MURTAGH woke to the sound of earsplitting horn calls and strange howls in the tongue of the beyonders. He rose from his bed, ebony hair falling over his eyes as he did so.
He leaned over the side of his feather-filled mattress, groping around in complete darkness, until his hand curled around the familiar coolness of metal. He pulled a sword from underneath his bed and jumped to the stone floor, naked feet sending shivers of ice throughout his body.
He wore little clothing. His upper body was bare, revealing a twisting work of scars that snaked from the front of his chest to the backside of his lower back. He held the blade by the scabbard, a fine sheath fashioned from dark oak covered in ebony leather skin.
As he searched blindly in the darkness for more coverings, his room was suddenly invaded by a burst of light, while the sounds of horns and screams amplified, no door to muffle the bedlam.
Murtagh's eyes adjusted quickly. he squinted at his friend, who held the torch before Murtagh's pale face.
"Zidda, what's going on?" Murtagh asked as Zidda approached him. The fire colored his visage, illuminating eyes and accenting red hair. He followed Murtagh to his dresser, guiding him with light as he spoke.
"We're under attack. They came in the dark of night, after we retired... easily cut through our patrols and militias." Zidda said, dipping the makeshift beacon lower so Murtagh could see his clothing. He picked a thick wool raiment, and slid the clothing over a scarred body, then covering himself in a simple hooded cloak, which was deep brown in color.
He belted his sword to his waist as he left his room, Zidda in tow. They walked into a hallway of chaos as men in various states of dress rushed pass, each of them armed in an array of weapons. Spears, curved blades, and knives. He saw soldiers with bows across their backs, following the general direction of the massing defensive forces.
The spire halls sloped downward- and they were narrow. Murtagh frowned at the disarray while he moved. Zidda was close behind, his torch warming the back of Murtagh's head.
They rushed with the rest of Karem's infantry down the spire, Murtagh's bare feet scraping against the stone. He had forgotten to grab his boots. As they traveled downward, more horns flared, and voices were raised up in a defiant howl, but when Murtagh looked at the Beyonders he did not see any mouths opening. Only bright eyes, green with fear.
At the foot of the spire large twin doors separated them from the outside desert-they were open wide, and Murtagh saw that Karem was ahorse, directly ahead of them, riding back and forth before the spire, yelling threats to the ominous line of torches that were arranged in battle formation between faraway dunes. Murtagh knew what held the torches, despite the darkness that obscured the wielders.
It was an attacking army. Freed men, slavers, other kingdoms that finally mustered the strength to challenge Karem... it could be any of those, or a combination of all. The infantry poured from the tower and took up formation behind Karem, who, after one final insult, spat at the ground before him and stirred his horse backwards.
Zidda was breathing deeply by Murtagh as he took up his place on the line. He looked at his fellow men and felt a twinge of annoyance- none of them were well armored, as none had time to sufficiently equip themselves. Murtagh grinned at the thought as he wriggled his feet on the coarse sand.
The chill of night attacked before the invaders. Murtagh saw many men shivering and heard the chatter of teeth. Murtagh was glad he at least remembered to dress warmly as he watched a man enviously eying Karem as he re-formed with his cavalry, dressed in wool and steel. The torches beyond them, on the hilly dunes, moved then, slowly advancing.
He heard a harsh order seconds before the sound of arrows cut through the night air. They were absorbed by darkness, and Murtagh could not tell if they were effective or not judging by the advance of the torches.
"Who is attacking us?" He asked Zidda, who still held his own beacon.
The boy frowned and shrugged.
"Someone who was able to muster enough strength to-" He broke off as the torchlights in the darkness began to charge. He dropped his query and gripped his sword with two hands, moving backwards as spearmen pushed forward to the front of the line. Murtagh fell back with the other youths, and watched as a well-equipped man wielding a long wooden pike take his place. Murtagh heard barks of orders as Karem led his horsemen back as well, behind the line of spear-men that was being formed. Murtagh couldn't see the Lord's face, but he saw the light colors trailing from his shoulder- the colors of Karem's people. Bright grey, green, and red.
It was the first squeal that confused him. But then he heard another. And a third. And all of the sudden there was an explosion of noise, as the sound of pigs filled the air with terror.
