AN: Wow, behold I added to this story! I very much intended to keep this as a oneshot and yet here I am. Sometimes you just feel like writing, and felt as if this story wouldn't let me go. This chapter is light on sexual content however there will likely be more of that in the future. I don't currently have a schedule for updates so I'll just be posting as I write, but I hope that those of you who enjoyed the first chapter will enjoy the rest. So hop on the MurtaghxOC train because this story is going places!


Chapter 2: A Brisk Young Sailor Courted Me

There is a man on yonder hill,
He has a heart as hard as steel,
He has two hearts instead of one,
He'll be a rogue when I am gone.

The clatter of armor and the swish of the tent flap awakened Murtagh in the grey hours of the morning. Sleep fled from the edges of his consciousness as his hand closed on the hilt of the dagger that lay beneath the pillows. Beside him Yasha stirred but did not wake.

"Sir." It was merely a guard, the red sigil on his uniform dull in the dim light. "I have urgent news from General Barst."

Murtagh released the hilt of the dagger. "A moment."

In his mind Thorn's consciousness flickered into wakefulness. It must be important for Barst to call so early.

Indeed.

He slipped from the bed in the semi twilight. The air was cool and crisp, a hint that winter would soon come. Quickly he dressed, retrieving his clothes from the floor where he'd so carelessly discarded them the night before. With deft movements Murtagh belted on the hand and a half sword that he carried always. Its weight at his hip was a comfort. Finally he drew the dark folds of his cloak around his shoulders.

Before drawing aside the entrance flap he cast a glance back at soft furs of the bed. Yasha lay still. Her hair fanned around her sleeping face like a dark pool and her lips were quirked upwards at whatever dream she wandered in.

Outside the guard was waiting. The man saluted as Murtagh emerged.

"What is so urgent that you needed to wake me at this hour?" Murtagh demanded.

"General Barst's men have captured a Varden soldier Sir. They're interrogating him now."

"Where?"

"By the eastern command post."

Murtagh's fingers itched. "You will remain here."

"Yes Sir."

The walk through the darkened camp was not a long one. The moon was still up in the northwestern sky, painting the tents in its silvery light. A cold mist hung to hollows and low ground but it appeared that the rain had passed for the time being. Once or twice Murtagh passed by a soldier—sentries hurrying to and from their posts—but they paid him little head except to give him a wide berth.

He arrived at Barst's tent to find that a full guard had been mustered outside. From within he could hear the gurgling of a dying man.

"Who goes there?" The guard's lowered their pikes, only to lift them once more when they caught sight of Murtagh's face.

Within the tent Barst sat in a magnificently carved chair, the heavily mustached Lord Carsten sweating visibly at his shoulder. A few others had a assembled, commanders, a captain who's name Murtagh had yet to learn, and Barst's own Master of the Rack.

They were all of them regarding a man who quaked upon the rush mats. A young man, Murtagh guessed that he could be no older than twenty five, though it was hard now to tell through the blood and muck. His hair had once been blonde, but now it was tinged russet. He screamed as the Master of the Rack pressed a heated iron against his forearm.

"Enough!" Barst rose as Murtagh stepped forward. "Lord Murtagh, at last." He gave a short bow though his words dripped with scorn.

Murtagh looked to the quaking man on the floor. "What is the meaning of this?"

"A varden captain. Lord Carsten's men captured him late last night."

"You should have sent for me immediately?" Anger prickled at the tips of Murtagh's fingers. Did Barst think himself so high?

"It seemed hardly necessary, and we had word that you were otherwise occupied."

"I am the King's direct representative. IF you keep things from me you are keeping them from the king."

Barst dipped his head again. "We all serve at the pleasure of his majesty."

"Why have you summoned me now?"

"We have need of your…talents. Despite out best efforts," Barst gestured to his torturer with his many instruments, "we have yet to procure any useful information."

"Why not call the Twins?"

"They have their own concerns."

That is his way of saying that they refused his summons. Thorn snorted.

If only we could do the same. Murtagh might serve with the army at the leisure of the King, but Barst was still the commanding General, and he wrote his own reports to Galbatorix. It would be no pleasant thing if he penned down that the new dragon rider was being less that cooperative. Murtagh shivered at the thought.

"Fine."

Murtagh looked down at the wreck that had once been a man and took his face in his hands. The man looked back with wide terrified eyes.

"I won't tell you anything."

"You're bravery is admirable."

The Varden soldier had placed rudimentary barriers around his mind but Murtagh's mental ray cut through them like a hot knife through butter. On the pavilion floor the man convulsed, his eyes rolling back in his head. The feeling of control, it was equal parts thrilling and disgusting.

