Thorn and Misery -Chapter 13
The next two weeks passed in a flood of fascinating new learning. Murtagh spent his days training in the magical arts with Galbatorix, sometimes in the company of Thorn and Shruikan, in the field that was becoming Murtagh's practice arena. Rocks of various sizes sat in small piles all around, the remnants of Murtagh's attempts at the spell 'stenr reisa.' Bales of hay, used for target practice, were spaced out at even intervals further down the field. Several of them were blackened, the result of a fireball that had slipped from Murtagh's control. Others were peppered with small holes, as if they had been attacked with crossbow bolts. It was not man-made weapons that had caused these wounds. It had been Murtagh, driving pebbles through the hay bales at lethal speeds.
The work left Murtagh bone-weary, too tired even to dream. It was all he could do to curl up beside Thorn each night and hope to get enough sleep to last him through the next day. Thorn learned about flying and aerial combat from Shruikan, and he was usually even more exhausted than Murtagh when they met in the meadow after their training.
Murtagh was growing steadily more proficient at magic and its many applications. The work came naturally to him, and he was astounded at how simple it was if one knew what he was doing.
He had quickly realized that it was his intent, and not the words themselves, that controlled the flow of magic. Even a word as basic as 'letta,' when aimed directly at the heart, could drop an enemy like a stone quicker than any arrow. It was a technique that required pinpoint accuracy but little physical strength.
Though his vocabulary was gradually increasing, the result of the reading he did whenever he could find the time, Murtagh found that he preferred the use of simple words in his spells. There was less of a margin for error when using a single word rather than a long, complex phrase.
Murtagh relished the power that magic offered him. The feeling of truly manipulating matter and energy, rather than using potions or other magical objects as he had seen done by lesser magicians, was something unlike Murtagh had ever experienced. It sharpened his senses and heightened his awareness, even more so than the battle lust he usually felt while fighting. Although the use of gramarye, as magic was properly called, sapped Murtagh's strength, the high he felt while channelling his power more than made up for the exhaustion he felt afterwards.
Since his failed attempt at seeing Eragon, Galbatorix had encouraged Murtagh to try scrying again. He had, after only a few tries, succeeded in conjuring an image of Thorn and Shruikan in a bowl of water. Though it was unnerving to watch the two dragons whirl across a blank black canvas, he found solace in watching them for long minutes at a time, before Galbatorix pulled his attention elsewhere. He would lose himself in the graceful motion, and felt himself swell with pride whenever Thorn mastered a particularly difficult move.
Galbatorix had also urged Murtagh to try using magic without speaking aloud, but Murtagh found he had little skill at it. The technique required intense focus and concentration, lest an errant thought changed the nature of the spell entirely, and Murtagh preferred simply saying the words aloud. Non-verbal magic was not a practice that could be perfected while one's mind was on dinner.
Some of Murtagh's favourite spells were those that could be used against attackers. He was unused to the feeling of being able to bring down his enemies without even lifting a sword, but found he enjoyed it immensely. He was especially fond of the technique of compressing air into a solid ball. It was the same spell that the Twins had used on him when they had extracted his oaths of fealty, and Murtagh felt some satisfaction in the knowledge that it would never again be used against him.
For the most part, Murtagh found that Galbatorix was pleased with his continued success. The king rarely snapped at him now, and the punishment blows came less and less often as the days of almost constant practice wore on.
One evening, when Murtagh returned to his rooms after a particularly gruelling day of training, he was surprised to find a folded piece of paper, a small leather pouch and a brace of gleaming silver wrist knives sitting on his bed. He picked up the paper, upon which was written a note in narrow, slanted handwriting.
To my apprentice,
Congratulations on your recent success. If you wish, you may go into the city. Show this message to the guards; they will let you in without question. There is enough gold in the purse for you to buy food, and whatever else you may wish. As well, I leave you these knives. Take them to the city, and bring no other weapons. Be back one hour after sunset, and try not to get into any trouble.
King Galbatorix
Murtagh was intrigued. He had been to the city before, of that it was a particularly pleasant place; Uru'baen was a cesspool of filth and decay. The streets, even the main ones, were ripe with the stench of human existence. Open sewers lay rank and stinking, worse still in the sweltering heat of spring and summer. The poor huddled together around small fires in doorways, sending their hollow-eyed, bony children out to beg for coin from passers-by. Thieves and cutpurses ran amok. The rich, stupid nobility seemed to be their prime target, constantly losing their coin to the wily crooks of the city.
