Thank you in advance to anyone who takes the time to read/review~ I appreciate you so very much! I hope this short little story is enjoyable!
Path to the Sword
Part One
Anyone else receiving a direct request from King Galbatorix would have been honored, but Tornac approached his new assignment with dread.
Effective immediately, he was to become the latest tutor for Morzan's orphaned child. Latest because the last few tutors had abandoned their duties quite suddenly. Two of the tutors opted to abandon their positions in the court altogether to avoid the task. If this child was as awful as he heard, Tornac wanted no part of it.
In the courtyard of Urû'baen Castle, he saw the royal guard keeping watch over his new charge.
Outwardly, the boy appeared harmless enough. His hair was neatly trimmed and had the color of a rich brown tea. He wore a crimson tunic laced with gold, black leggings, and boots, typical wear of a nobleman's child. Overall, he looked the part of any other boy.
However, Murtagh Morzansson was a seven-year old with a reputation. The moment Tornac approached and made his presence known, the boy lifted his stormy gray eyes off the stone walkway. If looks could kill, Tornac would have been dead. Such hostility and rage flashed in the child's eyes that it was suffocating. That was when Tornac noticed the guards were standing at a distance. He could not decide if that was by their choice or the boy's.
"You must be Murtagh," started Tornac with a sigh. The boy's eye twitched. "My name is Tornac. Moving forward, I will take over your training with the sword."
"I have no interest in swords," Murtagh told him curtly, and venom dripped from his lips. "You may leave." At this, the guards shifted uncomfortably. The boy was not armed, and Tornac did not understand their discomfort. If attitude was the worst this child had to offer, it was an easier task than expected.
"I will not," replied Tornac calmly, and he folded his arms across his chest. The boy clasped his hands into fists and resented his response. "And you will develop an interest in swords, this I assure you. Moving forward, you will train with one in your hand several hours of every day. Familiarize yourself with them." Tornac turned to leave. Already he determined he would fight fire with fire. "Come." When the boy did not move, he said with force, "Come or I will carry you like the child that you are."
At this the guards were stunned. Murtagh, too, blinked in surprise, and then he grinded his teeth. Finally, he followed, and Tornac led him to the private training grounds of Galbatorix where they would carry out their lessons.
Training began immediately.
Several weeks later, Tornac knew why everyone quit. Murtagh was stubborn as a mule. No matter what, he refused to touch a sword, and if someone forced it into his hand, he threw it. Never had he thrown it at someone, but Tornac did not put it past him. People shied away from the practice grounds for that very reason.
On several occasions, whenever he was scolded, the boy pushed shelves of armor and other gear to the ground. Once he kicked an iron helmet halfway across the field, and for that Tornac was slightly impressed. When he had nothing to kick or throw or push to the ground, Murtagh would slander Tornac with language a boy of seven should not know or would sit in the dirt in a quiet rage. Tornac had yet to decide what he thought was worse.
However, none of this was what made the task truly difficult, he realized. What made the task nigh impossible was King Galbatorix. Twice had the king approached Tornac for reports of progress, and after learning the second time that Murtagh had yet to touch a sword, he was not pleased. Murtagh was not dangerous—it was the king who held such high expectations for him that was.
Tornac went to the training grounds early one day and found Murtagh already there. The boy was engrossed in a book and, for once, was not scowling. He approached without being noticed and leaned over the child to peek at what he read, but Murtagh saw his shadow and slammed the book shut, tucking it securely under his arm. His death-giving look returned to his face.
"I thought we would try something new today," Tornac began, and he pulled a lance off a rack on the wall of the training hall.
"I will throw it," Murtagh promised him, and he set the book down with care on a nearby shelf full of armor.
"It is not a sword," he insisted, hoping it would make a difference.
After showing the boy how to hold it proper, he handed it over. Lo and behold, Murtagh spun and hurled it across the field. It went nearly just as far as the iron helmet and stuck up straight in the ground. Tornac sighed, but again he was a little impressed.
"At least your arm works."
Murtagh went to the shelf, took his book and sat down. He ignored Tornac for the rest of the day.
