Dragon Rider

Crash!

Murtagh's eyes snapped open. It took him a moment to realize where he was.

I must have fallen asleep, he realized. He still felt exhausted and he still hurt terribly from the torments he had endured, but he was altogether more rested than he had been in a long time.

After a moment he noticed that the egg no longer rested against his hand. Anxiously Murtagh examined what of his surrounding he could see, already missing the childish presence of the unhatched creature.

Then he saw it. Murtagh realized the loud crash that had woken him must have been the sound of the egg falling off the slab of stone. It lay a few feet away from him on the floor, shattered. Surrounded by the diamond-like shards lay a small, crimson dragon, licking off the membrane that encased it. His dragon! And it was beautiful.

Murtagh gasped softly when he saw it and the little creature raised its head to stare up at him. He couldn't help but laugh softly as it lost its balance for a moment and seemed to trip over its own legs. It reminded him of a newborn foal, tentatively taking the first steps on its still unstable legs.

The hatchling spread its wine-coloured wings, which couldn't have been much larger that Murtagh's hands, and gently flapped them a few times as if to dry them.

"Hey," Murtagh said softly, wishing he was able to turn his head. It hurt his eyes to stare down at it. "Hey there."

For a moment, the hatchling hesitated and Murtagh yelped in surprise as it suddenly leapt into the air, spread its small wings and landed on the slab, just below his hand.

Dragon and captive stared at each. Murtagh realized that it was just as interested in him as he was in it. Being a rider's son, Murtagh knew that dragons were intelligent creatures and that a dragon and rider could communicate, though how he didn't know.

Suddenly Murtagh was afraid. Ever since Tornac's death he had not really trusted anyone. The thought of being inseparably bonded with another being frightened him all the more as he didn't even have a choice in the matter. What will happen to both of us when the king comes back and finds that the dragon has hatched?

The hatchling stretched out its neck, which was lined with small, sharp spikes, and leaned forward slightly to examine him better with an innocent curiosity. A quiet hum came from its throat, somewhat like a cat's purr.

Some of Murtagh's trepidation vanished. "Hey there," he said again as if he were talking to a small child. "I guess you and I are friends, aren't we."

The dragon tilted its head slightly as it listened. Its tongue darted out a couple of times as it tasted the air. Murtagh smiled as it looked down and intently examined his hand which was strapped down right in front of it.

Then it lowered its head and pressed it into the palm of Murtagh's hand.

A shout echoed through the bare stone chamber and Murtagh had a vague idea that it was his own voice as a sudden current rushed through his entire being, like burning ice or frozen fire coursing through his veins from where the dragon had touched him.

His restraints kept him from jerking away and on the very edge of his mind Murtagh felt the dragon's presence more clearly than he had before.

A sudden terror gripped him as he heard the door open behind him. He closed his hand protectivly around the little creature. I can't let them take it, was the last clear thought he managed.

Then he passed out.

‡

Murtagh woke to find himself staring at the now all too familiar lines on the ceiling.

The egg was gone; the shards of what had been the egg were gone as was the small dragon.

A stray thought entered Murtagh's mind that it could all have been a dream. He quickly dismissed it. The shining silver mark on his hand, where the dragon had touched him, was enough proof for him to know that it had all been real.

Murtagh shuddered and yelled out in frustration at the empty room. He was alone again. It was impossible to tell the time – he didn't know how long he had been out – but his aching muscles and nagging thirst told him that it had been some time. The ungenerous meal he had had a while back had been far from satisfying and already he felt sick from hunger again.

What terrified him though, was the uncertainty of what came next. Whatever it was, it couldn't be good. What's going to happen to me, he wondered, and to my dragon? What is Galbatorix going to do to it? Murtagh started pulling on his restraints; futile as it was he had to try to help his dragon. He couldn't let anyone hurt it! He wouldn't!

He stopped, suddenly struck by how closely bonded he already felt to the little creature and by how protective he felt. We only just met, he realized.

The door opened.