Still, it was a welcome change from the opulence of Galbatorix's palace.
Deciding a visit would be worth his time, Murtagh tugged Argedauth from his boot and placed it carefully on the weapons rack beside his hand-and-a-half sword. He felt strange without the two weapons, but it was necessary that he leave them behind. To openly carry a blade among the beggars and brawlers of Uru'baen was to invite death. Murtagh strapped the brace of knives around his right wrist and pulled his sleeve up to cover them.
Glancing outside, he saw that the sky was just beginning to turn dark with the onset of evening. Thorn would be out with Shruikan for some time yet; the dragon's training schedule was even more rigorous than Murtagh's.
Tucking the leather purse into his belt, Murtagh left his suite and proceeded through the tunnel that led to the east wing of the palace. It was rife with activity tonight, servants, nobles and dignitaries of every kind traipsing up and down the halls to their various duties. Turning down a hallway to his right, Murtagh passed several liveried messengers, delivering notes written on scraps of paper. There were even more servants about. It seemed the palace was constantly being cleaned.
Leaving the palace out the obnoxiously huge and forbidding spiked iron gates, Murtagh saw that it had not much changed since his first stay in Uru'baen. Troops of heavily armed soldiers clad in leather and chain mail marched up and down the cobbled road, their hefty spears presenting deadly obstacles to any would-be attackers. They glanced his way but made no move to stop him as he passed.
Murtagh walked down the long road, the cobbles soon giving way to bare dirt. He passed a surprising number of carriages; there were even a few people heading to the palace on horseback.
He had not been walking very long when he arrived at the city gates. Pulling Galbatorix's note from his pocket, Murtagh showed it to one of the guards, who scanned it briefly before letting him in with a curt nod. This made Murtagh smile to himself; he doubted the man could even read. Only the most important merchants and dignitaries in the city were literate; a lowly gatekeeper would have no opportunity to acquire that skill.
Murtagh navigated the cramped, dusty streets of Uru'baen, avoiding the pickpockets and tavern brawls. He wandered without purpose, idly gazing into shop windows, or at carts stationed at even intervals along the cobbled road. Shifty-eyed peddlers that were not so fortunate as to obtain carts were left to offer their wares from street corners, or at the mouths of dark alleyways.
Murtagh kept to the main shops as he appraised the items for sale. Shoemakers and clothiers called out raucously to passing women, pushing their goods on unsuspecting countryfolk. People milled around the booths, scrutinizing bolts of cloth or inspecting the quality of leather goods.
Murtagh then passed a wide section of vendors selling food and wine. The scents coming from their stalls made Murtagh's mouth water, and he stopped for a moment to purchase a meat pie from an elderly vendor.
Murtagh ate the tender, flavourful pie and continued on. He passed countless merchants that sold jewellery and works of art, and more still advertised small, expensive trinkets.
As he passed one rickety stall, Murtagh did a double-take. There, on a little cushion, was a tiny model of a crimson dragon that looked exactly like Thorn. Picking up the figure, Murtagh inspected it from all sides. The figure even had Thorn's fierce red eyes. The resemblance was uncanny.
"Can I interest you in that little gem, dearie?"
Murtagh jumped. A middle-aged woman no taller than his elbow stood up from her stool, but she was so tiny that standing made little difference. Murtagh had not even seen her sitting behind her cart. Her chestnut hair was streaked with grey and pulled severely back into a knot at the base of her neck. She had an odd, slightly surprised look about her, and it took Murtagh a moment to realize that she had shaved her eyebrows completely off and painted perfect black arches in their place.
"Something to sweeten a lady friend?" she prompted. "They go mad for this sort of thing I hear, now that the dragons are back about."
Murtagh choked suddenly, but covered it up by pretending to cough. "What did you say?" trying desperately to make his voice sound normal.
"Don't fool with an old lady, dearie. You must've heard the rumours. The traders from down southeast are coming in with all sorts of talk about how the dragons and Riders are back in the Empire."
Murtagh gulped – It could only be Eragon and Saphira. What were they doing, letting themselves be seen?
"Your talk verges on treachery, Mistress," said Murtagh slowly, gauging the woman's reaction. "You wouldn't want to let the soldiers hear you. They would lead even someone like you to the gallows for saying the wrong thing."
"Oh, that don't bother me, dearie," she said. "I'm just an old maid; there's little life left in me anyway. I hardly believe the talk myself, but it keeps business moving. Which reminds me, are you buying or not?" She pointed to the dragon figurine in Murtagh's hand.
