I do not own The Inheritance Cycle.
A short story- enjoy,


The Thief

Morzan tucked a warm loft of bread into his dirt stained shirt, thinking that it was probably time he left the market. He sauntered out from the brightly colored building and walked at a good pace down the streets willing himself to blend into the crowd, when an angry cry came from the cloisters behind him. He started, and looked around wildly for means of escape.
He a good for nothing thief, he is, they say.

Turning his head violently, Morzan catches a glimpse of two very large men in a long light blue tunic and shining white chainmail running swiftly towards him. There was no quick way out this market in this swarm of people. He assessed his chances, cursing and decided that he had no other choice then to stand his ground. Things would only be worse if he tried to run now.
One of these days he's going to be marked for what he is, they say.

When one of the guards reached him, panting hard with exertion and anger, he drew back his hand to cuff Morzan across his head. The boy filched and steeled himself for the blow, but the man stopped with his hand still high in the air and muttered a curse in a low voice.
He has devil-eyes, they say.

The guard gave Morzan an odious look, and then grabbed him by his earlobe and pulled him through the crowd. Morzan focused on not falling over and losing the loft he stole. He was propelled swiftly through the streets. The crowd of people parted, giving the guard space to walk unchallenged, Morzan caught glimpses of the faces of adults, who looked at him in disapproval.
There he goes again, they say.

Morzan was marched humiliatingly through the streets until they reached the baker's stall. In an exchange of angry words and a horrible condemn the guard left the boy to the mercy of the baker. The baker barked at him angrily, but Morzan ignored him, the bakerwas only wasting both his and Morzan's time. Morzan tried to offer the bread back but the baker would not have it. Instead he grabbed his hand roughly and shouted at him, but Morzan only blinked the words away.
He never listens to the words of warning, they say.

Morzan did not know what happened next, it was only a swirl of confusing colors and pain and running. Running as far as his legs could take him. Running until he could run no more, his hand throbbing painfully, until he had to stop. Morzan ducked behind a crate and leaned back into its rough surface. The crate's surface scratched at his hair and neck. Carefully, he looked down at the place where pain in hand was at its worse and gasped in shock.
A price must be paid, they say.

Morzan cuddled the remainder of his bloodied finger close to his chest. It had begun throb so greatly it made him dizzy. He squeezed it tighter, willing the pain to go away. It didn't.
Fingers are required for thievery, without them no further thief shall transpire, they say.

His now bloodied stump for a finger marked him for what he was: a scoundrel, a thief. Most people in his town knew this but now they could see it as well. This didn't trouble him, not too much that is. The majority of humans marked him as just that since the moment he was born and because of the evil rumors that surrounded his existence since his mother's passing.
He is some evil spirit's offspring, they say.

Morzan scowled at a scrawny rat as it scattered by and voyaged into the bustling street. The rodent mindlessly scampered in front of a heavy laden cart and, even though the critter succeeded to avoid both the mule and the first wheel of the cart, Morzan knew it was damned. Morzan watched as the grey rat struggled to scamper away only to be squished by the second thickset wooden wheel. The wheel hit the diminutive, soft body of the rat with a soft clump and the cart rode away without a care. Morzan watched the rat struggle to move away before it went eternally still.
His eyes see only wickedness, they say.

Morzan looked away from the carcass and instead at the people passing in the street. A small group of daughters chattered gleefully pointing at silks and jewels while their mother trailed in front of them with a babe on her hip; an old man with leathered skin roaring about his goods to those who were unlucky enough to pass by him; a dirtied child cried as his caretaker dragged him onwards; a unit of plump guards nattered outside a pitiful excuse of a pub. Morzan turned away from the guards, willing them to not look his way, and joined the crowd in the streets.
He will always be on the run from the law, they say.

The tip where the cruel shopkeeper chopped off the top half of his finger burned and ached. It was truly beginning to bother him. He clenched it closer to him. Morzan wished he had the funds to see a healer because if the bleeding did not slow soon he would be in heaps of trouble.
Difficulties are all that boy ever creates, they say.

Morzan walked aimlessly around the small urban until he reached the filthy street where his home stood crookedly, all the while he was careful not to step on any glass or shards with his bare feet. He knew that one misstep could mean a whole new kind of misery and Morzan could not handle any more pain that day.
I try to shield my children from his screams at night, they say.

Morzan took a deep breath and walked around the house to an open window. He listened but heard nothing, he never heard anything anymore. He quietly crawled through the opening and ducked behind the single chair that sat by the emptied grate. He placed his head in hands and weep tearlessly.
I'm sickened because of this misery, Morzan thought.


A/N: In the darks ages, when a thief was caught a finger would be cut off. I thought this fit for Morzan with him missing the tip of one of fingers. After all he couldn't have had an easy life before he became a Dragon Rider and turned evil, started killing people and everything. I have more ideas for him and his childhood, that I will someday write, maybe.