Thorn and Misery - Chapter 8
Murtagh did not want to wake up. He was still in that blissful place just outside of sleep, the gloomy grey pre-dawn light already shining through the window and into his closed eyes. Usually he had no trouble rising with the dawn, but traces of the exhaustion that had hit him the night before were still present. He could not believe he had been so tired so early in the night, even after his healing.
Forcing his leaden eyelids to creak open, Murtagh roused himself and dressed. Reaching for his weapons, he found his sword and bow sitting on the weapons rack, but Drac'ner was nowhere to be found.
"Those idiot servants better not have lost it," he muttered angrily to himself.
He wandered over to the window and gazed outside, where he saw that the previous day's brutal storms had finally blown themselves out, leaving the meadow outside sparkling with the morning dew.
Thorn awoke and yawned widely, then hopped down off the bed and padded out the double doors to the meadow outside the suite. Murtagh followed, watching the young dragon raise his snout to the air and sniff.
I smell rain, he said, the corners of his mouth turning upwards in a dragonish grin. And food! Thorn shot off to the right, and there was a moment of silence before a terrified vole streaked out of her burrow. The dragon wasted no time in pouncing on the animal, not bothering to play with it as he had with the rabbit two days previously. Within seconds the vole had disappeared. Licking his chops, Thorn looked back to Murtagh, as though expecting praise.
"Yes, you did well," responded Murtagh with a smile.
Beautiful here, said Thorn suddenly, gazing around the pristine meadow.
"It is," agreed Murtagh, "but the world isn't all like this, I'm afraid." Eyeing the honeysuckle bush beside him, Murtagh spied a huge, buzzing hornet. "The city of Uru'baen, just down the road, is as disgusting as they come." Shooing the insect away, Murtagh knelt down and took some of the honeysuckle between his fingers. Crushing the little buds in his hand, he inhaled the sweet scent.
Why so different?
"I can't begin to tell you," Murtagh replied. "One would think that Galbatorix could mind both his charges, but humans, even kings, are rarely able to see the greater picture."
Life would be easier if all were as sensible as dragons, said Thorn.
Murtagh had to bite back a gasp. It was the longest phrase the dragon had yet uttered, and perhaps the most truthful. "That it would," he agreed with a small smile.
As the bell sounded half past the hour, Murtagh shouldered his bow and quiver and he and Thorn set off down the stone tunnel that connected his suite with the rest of the castle. Once he was back on a path he recognized, Murtagh had no trouble locating the archery yards. As a child, he had spent much of his time practicing there. There had never been any stuffy, arrogant nobles, only soldiers, who were content to let him go about his business. He had even shot against them on several occasions, winning competitions against hardy soldiers who were ten years his senior.
Galbatorix was waiting for him as they approached the archery yards. After the airiness of his suite, the indoor court felt close and stifling. "Excellent," said the king. "I see you brought your bow," he said. "As I told you last night, I wish to also test your skill in archery before we proceed."
"I would have brought my dagger also, but it was not in my room this morning."
"Ah, yes, that is because I have Drac'ner here." Galbatorix smirked at Murtagh's open-mouthed stare. He pulled the dagger out of a fold in his tunic and held it out to Murtagh, who reached for it.
"Ah, ah, ah, Murtagh." Galbatorix snatched the dagger back and Murtagh's hand closed around empty air. "You see Drac'ner belongs to me. It was stolen from me when you and your little traitor friend escaped." Drawing the dagger from its sheath, Galbatorix ran his long fingers up and down the blade, tracing Kialandi's symbol. "It's a shame really. Tornac showed such promise. Turns out he was working for the Varden all along. Who would have thought?"
Murtagh was stunned. He had known that Tornac had wanted to escape Galbatorix, just like he did, but he had no idea that he had been a spy.
"Surprised, Murtagh?" asked Gabatorix with another smirk. "A disappointment, but no matter, no matter. He is long dead anyway." Sliding Drac'ner into the sheath, Galbatorix continued. "I will find you another dagger, Murtagh. Drac'ner is rather special to me, that's all." He smiled, and said softly to himself, "Perhaps one day I will show you just how special."