"Yes, yes, I'll take it," Murtagh said hurriedly, pulling out pouch of money and handing over a silver piece in exchange for the model, which he pocketed. Saluting the woman with a wave of his hand, he continued off down the crowded streets.
As Murtagh rounded a corner, he passed a group of women whose profession was unmistakeable. They waved at him and called out, but he paid them no notice.
Murtagh's wandering brought him around another corner, and he came across a small, dark tavern. A sign over the door identified it as the Cracked Keg. Murtagh had never much cared for spirits, but he decided to go in anyway, just for something to do. A bell chimed as he walked in. Murtagh settled himself at the long bar, ordering a tankard of ale from the busty barmaid who had been shooting him surreptitious glances since he entered. Slapping a few copper pieces on the counter, he glanced around at the other patrons, unimpressed with what he saw. A group of five or six rowdy men gambled at dice in the corner booth, surrounded by empty tankards and laughing drunkenly. The only other customer was a young man, perhaps fifteen or sixteen, sitting alone at the end of the bar, an untouched tankard of ale in front of him. He stared blankly at the opposite wall, his eyes glazed over. Murtagh paid them no attention as he sat and sipped his ale, which tasted surprisingly better than the stuff he remembered.
Murtagh's tankard was nearly empty when the barmaid approached him again. "Anything else I can get you, love?" she asked.
"No, thank you," Murtagh replied. Looking out one of the small windows, he saw that the sun had already set. It was time to return to the palace.
"You sure?" the barmaid asked, flipping her blonde ringlets over her shoulder. "You look like a man in need of a woman's…services," she whispered suggestively. She wrapped her lithe arms brazenly around Murtagh's broad shoulders. "Rest assured, I can provide them." She eyed his dark hair and muscular frame hungrily, as if he were something to eat.
Murtagh wrenched himself from the sultry blonde's grasp. "I said, no thank you," he said coldly. He stood and made for the door, only to find that the gamblers had risen from their booth in the corner to block the exit.
"Whatcha turnin' down the good lady's offer for, stranger?" one of them asked, his putrid, drink-ridden breath blowing straight into Murtagh's face. "S'not every day the lovely Lark bids herself to a man."
Murtagh remained silent. These drunken pigs were not worth his time.
"What's caught 'old of yer tongue, then, pretty boy?" demanded the man.
One of his hulking companions stepped forward and guffawed stupidly. "Bet he thinks he's too good ter go associatin' wiv us common folk, eh, Lars?"
The first man, Lars, cracked his knuckles in what Murtagh assumed was meant to be a menacing manner. "Well, seems we should teach 'im a lesson in humility, boys."
Murtagh sighed. These fools were going to make him late. Calmly, he flicked his wrist and one of his many hidden daggers slid upwards into his palm. His wrist-knives were his only weapons, but they would surely be enough to discourage them.
"Get out of my way." Simple and to the point; he doubted the men would understand anything else. Galbatorix had explicitly told him not to get into trouble, but these idiots were taking his patience to its limit. They presented little obstacle for him; he could easily dispatch such a small group of men, no matter their size. There was just the matter of doing it without making a mess.
Murtagh noticed that the barmaid had disappeared. Brawls were doubtless a regular occurrence here.
The drunkards lunged at him, thinking they could overwhelm him with their superior size and numbers. Darting aside, Murtagh ducked and rolled so that his back was to the door. He did not want to be cornered in the cramped tavern.
"Come back 'ere an' fight like a man, ye cowardly scum!" bellowed one of the brawlers, shaking his fist. "It's curs like ye what're a disgrace to the bitch that brung ya!"
Murtagh froze. Turning on his attacker, he felt a wave of cold fury wash over his body. His grey eyes glittered with icy hate at the thing that stood before him
The large man belched loudly, to the cheers of his equally corpulent companions. "To chicken even ter fight back!" He laughed. "C'mere, ya little mongrel," he urged. "Come an' run with th' big dogs, if ye've the nerve!"
Murtagh strode silently forward. Looking the drunkard dead in the eye he whispered, "Do not call me a coward."
As calmly as if he had been drinking a mug of ale, Murtagh slit the man's fat throat.
Great gouts of blood spurted from the man's neck, sliced open from ear to ear, leaving thin red streaks on the on the faded, grimy wallpaper. Murtagh raised a hand to shield his face from the hot, familiar spray of gore. The man wavered on his feet for a fraction of a second before his hefty form crumpled and fell to the ground with a resounding crash.
