of their mountains. He supposed this group had been heading to Du Weldenvarden, possibly to trade; although why they'd been on this side of the continent, and so close to the Spine, he didn't know. Nor did he care; all he cared about was the fact that his potential slaves had put up much more of a fight than he cared for. He couldn't keep up if snags like this kept cropping up. Ever since the new queen had made slavery illegal he'd been hard pressed to find buyers who could operate quietly, outside of the prying eyes of the law, resulting in a drastic dip in profits.
He'd lost eight of his men in the altercation with the dwarves, but they'd managed to kill all of the dwarves. He grinned. Except for one, of course. She was small, but he was sure he'd find someone willing to pay a lot for a rare dwarven slave. Perhaps he could even find a use for her himself.
He stood up to warm his hands by the fire and felt an odd sensation in the back of his mind, almost as if there were someone else inside him listening to his speculations. Confused, he shook his head, and on the third shake his head was separated from his shoulders.
A horror-comic look of surprise forever etched upon his face, the head flew over the fire in an arc. The slavers jumped to their feet, shouting, for as their leader's lifeless body crumpled to the ground, they beheld a man standing where Reist had been standing just seconds ago.
He was dark-haired and muscular, and he held a dripping red sword. As the blood of their leader slowly dripped from the sword and fell upon the ground, the astonished slavers saw that the sword was not, as they thought at first sight, red from the blood, but the sword itself was a deep crimson. Fear spread across their faces as they saw his eyes, which were cloudy with battle rage.
He lifted his sword. "Today you are unlucky indeed. Only filthy cowards and rats prey on the weak. Take comfort in the fact that I'm kind enough to give you a quicker death than you deserve. Look above, and see what awaits you!"
Cries of terror sounded throughout the camp as the men beheld Thorn, diving from above them and roaring his terrible roar. His teeth flashed in the light as he opened his jaws.
Murtagh laughed bitterly. "Tell whatever gods you meet that you were sent by Murtagh and Thorn, the last of the Free Riders!"
Then he rolled out of the way, quickly uttering the spell that would shield him and the small figure chained to a pine tree from the flames. He grinned as he heard the screaming of the men and smelled burning flesh, but couldn't help feeling sick to his stomach.
The screams quickly subsided, and the slavers were now no more than piles of scorched meat. Thorn landed beside the tree and the small dwarf child, who until that point, even when the men where being burned, had remained almost deathly still, struggled at her bonds. Her eyes were wide with fear and she was whimpering.
The battleblood finally left him, and Murtagh glanced at the child. I have to calm her down. I can't release her like this, she's apt to either strike me or run away.
He crouched down in front of the child so that he was eye level with her. Her lower lip trembled with terror. He smiled. "It's okay. I'm sorry you had to see that, but they had to die so that I could set you free. I hope it didn't scare you too much. I'm not going to hurt you."
The child stopped struggling and began to talk urgently in rapid Dwarvish. Murtagh grimaced. "I don't understand." He shook his head and shrugged sheepishly to convey the fact that he didn't speak her language.
I wonder if I could touch her mind, if only to assure her, through images and emotions, that I mean her no harm.
He reached out, only to find that her consciousness was still surrounded by steel barriers. He was dumbfounded. The girl looked to be at the same stages of development as a five-year-old human child, although since dwarves aged differently than humans, her actual age might be different. It took many years to develop mind-blocking techniques; he found it hard to believe that this tiny girl had already perfected hers. He could always invade her mind and tear away the barriers with the True Name, but he was loath to do so, and promised himself he wouldn't unless the situation was dire.
She was looking at him calmly enough. However, her bright brown eyes were clouded with fear, and he could tell she was still terrified. She kept stealing glances at Thorn, who kept his distance.
Suddenly inspired, he muttered under his breath in the ancient language. The smell of burnt flesh dissipated from the area, and the bodies crumbled and scattered across the ground like dust. Her eyes widened, but he could tell the absence of death comforted her. He quickly reached behind her and untied the ropes holding her to the trunk of the tree.
She solemnly rubbed her wrists but made no move to run, which Murtagh was grateful for. He wasn't sure what he was going to do about the child, but he was nearly certain that she would die on her own. Although if her mind was any indication, she was more capable than he first assumed.
She glanced at him shyly, and pointed at him. Understanding her inquiry, he pointed at himself and said, "Murtagh." Going one step further, he pointed at the dragon and said, "Thorn."
A small smile curved her lips as she pointed at them and repeated their names, then pointed at herself and said "Dahnia."
It was a pretty, musical name for a dwarf, and Murtagh smiled. "Dahnia," he repeated, pointing back at her. She grinned, clapped her hands and giggled. All traces of fear vanishing with the surprising speed that only a child could summon, she leaped at Murtagh from where he remained crouched in front of her. He stiffened with surprise, but relaxed when he realized that she was hugging him around the neck. He gently squeezed in return, and when she released him he was also smiling. He was still uncertain about what he should do about the tiny girl, but one thing was clear as day; they couldn't leave her.
"Dahnia," he said slowly. "I know you can't understand me, but Thorn and I are going to stay with you for a while. We're here to help." He reached his hand out to her, hoping that by his gesture she would understand.
She took it.