Memories flickered past, vivid as real life. There was a house by the sea, a woman with red curls, a dog that snapped on the end of its rope. Murtagh pushed past these, searching for images of the Varden, for anything that might be of use. He saw rows of tents, the sun pounding down on the white walls of a city, a woman with dark skin that could only be Nasuada—Murtagh felt something in his chest clench at that memory—and finally recollections of a company of men camped beneath the cover of treas. Like emerging from deep water Murtagh withdrew from the man's mind. The varden soldier gasped and grew silent upon the ground.

"The varden have a company thirty leagues to the south, some sixty strong. They're planning to raid our supply lines and ambush our riding parties."

"Is that all? No other plans."

"He was not highly ranked, he nothing of the Varden's plans."

"Pity."

Lord Castren drew forward to peer at the unconscious man. "What shall we do with him now?"

"He's a traitor to the empire." Barst decreed, " Lord Murtagh, tell me, what is the King's penalty for treachery?"

Murtagh squared his jaw. "Death."

"Well then, you may do the honors. I believe you have a sword already?"

"In here?" Murtagh glanced around a the rich furnishing of commanders pavilion.

Barst shrugged, "We'll have to replace the carpets in any case."

You shouldn't have to do this. Thorn hissed. You are not their butcher.

Murtagh unsheathed his sword and it gleamed dully in the light from the torches. Two of Barst's men came forward to lift up the Varden captive, who was just beginning to wake in groggy confusion.

Do I have a choice? At least I will make it quick. I owe him that much.


Yasha woke in a tangle of sheets to find that Lord Murtagh was gone and sunlight was filtering through the canvas of the tent. It was well past sunrise. Vestiges of dream still clung to her mind as she shifted in the great bed. What a pleasant dream it had been. She had sat beside a low fire running the bone white comb through dark locks of hair, a song humming on her lips.

It had felt like home.

Groaning Yasha pushed herself up. The tent was much the same as it had appeared the night before: the brazier, the paper strewn desk, the low camp chairs. The only recent addition was a small platter of fruit, bread, and meat resting on the little low table.

She slipped from beneath the fur and silk. The thick carpet was rough with wear beneath her feet.

There was no sign of the Dragon Lord. Even Murtagh's clothes had been removed while her own lay in a crumpled heap beside the bed. Yasha dusted of the garments and slipped them on, shielding herself from the cool bite of the autumn air. A small hand mirror rested atop one of the traveling trunks and she hefted it, painfully aware that the polished silver was likely the richest thing she'd ever held in her hand.

Her reflection stared back, wide eyed and even wilder haired. She moved the mirror lower and yelped to see that a line of purple marks had flared across the skin of her neck and clavicle. The low neck line on her dress did little to hide them.

She offered up a quiet prayer to her gods that they would not judge her too harshly for her actions of the last night.

A rustle came from the doorway and Yasha rounded to see a man dressed in Lord Murtagh's personal livery standing in the entryway. Quickly she tried to smooth her hair down over the marks but from the small smile that quirked at the corner of the man's mouth she guessed he had already seen.

"Mistress." He gave her a little bow which she returned in kind.

"Soldier."

"Gideon, if it pleases." The man's hair was cheery gold that reminded Yasha painfully of her little brother, "I have a message from Lord Murtagh. He says he had urgent business and that yer to wait here for him." The man—Gideon—definitely smirked at that.

"Thank you. Did he say when he'd be back."

The man shrugged. "Not a clue mistress."

"Yasha."

He shrugged again. "As you say." The tent flab swished behind him as he left, leaving her once more alone.

Yasha frowned. Did Murtagh expect her to wait on his leisure all day? That she had spent the night in his tent hardly made her his property, to order as he pleased. Still she remembered the stories she'd heard whispered around campfires of the ruthlessness of the Dragon Lord. It would not do anger him by disregarding his wishes.

She took a pear from the platter a food and settled at the little desk, consigned to wait for Murtagh's return.

Books and scrolls littered the desk. Words that made no sense to her untrained eyes stood out in spikey rows across the pages. A few of the books had ink drawings in them and Yasha amused herself by looking at them. One was of a army, the little pikes marching down the parchment, another of a scaled beast that could only be a dragon, and finally a man in armor with a little ink crown resting upon his brow. The back of her neck tingled as she started down at the little illustration. Yasha wished she was able to read the words that danced beneath the images so that she might make sense of them.

Boredom soon lured her to the tent's entrance. Outside three guards squatted by a low fire tossing a dice and laughing. One of them—a dark haired man who sat beside Gideon—looked over and let out a low appreciative whistle.

"Mistress Yasha." Gideon hailed her and gestured to his companions. All three wore Murtagh's livery. "This is Darren and Joss."

