Cold Heart IV
Being in the arms of Morpheus for so long, Murtagh awoke quite early the next day.
Ah good you're awake. I believe I shall be going hunting while you are in town. Try to keep their attention on you. I'd hate to be chased out by an angry mob.
Murtagh didn't bother responding. Getting up from the bed he noted that dawn had nearly broken. The clothes he wore weren't suitable for the cold weather and he didn't wish to use too much energy using spells to warm himself. The mantle he'd used several days ago was still in the room and he still had his boots. As the house didn't keep the cold out well, he could tell stepping outside wouldn't freeze him to the marrow, but keeping the snow off him would be important. As he opened the door to walk out of his room he came face to face with Gerod.
"Ah good, you're awake already. Preparing to head out, I see." Glancing over Murtagh, he chuckled "You won't need all that. With the sun it will be rather warm today and it won't snow either. It'll be better to keep your arm free." Murtagh frowned before removing the mantle. He couldn't see how it would be warm outside, with snow still on the ground. Then again, most of his life had been spent near the edge of the Hadarac Desert, his experience with snow was lacking. They ate a cold breakfast of an unidentifiable salted meat, which tasted good regardless of its origin.
As they set out for town, Thorn gave Murtagh a quick glance before setting off to catch his own meal. Gerod gave only a passing glance the crimson dragon bounding over the snow. Murtagh shrugged with his good arm, which turned into a strange slumping gesture. Riverfell's closest building stood only a third of a mile away, so it was not the hike he'd imagined. The snow crunched beneath his boots and as Gerod said the weather remained temperate, despite the occasional gust. As they walked past the building, Gerod introduced it as the home of "Old Man" Ytrar Windror.
They passed by the elder's house, which they would visit on their way home. The streets were bare, with only lightly churned snow to show that the town was inhabited. Murtagh spotted the first residents watching the blacksmith.
"Look at you all, so intent! Maybe you shouldn't have taken a wife, eh Nolan?" Murtagh winced at the accusation tossed out so frivolously. For his talk of magic and honor earlier, Gerod flung a grievous insult with little second thought. He hadn't seen earlier, but as the crowd shifted to look to the speaker, Murtagh saw a well built and muscled man working the forge without a shirt. His muscles glistened with sweat as he beat upon the beginnings of a horseshoe. Nolan just turned back the the forge rubbing his hands together with a harrumph. The rest of he crowd focused their attention to Murtagh.
"So the lad's doing better?" One of the shorter ones began, a tuft of curly chestnut hair peeking from beneath his silly coonskin hat. "Your arm still could use some rest though, I doubt it'll ever be the same." He offered his hand, which Murtagh took hesitantly. "You are welcome to stay until your arm has healed. Name's Roland Windror, my family's been making the clothing in Riverfell since its founding."
"Murtagh. So you are son of Ytrar?"
"So Gerod's told you some? Well if you ever feel up to it, I can tell you more about the town." Murtagh stood as he was given directions to a house near the north side of the village. Roland smiled and excused himself to visit a friend.
"Now that he's gone, we can get to more important matters."
"Where did you find a dragon?" The remaining trio looked much more excited then men their age should have. He was unsure how to go about explaining his partner, so he gave a stern look in return. Gerod ruined the effect.
"I don't think he really owns him. The dragon's name is Thorn and he can speak!"
"Really?" The one who appeared youngest inquired "Where is he now?"
"Hunting."
"So do dragons run quickly? I doubt that that wing would've healed up so fast." The tallest of the trio spoke. Murtagh winced at the reminder of the torn wing. Thorn must have had greater endurance than he realized to remain standing. He knew the membrane of the wing was fragile and sensitive.
"He'll be fast enough."
"How old is he, centuries? Millennia?"
"Where did he come from?"
"So how much can he eat?" The three rambled on, asking questions and joking more as a means to entertain themselves than get questions answered. Murtagh stood stone faced and unresponsive. Eventually they somehow forgot about him and moved off still talking.
"Chattier than womenfolk, those three are. Mark was the youngest and is brothers with the green eyed one, Collin. The tall blond one is Andrew. Been tight knight since they were born, only more so after the Licums lost their mother. I get the feeling you should spend some time with them. It would do you good."
"I fail to see how that could be the case." Gerod just laughed, which was punctuated by ringing hammer blows. They were the only ones other than Nolan and the smith.
"So, these two gentlemen are Nolan and Smith." Murtagh blinked, looking at Smith smith for a second, who gave a grunt that conveyed something between approval and indifference before returning to his work. Nolan spoke without turning from the bed of coals.
