Murtagh stared at his mother's cold, pale form. Only a slight twitch in his jaw betrayed his emotions: he was well trained. He watched her face, as the color was drained and it turned white. Murtagh feared she was dead. A tear almost escaped down his cheek but he shook his head to rid his eyes of it. Morzan stood by him, looking down at his wife with a mixture of loathing and indifference.
"Alrigh' come on boy." Morzan made to leave the room, but Murtagh did not move. "Did you hear what I said?" snarled the man he so grudgingly called father. Morzan grabbed him by his hair, and half dragged, half yanked him out of the room; Murtagh screamed in protest all the way down the hall. Morzan walked out of the doorway of the castle in which they lived, meanwhile dragging the howling child along. As soon as they had gained open air, he threw Murtagh heavily in the mud. "Get up!" shouted Morzan, kicking Murtagh in the chest, so he flipped on his back. "UP!" he roared, jabbing the heal of his boot into Murtagh's stomach. Murtagh quickly rolled on his side to keep from choking as blood spurted into his mouth. He spat it quickly out, and then clutched his stomach. Morzan looked at him with that same look of loathing he had so lately given Murtagh's mother, and Murtagh looked up at him with hatred. "You're weak," observed Morzan, with something between a sneer and a grimace, "just like your er, late mother." This was too much for Murtagh. With a wild cry he lunged at his father, who laughed and sent him tumbling backwards by magic. Morzan did not stop there, slowly, he drew his sword. Murtagh was unprepared, as Morzan threw the blade towards Murtagh renting his flesh and sending spasms of agony throughout his body. He screamed, and collapsed limply on the ground. Morzan looked at him for a moment, then went and picked up his sword. Before stumbling back inside, he wiped the blade clean on, what he thought, was his dead son's tunic.