Not One of Us - Murtagh's Story
Chapter 2: Zar'roc
The three year old boy woke with a start as a loud noise erupted from the hallway. Yawning, he turned back to his side and pulled the thick blanket to his chin, closing his eyes. Loud noises echoed through the hall again. Now awake, Murtagh sat up, his short legs dangling off the side of the bed. He glanced out the window, but saw nothing but darkness. Who was out and about at this time of the night? The servants usually retreated to their quarters once he was put to bed. He smiled, pulled on the leggings he had worn the previous day and set out to investigate the noise, hoping that his mother had come to take him away. It had been months since he had last seen her. Still groggy with sleep, he walked barefooted on the cold stone floor towards the light coming from the Great Hall. Stepping into the torch light, he immediately regretted his decision.
The sound of breaking glass echoed through the room. Near the dais stood Morzan, his raven black hair disheveled and most of his shiny armor on the ground. The man looked half-crazed, swaying as he stood with his crimson sword in one hand and a dark green bottle in the other. Broken pieces of glass littered the floor of the dais. Murtagh backed towards the brick wall, hoping to get away unnoticed. As he took a second step back, his foot hit a table leg and a vase came crashing down to the floor.
Morzan immediately turned back, cursing. He threw the green bottle forcefully, narrowly missing Murtagh's head. The green glass exploded on the wall and clinked as it fell on the broken pieces of vase.
"Well look who it is. My son." Morzan laughed oddly, as though he was in pain. "Come to see the show?" Murtagh cringed as Morzan stumbled closer.
"A liability, that's what you are. Worse than useless. A waste of space, and a waste of wards," mumbled Morzan hatefully. "The only reason you're alive is because the King thought I would love you. As if anybody could." He laughed again, taking a swig out of one of the many bottles strewn around the Great Hall. "What do you have to say to that?"
Murtagh stared at Morzan wide-eyed, silent. The man frowned and became oddly still.
"I asked you a question. ANSWER ME!" Morzan's voice boomed through the hall, unnaturally loud. The broken pieces of glass rattled on the floor.
Murtagh swallowed hard, his throat dry. "M-mother loves me. She told me so," he whispered.
Morzan laughed even louder, Zar'roc's blade glistening in the torch light. "You stupid, stupid boy. You're probably the reason she left. No one can seem to find her." The laughter stopped as suddenly as it had started. "Get out of my face." Morzan's voice had become even and calm. Oddly, the calm voice evoked more fear in the boy than the shouts had.
Murtagh turned back quickly and started to run to the entrance. He had not quite reached it when a rustling sound ripped through the air behind him. A blunt object struck his back and he screamed as his breath was driven out of him. Falling to his knees, he swayed, his eyes blurry. He wondered what Morzan had thrown at him when he spotted Zar'roc on the ground beside him, the crimson blade looking liquid. Feeling weak, he dimly realized he could taste iron. He started to feel a sharp, throbbing pain in his back and fell forward to his stomach. Murtagh attempted to turn to his side, but his arm trembled so much that he quickly slumped back to the floor, his dark brown locks of hair sticking to his wet forehead and obscuring his vision further. His vision still blurry, he barely noticed Morzan crouching next to him, picking up Zar'roc and wiping the blade on his linen under-shirt.
"Should've done it years ago," Morzan mumbled as he stood up. His footsteps were soon out of earshot.
Murtagh lay still, his cheek on the cool stone. The rest of his body was oddly warm, and he could feel his heartbeat in his back. The pain grew steadily. Salt joined the taste of iron as tears silently mixed with the blood in his mouth. Murtagh unsuccessfully tried to move his fingers. I'm dying, he thought as he numbly stared at the flickering flame of the wall torch, his vision darkening. The boy closed his eyes, and quietly slipping into unconsciousness, he thought no more.
...
He screamed as soon as he regained consciousness. His back was on fire, as though it was being burned with hot blades. He was laying on his stomach on a blood-soaked cot. Hot tears spilled on his face.
"He's awake! You said he would sleep through this!" said an old woman frantically.
"I'm sorry, Janice. I am no trained magician, I can only do so much. Just keep applying the poultice."
The second voice came from a man with a hooked nose and a small, graying beard. Murtagh vaguely remembered having seen the man in the castle gardens, tending to the shrubbery. He let out a moan as the poultice touched his back. His entire body shook violently. The man approached him.
"You will be alright, I promise."
Murtagh was dimly aware of the man putting his hands close to his back, though careful not to touch it. He mumbled incomprehensively: "Letta du blödh, waíse heill. Letta du blödh, waíse heill. Letta du blödh, waíse heill."
The man sighed, seemingly tired, before crouching close to Murtagh's face. He rested his hands on his knees, a blue stone shining on one of his fingers.
"I will take away as much pain as I can. I can repair most of the damage inside your back, but since it was laid open by a Rider's sword, I cannot heal the wound entirely. You are in for a lengthy recovery. Once you have healed, the area around the scar may not regain feeling." The man paused and brushed the hair out of Murtagh's face. "You will not remember this when you wake. It is for the best."
The man rested his ring hand on Murtagh's forehead, and whispered "Vergat du verkr." Immediate relief swept through the boy as his pain receded. Looking strained, the man kept speaking in the strange language.
"Verkat eka, moi thornessa manin. Gánga eom slytha, stydja." The man's face blurred before his eyes, and Murtagh seemed unable to focus on him. The boy sighed and shut his eyes, drifting into a painless sleep.
Ancient language to English
Letta du blödh, waíse heill (Stop the blood, be healed)
Vergat du verkr (Forget the pain)
Verkat eka, moi thornessa manin (Forget me, change this memory)
Gánga eom slytha, stydja (Go to sleep, rest)