"I pity you for having to put up with Gerod for so long. The man's got an awful sense of humor, not mentioning his cooking." Gerod smiled at the insults. It seemed the two had something that wasn't quite a rivalry, but was far from friendship as well. Seeming to sense that there was nothing more to interest them, Gerod beckoned for Murtagh to follow him away.
"Why is it that so few are working? Is there really so little to do?" It seemed strange to him that common folk allegedly under the oppression of a wizard could live so comfortably. The houses passed all were sturdily built of stone and wood, despite there being no forest in sight. All so far, save the smith, who'd been stripped down, had worn boots. A pair of boots were usually too expensive simply to purchase, they were an investment. He knew winter lacked the duties of planting season, but the town seemed too still.
"It's better to save our energy for spring. We tended to our tools and repairs much earlier on in the season."
"Is there anything I must make a priority to see, or am I now free to roam?"
"Ha! You're free to roam lad. Meet me at the tavern an hour before dusk." Murtagh nodded and took to wandering the streets. The streets were mostly empty, despite the somewhat warm temperatures, it seemed as though staying indoors was more preferable. Idling about he cast his mind over the town, not looking to pry, only to sense.
He found a presence that was...odd. It felt like the mind of a dragon, but coarser and covered in a layer of slime and anger. Unsure of what it could be Murtagh investigated, moving closer to the source. Eventually he came to the front of a house that did not greatly distinguish itsself. Walking up to the door, he thought about knocking. However, with the ominousness of the presence, if the owner knew he looking for it, they might cause trouble.
"You're the traveler, right? Don't bother, no-one's home." A voice called from the street. A man with shortly cropped dark hair carrying a large stack of books shuffled through the snow. "That's the house of the healer, Ms. Terun and her apprentice Lena. I heard you only have one good arm, but you can help carry one or two of these." Having no reason to set the townsfolk against him, Murtagh complied. If he stayed until he healed, it would do him good to become acquainted with someone.
The door opened to the scholar's home. Unlike Gerod's home, it seemed poorly maintained. Dust built upon haphazard stacks of books, there was a single table unmolested by the swarm of parchment on the nearby desk. Three of the four wooden chairs were piled with a mixture of texts. Upon his return to the chaotic abode, he flowed like a pamphlet in the wind from one pile to the next, unloading his bounty. When Murtagh held the last books, he brushed off one of the chairs sending down a ruffling cascade.
"Go ahead and sit down. My name is Michael Ohara. I am a scholar who lives here."
"And?" Murtagh didn't see the reason he was there.
"Having a dragon tends to piqué the curiosity of others." Michael held up a hand as Murtagh rolled his eyes "That's not it, although I would like to compare your dragon to the lore. No, the reason is to warn you Dudor. You may be wounded now, but when you are well the townsfolk will surely beg of you to rid us of the scourge. Declining would be the best option."
"I do not intend on confronting the mage." Michael looked blankly at Murtagh for several seconds.
"I'm absolutely touched by your compassion."
"Make up your mind," Murtagh snorted "My answer will not change, but with such a confusing attitude you will convince me of nothing."
"Simply be because you will not confront him does not mean he is irrelevant to you. His ties of fate go deeper than you would expect, and by no means will a dragon escape his notice. Now you are within this new arena, you can choose a new path unhindered by your past."
"You are doing this for some benefit of your own. For knowledge, power or pleasure, I care not. What is my reward if I help you in this?"
"You've been a pawn before it seems. Reluctant to reveal your past, what Gerod has said of you implies you wished to be alone. Should I succeed I can promise you the Monastery atop High Hrothgar."
"An isolated residence would please me, but first I must know what is required of me."
"You would not understand." Murtagh frowned, Michael held up a hand and continued "Yet. I will teach you of Dudor and his ways. When you are healed, then you may make a decision."
Murtagh was left unsure of what to think. The scholar lacked a silver tongue, his promises were vague and his request unknown. However his honesty to admit he merely needed Murtagh meant that it was not something directly plotting against him. Deciding to learn more seemed like the wisest course of action, Murtagh was intrigued. He would consult Thorn on the matter, but he planned to help the enigmatic Michael.
oOo
Michael and Murtagh agreed to meet every day after lunch. He wanted more information before he committed to anything. Sent away with a flick of the wrist after the agreement and directions to the tavern, Murtagh walked silently.