Pigs were carrying the torches! Murtagh thought to himself as he saw a pig waddle into seeing distance, a dripping wax lamp wobbling on its back, tied to a thin stick that bent to its weight. There were hundreds of pigs, and once the pigs saw sight of the army, they turned and ran back into the darkness.
Murtagh didn't know who started laughing. It spread like fire- soon the sound of squealing was replaced by hearty roars of merriment. Murtagh didn't share in their joy however- something was amiss...
The night suddenly was filled with the cries of a dying man as a file of horse charged in on their left flank. Spearmen rushed to meet the enemy horsemen as the attackers felled Karem's mercenaries that they caught by surprise. Bows were aimed, orders called, and chase taken, but in the end, the mounted invaders evaporated into the night after their brief attack.
There was a moment of silence.
And then the cries from behind began. Murtagh turned, first seeing Zidda, who was wide-eyed with fear, then beyond him and other dusky faces as he saw a second charge occurring from the rear. Wails flushed the chilled draft of the night as Karem's men were cut down and killed. Murtagh then heard a horn bellow, and as he turned, he saw the first attackers returning: at the heels of a massive host of infantry. Stuck between the two foes, Murtagh and Zidda tried to find a place to stand their ground- but there was none. Confusion took Karem's army like flames take to dried wood. Murtagh raised his sword in defense, but there was none. He heard the sound of pounding hooves behind him, and when he revolved, he was met by the brute force of a metal-club like weapon. Before he lost consciousness , he heard the cries of the attackers.
"For the Varden!"
It was the howling wind that woke him. Murtagh started to rise, but found his wrists bound by thick cords of rope, and his head throbbed violently, sending ebbs of pain throughout his body. He lay back down on the hard floor, misery taking him.
It was dark.
He heard other men in the blackness, scared mutterings and slow, sad whimpers. He didn't dare look around, due to the pain in his head, but what was the point? They were blinded without light, and a foreboding sense seemed to cling to the cold air like bark to a tree.
What happened? He began to ask himself, but he quickly remembered. Karem was attacked.
By a group of people called the Varden.
He had heard of them before- Galbatorix's lords would often trouble the king with details of the Varden's exploits, but Galbatorix seemed unconcerned with them. They were in open rebellion to the realm that Galbatorix created, and it seemed that in the capital, a day didn't pass where the Varden wasn't mentioned. A small raid on a Imperial posting, or the betrayal of one of the lesser Houses of the realm to the Varden's cause.
He began to feel tense. He was nothing more than a prisoner, now, but if they discovered who he was...
He expelled that thought. Whatever happens, Murtagh knew he had to tread carefully, stay out of sight, and be compliant if he wanted to survive. He had lived in the harsh southlands for a handful of years, and he was not about to be killed as a prisoner from a battle that meant nothing to him.
An eruption of cries came from the room, and it was then that Murtagh realized who he was imprisoned with.
He was here with Children of the Spire. They were to be Karem's future soldiers, culled from the surrounding settlements and honed into warriors. Zidda was among them, the son of a northern merchant and his Beyonder slave. The revelation gave Murtagh a spark of hope- perhaps they weren't to be killed if they had separated the youths from the main force.
But it was still very possible that they would all be tried and executed. Armies have done even more horrific things in the past than butchering dozens of children and young men.
The sobbing continued, a gasping and gibbering cry that continued until a voice called for the crier to shut up. It was silent for a time, then, until suddenly a bright light filled the room. Murtagh's eyes were momentarily blinded as he felt a gush of air pass over him. He heard the rustling of movement, and orders being barked in the Beyonder's tongue and in the language of the North.
As his vision leveled he was able to see who was in the room with him in the dim light- Red haired beyonders, aging from eight to nearly twenty years of age, being lifted from their bindings by Western Alagaesians and dark skinned men who had the look of the Beyonders, but instead of bright red hair, they had long flowing locks as dark as raven's feathers.
"Get up," A voice commanded, gruffly, rough hands grasping his shoulders. As he was lifted, his head exploded in pain and Murtagh cried out, slumping in the man's grip and nearly falling back to the ground before being caught by the collar of his shirt.
"His head his wounded," He heard a voice say, and he recognized it as Zidda's. As his skull swam, he heard the conversation between his friend and one of the guards.