Moving forward, Tornac tried everything to get the boy to obey him. At first he tried strict discipline, and that was the greatest disaster of all. Murtagh responded to yelling with hysterical fits of rage, and if anyone dared to even lay a finger on him, he fought back. Then Tornac tried to ally himself with the boy, but Murtagh was about as approachable as a Fanghur. Attempts at conversation were met with silence or, increasingly more often, lesser fits of rage. Once Murtagh had been so annoyed with him that he threw his book at him which, as Tornac came to realize, was a desperate act, for the boy so did love his books. Once Tornac had tried to punish him like a child, sending him to his quarters without dinner—he found out later that Murtagh climbed out a window, scaled a wall, stole his way into the kitchen and threw away everyone's biscuits just to spite him. Again, he was a little impressed.
Tornac also learned that Murtagh treated everyone with similar disdain. Most people avoided him, for they wanted nothing to do with Morzan's child, and many had faced his wrath and learned to stay away. A few people tried to use Murtagh to get close to Galbatorix, for everyone knew he held the king's favor as Morzan's son, and those that wormed their way into the boy's life often used their leverage maliciously, abandoning Murtagh once his purpose had been served. Murtagh never let anyone close enough for it to bother him, or so it seemed.
After having a third meeting with Galbatorix and receiving a veiled threat from the king's lips, Tornac decided he had to make this work or die. He spoke with anyone who had dealt with the child prior to his meeting him in order to figure out how he even came to be the way that he was.
"He is Morzan's son," commented a knight. "Of course he has his father's rage."
Most people said things of a similar nature.
"He was skittish, like a wild animal," said a woman who had tended to the boy when he first arrived in Urû'baen. "He used to cry for his mother every night, thought we were keeping her away. Tried telling him she was dead and he would just get angry."
Tornac continued following this path until he met the nursemaid who cared for Murtagh since birth. She lived in Urû'baen but avoided the royal courts, and she explained that Murtagh was the reason for her decision.
"Do not give him a sword," said the woman, heatedly. Tornac thought at first she considered the boy dangerous, but then she explained, "His father threw a sword at him once. Nearly let him die. Still has a scar on his back because we were not allowed to heal him proper. Morzan wanted him to suffer." At this, she took a drink of undiluted whisky. "The king will treat him no different. Boy is doomed to be his father because of it." Then she had another drink.
Tornac dwelled on his newly acquired knowledge, and his stomach twisted in anger. How old had Murtagh been when under his father's care? How old had he been when his father threw a sword at him? He had never heard of this and wondered if it was true. Nevertheless, he took it into consideration.
During his next training session with Murtagh, Tornac approached the boy, waved his hand and said, "Follow me."
Murtagh was irritated to have to put his book down, but he obeyed. At least he could get the boy to follow him around. Tornac led him out of the castle and into the city below. Murtagh was terribly confused but said absolutely nothing, and his eyes wandered every which way. Likely he did not get to leave the castle often. Tornac led him to an enormous building and ushered him inside.
Inside, rows upon rows of Alagaësia's largest collection of books and scrolls were housed on shelves within the library. Murtagh froze in the doorway and stared, and for the first time he looked appropriately his age—his eyes were wide with wonder.
"Select any two that you like," Tornac told him, folding his arms and leaning against the wall near the door. "I already received permission to take them back to the castle."
Murtagh blinked at him, and then along came the look of death. Tornac half expected the boy to tip over a bookshelf in rebellion. Finally, the child simply said, "No."
"Your loss," Tornac said without concern. He turned to the door. "Let's return to the castle."
"No," repeated Murtagh without moving.
"Which is it?" Tornac asked, and he set his hands on his sides, tapping the foot of his boot on the floor. "No to choosing a book or no to returning to the castle?"
"No," said the boy again, and he looked around the library in longing.
So Tornac had found a weakness. Selecting a book meant that Murtagh accepted Tornac's suggestion, and Murtagh knew that as well as he did. However, returning to the castle meant Murtagh did not get a book. He was torn, and so instead of doing anything, he stood and protested quietly.
"If it helps, it will be our secret," Tornac explained. "No one knows we are here."