Murtagh strained his eyes to see who was coming. He gasped softly when he saw the unpleasantly familiar shape of his torturer, then relaxed a bit when he saw the metal tray with another small meal on it.

This time the man fed him first before he let the prisoner up and pulled him to his feet.

Instead of strapping him back down to the slab once he emerged from the privy room, as he had last time, the man pulled him to the door.

Outside the Hall of the Soothsayer a group of three soldiers waited. Murtagh's heart started racing as he was pushed to his knees, his hands were secured behind his back and a blindfold tightened around his head. He was roughly pulled back to his feet and shoved forward. The fact that all this seemed so menacingly similar to when he had first arrived back in Urû'baen after his time with the Twins only served to unnerve him even more.

Murtagh didn't know how long he had been stumbling in the dark, his wounds burning every time he took a step, when he heard a large door swinging open just ahead. They passed through it and Murtagh could tell from the echoes of their footsteps that they were no longer walking through the narrow corridors, but in a large, stone hall.

Then one of the guards struck him across the back of his head with the hilt of his sword and with such force that Murtagh stumbled forward and onto his knees. He bared his teeth in an attempt to keep quiet as a searing pain exploded in his head.

Someone pulled off his blindfold and Murtagh winced as a bright light flooded into the previous darkness. He found himself in the throne room, looking right up at the king.

"Congratulations, Murtagh son of Morzan." Galbatorix smiled down from his throne. "I hereby welcome you into the ancient order of the Dragon Riders." The king turned his head to the side. "What do you think of the newest rider, Shruikan? Don't you think he'll make a great asset?"

Murtagh gasped as the great black dragon shifted his massive wings and a deep, loud growl echoed around the room. He had seen Shruikan only twice before and each time the dragon's colossal size had frightened him. It was no different now.

Galbatorix turned back to the prisoner. "Rise."

Murtagh wearily obeyed.

"I knew you could not have been a total waste of time and effort. Your upbringing and schooling could not have been all for naught. All there is left to do is for you to give me your oath of fealty in the ancient language, Murtagh, Dragon Rider, and then we can proceed with your training in all the arts and knowledge that title entails. "The King spread his arms in a welcoming gesture. "I'm convinced you'll prove to be a most apt student and a valuable tool as I labor to accomplish the final stages of my glorious plan for Alagaësia. After all, it is in your blood."

Murtagh didn't respond. This is it. The thought came as a shock, even though he had known it would come and had thought, in the Hall of the Soothsayer, about what his answer would be. I'm not ready to make this decision, he realized as he continued to study the marble tiles on the floor.

"You don't have a choice," Galbatorix said as if he had heard Murtagh. "You will bow down to me eventually, whether you want it or not." His voice acquired a dark, threatening undertone. "You will break, Murtagh, I promise you that. There is no escape; not this time. Your servant – what was his name? Ah, yes – Tornac is dead. There is no one to help you, nowhere for you to run." He stood up, a menacing figure as he took a few steps toward the captive. "Even the strongest will can be broken, boy, yours included. You might as well give in now and spare yourself a lot of pain." Now he stood on the steps just above his prisoner. "What will it be? You're oath of obedience or the alternative?"

Murtagh had raised his head, at the mention of his friend. He heard Tornac's voice in his mind, loud and clear, saying what he had told Murtagh so often: "You are who you decide to be. Hold fast to that and no matter what life throws at you, you will get through it with your head held high, standing on your own two feet, undefeated." Then he relived Tornac's last moments and the last advice his friend, his foster parent if ever he had one, had given him. "Be strong, Murtagh, and don't give in. Don't become a person like your father was. You are better than that. I know you are." Murtagh held the king's piercing gaze. He's wrong, he thought, I do have a choice. I may not fully know who I am, but I know who I'm not, and I am not my father. I never will be!

Galbatorix's eyes narrowed. "What will it be, Son of Morzan," he repeated. "Do I have your word?"

Murtagh didn't allow himself to dwell on the implications of his answer. He straightened up and in a clear, strong voice answered. "Never."