"You can speak Ulnar?" One of them asked.
"Yes, my father taught me when I was young, before he gave me away and returned to his lands."
"This one could prove useful. Bring him to the lords and to the king."
King? At first Murtagh thought they were talking about Galbatorix, but that was impossible. Another King? Pain and confusion found themselves as Murtagh was dragged from the cold room with the other boys. He was led down a hallway, the men holding him silent as their boots scraped across stone floor. The walls they passed were barren, but Murtagh could see that once they had carried great tapestries by the outline they had left behind. He was dragged ahead, and he saw the backs of men before him and could hear more at the rear. Escape would be neigh impossible in this fort, wherever he was.
They stopped before a pair of medium sized doors, hacked and scarred so that whatever picture they had worn was now nothing more than a series of violent slashes. The doors opened, and Murtagh, Zidda, and the Children of the Spire were led inside. The room was wide, not as large as Galbatorix's throne room, but big none the less. Naked walls lead to a simple throne, which was elevated from the main floor's level. On the throne sat a young man, no older than his mid twenties, and to his left and right sat other men and women, each one wearing fine clothing.
Knights baring colors of their House shared with a common sigil that all of them bore (Which Murtagh assumed was the sign of the Varden) stood at attendance, shining and brilliant.
One of the men that escorted them from the prison disengaged himself and approached the throne, and bowed.
"King Orrin, Son of the First Star and Lord of the Realm, Protector of the Sovereign March." The man said in a high and regal tone. King Orrin nodded, smiling.
"At ease, Ser. What is this you have brought me?" Orrin said.
The man stumbled for a moment, unaware of what to say. A woman leaned into Orrin's ear and whispered something, to which Orrin laughed and waved his hand.
"Ah yes, the captives. I had forgotten." This new King rose from his throne and stepped down to the main level. A dusky skinned youth took step in with him. The second man was tall and muscular, possessing a flared nose and thin lips. He was cleanly shaven, with long ebony hair that was cut on both sides of his head, leaving a swathe of it to grow and reach all the way down to his neck.
Orrin grinned at the prisoners, looking at each of them with genuine interest.
"I have never seen Beyonders of your kind. It is true what they say- your hair truly is bright red, like demons." He said to them. Silence was his answer.
"They cannot understand me," He laughed again. "Well, it is better that they do not know what I have just said, isn't it?" He turned back to the elevated throne and people that were sitting by the empty seat nodded in approval.
"Nasudan, please, translate my words to these...prospects." As Orrin spoke, he locked eyes with Murtagh. Murtagh looked away at once, but it was too late. The king had noticed him. Orrin stared at him for a long time, but then turned his gaze straight to the rest of the prisoners.
"I am King. The true King of Alagaesia." Orrin declared, and Nasudan spoke again, in the language of the Beyonders.
"You were once soldiers belonging to Karem. But he is no more. I understand that you were slaves, forced to fight for his banner, and by extension, Galbatorix. But today, I relinquish you of that duty. Most kings would kill you, but I am not unkind. You will fight for me, and when we reclaim the throne, I promise you lands and titles." Orrin grinned as Nasuadon translated his statement. Some of the boys showed visible relief, and many of them were even smiling.
"All you must do is bow to me, and your sins will be forgiven, under the eyes of a King and his Gods." Orrin said. After Nasuadon translated, boys bowed, Murtagh doing his best as well, despite the pain in his head. Hair covered his face as he knelt.
"Rise. From this day forth, you are men of the Varden." Orrin smiled and clapped, and suddenly there was an orchestra of applause, the sound hitting Murtagh's ears like a cruel drum. Pain rattled his head.
He gritted his teeth to keep from crying out. As the claps died down, Murtagh rose with the rest of the boys.
"It will be a hard war. Many of us will die. But we will win, I promise you. And this fine land, from the farthest northern holds to the deepest deserts will be ours!" Orrin cried, shouts of joy and praise took up the air in the throne room. The sound was too much. Murtagh gasped out in anguish, falling to the ground as his head felt like it was being split in two. His eyesight faded, but he was able to make out Orrin looking at him, a wry smile on his face.
He thinks this is funny. Murtagh thought, the last words he could conjure before his mind went blank in darkness.