As carefree as the folks were in the desolate season, the pub retained a tense feeling as people laughed. It may have been his own battle-honed senses picking up on the erratic movement and noises, but Murtagh felt ill at ease. Could it have been the two who slurred conspiratorially to each other, laughing or the man who sat alone with a sword at his belt? Crippled and without Zar'roc, he gritted his teeth and sat in a corner to wait for Gerod.
The table near him had four men seated at it playing dice, one whom he recognized from earlier as Nolan. Murtagh did not attempt to listen, but neither did they speak softly.
"Looks like you've lost once again. You owe me now." One with a scar spoke. It was just a faint mark across the cheek. Not enough to truly mar his face, but not subtle enough to escape Murtagh's notice.
"I won't owe you by tomorrow." The one who's back faced him spoke. The others laughed.
"You know how it is. The witch and Lena won't be back for a week." Nolan remarked. The one across from Nolan, a fellow with red hair scoffed.
"Neither are getting back. The Dudur's eaten 'em!"
"You know the witch is tougher than that." Scar-face began "She probably tripped Lena to buy herself time while running away. There's no way Sarah would have gotten lost gathering Dragon's Tongue."
"I betcha the Poganklov got her."
"Poor girl. But I doubt she would have been even a snack for one. Probably fell." Nolan remarked. The talking died down a bit as they continued playing. Murtagh took the new information and attempted to reconstruct his knowledge of the town. The town healer was not generally well liked and lost at least one apprentice under suspicious circumstances in the past. It also seemed while the one with his back and Nolan believed both would return,Scar-face and Red-hair both expected at least one to be dead. Their degree of certainty was unsettling, even though some bet on them living, it sounded as though they were playing the long shots. It didn't seem to match up. With the frequency of offerings and the expected mortality rate, it should have proved quite a problem and not the sad, but unavoidable truth Gerod made it out to be.
What is it Rider? Thorn asked as he returned into the range where they could easily communicate. He felt something off about Murtagh's thoughts and wanted to know what his friend had come across.
I believe I found our new home. However we will have to act as a subordinate for a time.
And what does it require from us?
I am unsure as of yet, our acceptance is not definite until later. Michael will teach us more before we throw our lot in with him.
Very well. Thornfelt as though he would go along with the ideas, but there was also a great deal of suspicion and alertness. Murtagh could trust him to notice any amphibologies. They let their consciousnesses separate, returning their attentions to their environments.
"So I take it you're the one everyone's been talking about. John, I'm a traveler as well." He offered his left hand, switching when he noticed Murtagh's arm.
"Why do people keep bothering me?" Shaking the hand, John had a fair grip for such an uncalloused hand. He couldn't understand why people were so drawn to speak with him in lieu of his sullen mien. The traveler wasn't harried by the blunt remark.
"I'm actually here as a surveyor for the king. Well, under a chain of command that the king sits upon. There's been speak of tunneling to the other side to expand south. Since you were rumored to have come from there, I wondered if you had any information."
"I see no reason to tell you anything. To keep you from naming the land something idiotic though, I shall tell you the land I have come from is known as Alagaesia. Do not attempt to ask me any more. It would be futile."
"You are not a very personable person. You should work on that, those whose hearts are cold are met with coldness in return and in the north, you need all the warmth you can get." His eyes were still friendly as he got up and left Murtagh. Internally sighing he hoped that no more would come to pester him about his past. His desperate pleas were answered when Gerod walked into the bar. Quickly he noticed the stone-still patron and the look on his face that was more stygian than usual.
"Unpleasant day? You were so looking forward to this trip earlier." His voice had the strange quality of joking and being serious at the same time.
"It was fine. I have merely been badgered about my past and Thorn all day. Hopefully they will grow used to me in time."
"It is good we haven't scared you away! You look quite weary now, perhaps we should return now."
"I have no arguments with that suggestion."
8/24/13: It's been a bit! Well school is back up and running, so that will be taking up time. I didn't quite make the 3k words I wanted and I really hope I will make my 4k next update. So what is thought of this chapter? I started fleshing the town out, and inadvertently it just looks like a string of plot hooks. Weak ending again, I suppose its because I never want the chapters to end. As for some of the longer words in there beware! For I have found my word-a-day calendars. To my regret I was unable to use cathexis, but I should get 'incarnadine' in the chapter after the next. (Perhaps a minor spoiler if you know the meaning? Or at least a hint I suppose.) Anyhow, thanks for reading, review, favorite and follow and make me TvTropes Pg Plz.