Though Murtagh knew that there was nothing out of the ordinary about the dagger, he still felt stung at the loss. His warhorse, named for Tornac, was still in Tronjheim, where Murtagh had left him. Murtagh would never see the horse again. Now that Drac'ner was gone, he had nothing to remind him of his mentor.
Galbatorix ignored Murtagh's bewildered silence. "Come now, Murtagh, the past is the past. As I said, I will get you another dagger – a better one. Now, it is a beautiful day, and I still need to test your marksmanship."
Taking up his own bow, which was already strung, Galbatorix drew a raven-fletched arrow from his quiver and nocked it. Drawing the bowstring back almost to his ear, Galbatorix didn't even stop to aim as the bowstring twanged and the arrow whistled towards the target, a hundred paces away. The arrow buried itself in the centre of the palm-sized circle painted on its, still shaking slightly.
"String your bow and split my arrow."
Murtagh blanched. That was a shot he could make about one in five times. Though the target was well within the range of his powerful bow, to split an arrow meant hitting it at exactly the right point. It was a difficult shot even for him.
Nodding grimly, Murtagh took his horsehair bowstring from its leather coil, rubbing his yew bow to warm it up. Bracing the end of the bow against his foot, he pulled the grip back, sliding the string into the notch. Drawing one of his own arrows, he raised the bow took aim, letting everything but the target slide from his focus as the bow fell into position. The arrow shot forward, whistling like Galbatorix's had.
He knew even before he let go that he was going to make the shot. His alignment was perfect, the shot released with exactly the right amount of force. He smiled with satisfaction as his arrow hit the dead centre of Galbatorix's arrow, splitting it evenly down the middle and plunging deep into the cork target.
"Wonderful," exclaimed Galbatorix. "Why, Murtagh, your shooting is even better than your swordplay! However, I would like to see a little more before we proceed."
Galbatorix had Murtagh shoot from various stances and distances, with bows of various size and type. He tried shooting wooden and metal arrows, weighted at different points with rounds of lead. Murtagh even shot a flaming arrow.
After several hours of constant shooting, Murtagh's stomach was beginning to growl painfully. At first the work had distracted him, but now there could be no ignoring his ravenous hunger.
"You said there would be breakfast," said Murtagh, massaging his arm after a particularly difficult shot.
"What – oh! It completely slipped my mind. Here." Galbatorix snapped his fingers, and a servant appeared, carrying a large bowl of porridge sweetened with cream and honey and studded with fruit and nuts. It looked delicious.
Murtagh took a large spoonful, but spat it out almost immediately. "It's cold!" he exclaimed in disgust.
Galbatorix rounded on the servant. "Idiot! I told you to keep it warm until it was needed!"
"We're t-terribly sorry, your M-Majesty," stuttered the shaking servant. "It's been so l-long, we thought you d-d-didn't need – "
Galbatorix cut him off with a deadly glare. "Your incompetence is forgiven this time. Make sure it never happens again."
"Yes, y-your Majesty." The servant bowed low and retreated, sighing with relief.
"I apologize once again, Murtagh. Give it to me."
Murtagh handed over the porridge. With a soft murmur of, "Brisingr," a ball of white-hot flame ignited on Galbatorix's palm. He held it underneath the bowl until the food was heated through.
As Murtagh ate his breakfast, he asked, "When will I learn to do that?"
"Soon, Murtagh, very soon. Magic is perhaps the most important thing you are to learn here."
"That word you said, brisingr. It means 'fire' doesn't it?"
"Yes."
"I want to try."
Galbatorix's onyx eyes sparkled. "If you wish it."
Murtagh did not know exactly what to do. Like he did with shooting, he closed his mind to everything but the task at hand. Holding out his left palm, he whispered, "Brisingr."
The gedwey ignasia glowed faintly for a fraction of a second, and then there was nothing.
Again he tried. "Brisingr!" he said, louder this time.
Still nothing.
And then there was a spark, followed by a tiny wisp of flame. Murtagh was so surprised that he immediately lost control, and the tongue of fire winked out of existence. But he knew he had seen it. For the first time ever, he had done magic.
With a sense of elated triumph, he turned to Galbatorix.
"Yes, you did well." Galbatorix, mimicking what Murtagh had told Thorn not three hours before. "But now it is time to proceed back indoors, if you are finished eating. As I said, there is someone I would like you to meet."