"Well met."

She squatted down to warm her hands. Her breath rose in a little puff of white and though it was already near midday frost still clung to the mud in places where it had not been disturbed.

"General Barst had need of him." The dark haired soldier, Darren, spoke.

"Who knows what Morzan's Spawn does, or where he goes." The third man, Joss—whose cheeks were ruddy—made a gesture as if to ward off evil.

"Morzan?" The name seemed half remembered, like something she'd once heard as a child.

Darren scowled. "Aye, he's Morzan's bastard ain't he? But our good King's gone and made him a little lord and we get to lick his boots."

"Hmm."

"Where'd he find you then?" Darren was peering at her, "Don't reckon I've seen you round the whore's tents before."

Yasha felt her cheeks color shamefully, but before she had a chance to retort Gideon cuffed him on the back of the head. "Ach, she's too pretty to whore for the likes of you."

"Apologies mistress." Darren rubbed his head vigorously and scowled at his companion. "What brings you to the army then?"

"I'm traveling south." Yasha acknowledged. The army was a good a way to travel as any, they had supply wagons to ride in and warm fires at night.

"Whatever for?"

"Looking for work I suppose." She'd fostered hopes of finding employment as a singer in one of the great southern cities, or else of entering into a great house as hired help.

"Recon there'd be more in the North than the South right now. They've escaped the war so far at any rate." Joss poked at the fire with a stick.

Yasha shrugged. "Maybe, but the last few winters hit the North hard, and I much fancy marrying a trapper and tanning hides for the rest of my life."

"Fair enough."

They sat for a few minutes in companionable silence. At length Joss pulled out a little carved flute and trilled the first few notes of a song. Yasha exclaimed aloud for the song was familiar to her. The word's flowed from her mouth, and soon Darren and Gideon had joined in. A bawdy song, best suited to taverns and drunkenness it told of a young women who was courted by a rouge of a sailor.

They were halfway through the second verse when a shadow slid over their party. The words died on Yasha's lips and Joss's flute wavered into silence. Murtagh was looking down at the four of them with a scowl on his face. She noted the dried blood that clung to his hands and sleeves of his tunic.

At once the three guardsmen snapped into hasty salutes. Yasha rose more slowly, shaking dirt from her skirts and inclined her head to him.

"Mistress, may I have a word."

"Yes, of course."

She followed him back into the privacy of the tent. Once they were well out of sight he turned to her. There was a dark anger in his grey eyes. "You would do well not to act so familiar with my men."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I do not like to share what is mine."

"I am not your slave m'lord." She saw him visibly stiffen at the use of the formal title.

"Of course not, however, as my mistress I had hoped you would show more discretion."

Yasha's eyes went wide. "You're mistress?"

"Unless you would prefer otherwise? But you don't seem the type of woman to sell herself for a single night to me. In any case it would be a waste."

"I-I, What would be expected of me, as your mistress?"

"Apart from sharing my bed?" she nodded, "You would pour my wine, entertain me in the evening, keep conversation. I am often busy during the days and when we are marching, so I doubt you would see me often during those times. However, I assure you that you will be both safe and comfortable here."

"Is that all?"

"You're loyalty and discretion would also be required."

"And what of you? You order me to remain loyal, can I expect the same regard?"

"I see no reason to seek company elsewhere."

"Very well."

"You accept then?"

She dipped her head. "I accept, after all I am shamed already."

Murtagh stood taking her hand and brushing his lips to the back of it.

"I do not mean for you to be shamed."

There was nothing particularly intimate about the gesture, none more so than any man might greet a women. He was aware, and so was she that this was at its essence a bargain, a business deal made over her own skin. Yet it was his eyes that lent their pact a sense of both gravity and desire. Her stomach fluttered uneasily at the thought.

"And yet so it is." Yasha shrugged, "its little matter. We are at war, this is not the time for soft hearts and virtue."

But what happens when you tire of me? Will you cast me aside to ruin? Yasha wondered. But then she'd been ruined from the moment she'd entered the commanders' pavilion, one way or another. We are at war, we all do what we must.

Murtagh turned his back to her and crossed to where a small pitcher and wash basin had been set out. He set about washing the dried blood from his forearms, tinging the water with the color of gore. The sight of it drew Yasha's eyes and she found herself unable to look away.

"May I ask, why are you covered in blood?"

"Not mine."

"Whose then?"

He fixed her with stony eyes for a moment. "Does it matter?"

"I suppose not."

Her turned away from her, rinsing the gore from his hands in the water basin that had been laid out. His hands he dried on the front of his tunic. "If you must know we captured a varden scout."