Murtagh considered his options carefully, and then he turned slowly and went deeper into the library. Tornac felt the corners of his lips tug upwards, but he resisted a smile lest the boy notice and throw a fit to spite him. He kept an eye on him at all times, moving as needed, to ensure he did not lose the boy, and after nearly an hour, Murtagh returned with two thick, heavy volumes. The boy refused to make eye contact, but he clung to the books so tightly that Tornac was certain he was satisfied.
"Are you ready?" he asked.
Murtagh nodded, and so they returned to the castle training grounds.
Tornac sat on the elevated wood walkway, leaning against a post. He crossed his arms and his ankles and then said, "Well, what did you choose?" Murtagh remained at a distance and did not answer, and so he continued, "You and I both know we are not training with swords today. You may as well share with me what you have. I do tire of watching you read."
Of course Murtagh still wanted nothing to do with him, and the boy sat apart from him, in the dirt, and read his books quietly to himself until sunset. Then he took the books to his room, and no one heard from him for the rest of the night.
For the next several days, Murtagh read his books and Tornac allowed him to do so. Every now and again he attempted to read over the boy's shoulder, but Murtagh shied away from him and once tried to hit him with the book. Tornac threatened to take the books away, and Murtagh never did it again. When he finished with those books, Tornac brought him back to the library.
"Two more, if you like," Tornac told him, and he returned the first two books.
Now Murtagh did not hesitate. He went through the library and returned quickly with a large book and a dusty scroll bound by a leather band. Now that was an unusual choice. They returned to the training grounds, and Murtagh sat in the dirt as he always did while Tornac sat on the walkway.
"What is that scroll?" Tornac asked, and he was genuinely curious.
"A history of Alagaësia," Murtagh told him, and his immediate response nearly took the wind right out of Tornac's lungs. "Supposedly recorded by one of the first humans who settled here."
Tornac leaned against a post and folded his arms. "Read it to me."
Murtagh frowned as he unraveled the scroll. "You can read it yourself."
"Yes, but at present it is in your hands, and I am bored," he replied. "You have caused me many weeks of extreme tedium, and I think it only right and fair that you at least do something to alleviate it."
"You can leave," suggested Murtagh, scanning the scroll.
"And find myself in prison," Tornac responded with a laugh. "Or have you forgotten King Galbatorix assigned me to you?"
"I do not care," answered the boy.
"You should," Tornac chided him.
Murtagh looked up from the scroll and met eyes with him—really met eyes with him—for the first time. It was a strange look, as though the boy were noticing he was a human for the first time, and then he went back to his scroll. Thus ended their interaction for that day.
The following day, Murtagh met him at the training grounds with book and scroll in hand, and he handed Tornac the scroll before taking his place in the dirt. Tornac raised an eyebrow.
"I do not want to read it today," Murtagh informed him in passing, and he opened his book. "I do not believe the information is accurate anyhow. I am not interested in it anymore."
Tornac smiled, but Murtagh did not notice. Together, they sat and read for the remainder of the day.
After another few weeks of library trips and reading sessions, Tornac was called to meet with Galbatorix. He reported his progress as best he could while also telling the king that Murtagh had yet to hold a sword. Thinly veiled threats suddenly became assured promises. If Tornac did not break Murtagh soon, as the king so gently told him, he would be dragged behind a horse and then hanged.
His next meeting with Murtagh was difficult. He did not want to break this child. Certainly he had wanted to put Murtagh in his place in the beginning, to teach the boy respect, but now he understood why he rebelled. His father had been cruel, both of his parents were dead, he had been passed around as if a burden and people treated him poorly or used him for their own personal gain. Furthermore, the king demanded obedience from him and wanted him to take the place of his father whom he hated.
Murtagh had a full lifetime of trauma only within seven short years, so of course he lashed out.
Still, he had no choice but to try something. Tornac carefully thought out his plan, took Murtagh to the library as per their routine and then returned to the training grounds. Before the boy had a chance to settle down with his new reading material, Tornac pulled a bow off the wall.
"Today," he started. "I want to teach you something."
"No," Murtagh told him, and he sat in the dirt.