"Did you kill him?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

With rough movements he set the basin aside and dried his hands on a strip of linen.

"He was a traitor to the empire. Traitors must be punished." The tone in his voice told her that the topic was closed for discussion.


The rains that had kept the army trapped for so long were finally lifting. Murtagh could see patches of blue amid the dull grey of the clouds and in places the sun shone down in little bursts.

He sat beside the ruby dragon on a patch of grass—one of the few that had not been overcome by mud and horses. He leaned against the dragon's warm side and fiddled with the pommel of his sword.

Will we go south soon? Thorn's thoughts thrummed like a deep chord.

It appears so. Already Barst had called for the baggage train to begin assembling and the camp had come alive in a sudden whirr of activity.

Murtagh watched as soldiers passed to and fro in their black livery. He kept replaying what he had seen in the Varden scout's mind. The confused mass of memories, the fear, and of course the wild rush of control Murtagh had felt when he had subdued the scout's consciousness.

I do not see why it troubles you so. Thorn snorted, little tendrils of smoke rising from his nostrils. We share our minds all the time.

Yes, but voluntarily.

We are fighting a war little dragon. Not all the things we must do will be easy.

A man's mind should be his sanctuary. By invading it how am I any better than the King?

Thorn snarled, startling a passing soldier. You are nothing like that tongue twisted mad man.

Am I not?

The king invades minds because he can, you do because you must.

Murtagh frowned and continued to pick at the sword hilt. I'll be glad when this damn war is over.

So will I, but until that day comes we must harden out hearts.

Thorn's words echoed what Yasha had said, that war was no time for passion or virtue. She may be a peasant girl from nowhere but Murtagh supposed that she too had her own sort of small wisdom.

A small rumble rose as if unbidden from the dragon's throat. We still need to talk about that.

You don't approve?

The king watches us closely little dragon. You put her at great risk by keeping her close to you.

I will take your concern into account.

Thorn snorted again and this time a great tongue of fire shot from his nostrils, scorching the grass. Yet Murtagh had the distinct impression that the dragon was laughing at him. By which you mean you shall do exactly as you please.

Nonsense, I take your advice very seriously.

Thorn turned to fix him with one glittering ruby eye. Lie to others all you want little dragon but you can never fool me. You are reckless.

And you are timid.

We are a balance, then. As it should be.

Murtagh cast his head back and his eyes upward to the blue, blue sky. The last of the clouds chased each other in the breeze before dissipating into trails of vapor. As it should be.


Murtagh returned late that night, as he had warned her he often might. Yasha had been dozing by the fire but she woke as he brushed through the entrance flap. She rose, pulling the cloth of her shawl closer about herself, as he sat on the edge of the bed and began unlacing his boots. The cast of his shoulders was tense.

"Wine?"

He glanced up at her and she thought he looked tired. "Yes, thank you."

Yasha poured a goblet from the decanter that had been set out and slipped it into his fingers. She settled beside him on the furs, one hand resting like a pale spider against the dark fabric of thigh.

"Are you troubled?"

"We will begin the march south tomorrow." Murtagh swirled the liquid in the goblet and did not meet her eyes. Whatever it was that troubled him he clearly had no desire to discuss it with her.

"That is good knews then?"

"Indeed, we need to be south before the snow comes."

"Does it snow in the southern lands?"

"Some, though not nearly as heavily. And there is none at all on the Hadarac."

"The Hadarac?" The word tasted foreign on her tounge.

"A great desert, sand as far as the eye can see."

Yasha tried to picture such a thing: a world of heat and sand that had never known the white blanket of snow. It did not seem conceivable. "I would like to see that."

Murtagh snorted and Yasha half though she saw the glimpse of a smile on his lips. "You're very strange Mistress."

"And you are not?"

"Am I?"

"Yes." Yasha took in his face, the face of the man they called The Dragon Knight, who they say slaughtered the kings enemies. He looked too young. "I think you carry too many ghosts for your age."

His eyebrows drew together, his momentary mirth forgotten, "You are too bold."

Yasha laughed. "You've said as much, but I only speak the truth."

"You would not last a minute in the King's court."

"No." Yasha agreed, "But then I'm just a peasant."

Murtagh captured her face in his hands, titling it so she looked up at him. He kissed her, none too gently, teeth scraping against her lips. One of his hands tangled in her skirt, drawing it up about her waist. When he touched her Yasha's breath hitched in her throat. He smelled of smoke, leather, and the faint metallic tang of blood.

"Come then peasant girl, make me forget about today."


I hope that this chapter will be as pleasantly recieved as the original was, and I look forward to any input you all may have. It's a joy to return to the Inheritace fandom again :) спасибо