"I will not ask you to use a sword," Tornac explained. He took a quiver of arrows from a shelf and stepped out of the training hall. Murtagh's eyes flicked from the open page of the book up to him and then back down again. "However, I think this skill would be valuable to you. If ever anyone tried to harm you, you would be able to strike back from a distance—without allowing anyone close. Is that not more your style?"
Murtagh looked up, but he wore a frown.
"I can attest to your arm strength," Tornac continued, and now he could not help but smile. It was slight, but Murtagh's cheeks turned red. "I think archery would be a good fit for you." Setting down the quiver, he drew an arrow, aimed it and fired it across the training guard, striking a post on the other end. "I am not a skilled archer, but if you like it, I know someone who is. They can teach you the finer points once you understand the basics."
"What good is it?" Murtagh grumbled, setting his hand over the pages of the book. His expression was sad, nearly a pout. "I do not want to fight anyone."
"You think of weapons as tools to harm others," Tornac realized aloud, and Murtagh scowled at him. He went on to say, "They certainly can be. However, they are also a means to protect yourself and those important to you. And, of course, they are also a means to train your body and mind." Tapping the end of the bow against Murtagh's book, he said, "Keep your nose in a book and you will gain knowledge. Train your body and your mind and you will become wise."
"That makes no sense."
"No?" Tornac flapped a hand at him. "Let me show you."
To his surprise, Murtagh set the book down and rose. Tornac allowed the boy to hold the bow but took up position behind him, guiding his posture and his arms, pulling the bowstring and supporting the arrow—none of which he expected Murtagh to do.
"To fire an arrow, aside from physical strength, what do you suppose you need to do?"
"Aim," Murtagh stated without hesitation, and he was already displeased with his lesson. His eye wandered back to his book.
"Go ahead, then. Do as you think is right," Tornac suggested.
Murtagh sighed and shifted the arrow as best he could with Tornac's support, and then he—and Tornac—released the string. The bowstring snapped and startled the boy, and the arrow whizzed across the field and burrowed itself in the dirt.
"What were you aiming for?" Tornac asked, and Murtagh pointed at the post he had hit earlier. "Why did you miss?" To this, the boy simply shrugged. Tornac lifted another arrow and placed it in Murtagh's hand, then guided him in holding it again. Now he took charge and did even more of the work, and as he moved, he explained, "It is not merely a matter of looking and firing. One must consider things such as the type of bow and string—how strong it is—and the type of resistance your arrow will meet, how the wind will affect its course and how great the distance to your mark." Gently, he said, "This is a bow of low quality, so it will not fire easily. There is no wind, but there is much distance, and so I will aim up a little higher and—" Tornac fired the bow, and the arrow flew into the post.
Murtagh stared at the two arrows in the post, and then again he met eyes with Tornac.
"I want you to have access to knowledge, for it is a good thing," he said to the boy. "However, I want you to think. A mind that thirsts for understanding such as yours would be a poor thing to waste."
Murtagh thoughtfully took the bow from Tornac, pulling at the string to test its strength. His expression faltered, and again he looked like the sullen little brat Tornac knew well. He expected the bow to go flying. Yet Murtagh only said, "You say that because the king threatened you."
Clever boy, thought Tornac. Few people probably realized just how smart this boy was because he played it off as if he did not notice or care about anything. If he was not raging, he was disappearing in the background so as not to be noticed. But certainly was he astute and fully aware of what was going on around him, taking in and carefully processing every bit of information he could absorb. Tornac realized Murtagh had the potential to be very powerful—and dangerous.
"He did, but that is not why I speak the way I do," Tornac informed him. "I am a teacher, Murtagh. It has always been my responsibility to find weaknesses and strengths in my students in order to help them find balance and unlock their greatest potential. Most come to me willing to learn the skills of the sword and their strength lies in physical prowess. You, on the other hand, are adept in mind, and that is a rare strength indeed."
Turning the bow in his hand, Murtagh tested its weight. Hesitantly, he asked, "May I still visit the library?"
"Anytime you like," Tornac assured him. "However, when we return, I expect you to train your body. The books you may read in your leisure time, and you may keep them as long as you like until you want to exchange them for others."
Murtagh considered his options and then nodded. "Very well. I would like to learn what you can teach me."
Tornac smiled.