He was dead before he hit the floor.
The fallen man's comrades stood silent in shock, terror evident on their slack-jawed faces. They were struck dumb in astonishment, bloodshot eyes wide. Their arguments were resolved with fists, not blades. Murtagh doubted that any of them had ever seen worse than a few broken bones.
There was a moment or two of stunned silence before Lars regained his wits enough to scream, "Murderer! He killed Connor!"
Lars' shout brought the barmaid rushing back in. She stared for a second at the lifeless corpse, her eyes tracing the bloody streaks on the walls, until they fell on Murtagh, his hated-filled eyes and his bloodstained knife. She then released a blood-curdling shriek. Running out the door, she forced her way into the streets screaming, "Murder, murder! Call the guards! There's a killer on the loose! Murder!"
The packed streets shot into a panicked frenzy at the woman's words, finally drawing the dazed brawlers from their stupor. Wildly, they swung at Murtagh, but their fists caught nothing but air as Murtagh felt himself being wrenched backwards.
It was not until he had been pulled through a side door and into a narrow alleyway that Murtagh saw who it was: the boy who had been sitting alone at the bar. The boy looked at him but said nothing as he tugged him, with surprising force, down the alley and through the door to a cramped townhouse.
Throwing Murtagh wordlessly onto a stool, the boy shook his shaggy, light brown hair from his eyes and disappeared up a set of rickety stairs.
As Murtagh caught his breath, he appraised his surroundings. There was nothing in the tiny, filthy room save the stool on which he was sitting and small, wood-burning stove. The floorboards were of raw wood, rotting through in places to provide treacherous footing. The cloying scent of fetid meat permeated the room, coating the inside of Murtagh's mouth, making his throat sting and his eyes water. A single grimy window provided little view of the alley outside.
Checking to see that he still had all of his possessions, Murtagh was relieved to see that his knives and money were still there. Murtagh realized only then that he still held the bloody wrist-knife in his clenched fist. Wiping the blade clean on the hem of his shirt, Murtagh stowed it back in the brace and groped at the pocket where the dragon statuette had been. To his dismay, Murtagh felt nothing. He reached inside, but it only confirmed his suspicions: the figure must have fallen from his pocket during the fight.
The sound of footsteps signalled Murtagh to the return of the young man. This time he was not alone. He was helping a wizened old woman down the stairs, her wrinkled hand clenched around a knobbly cane. Her skin was thin and translucent, deep lines and creases etched permanently around her nearly toothless mouth. Her eyes were sunken and dull, and one of them seemed not to see at all. It stared blankly at the opposite wall, somewhere over Murtagh's shoulder. The old crone moved slowly and awkwardly, but not without purpose.
The youth brought the old woman over to Murtagh, who stunned him by delivering a sharp, smarting wallop with her cane to his ribs.
"Ow!" cried Murtagh, more out of shock than actual pain.
"That's fer bein' stupid," she drawled through a thick citywoman's accent.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Yer mad, then, aren't ye?" demanded the old crone, not bothering to explain her strange antics. "Killin' a man as done ye no harm?"
"He called me a coward," replied Murtagh sullenly, understanding now that the boy had told the old woman of the tavern brawl.
"An' I'm callin' ye crack-knobbed fool!" she scolded. "Are ye goin' ter kill me?"
"If my own safety costs another man's life, then so be it," Murtagh responded coolly. "No stranger's life is more important than my own."
"Then I hope yer up ter killin' a lot o' men, sonny," said the woman, a sad frown only deepening her wrinkles. "A'cos that's a creed that'll lead to more murders than jus' this one."
"Look," said Murtagh, quickly growing annoyed at the woman's forward scolding. "I am grateful for your help, but I really must be –"
Murtagh was interrupted by yet another smack to the ribs.
"There ya go, bein' stupid again!" the woman said with a superior smirk. She seemed to be enjoying herself immensely. "The guards'll be down 'ere for a while yet. Killins don't go unnoticed, even in a city as wild as this one. You oughtta know that!"
"I'm…not from around here." Murtagh explained. It was only half a lie.
"I would think so!" She nodded to the boy, who still stood behind her. "Yer just lucky me grandson was there ter pull ya outta the mess." She gave the boy a stern glare out of her one good eye. "Though what he was doin' in that stinkhole of a tavern I'd like ter know."
The boy gave her a sheepish grin before offering his hand to Murtagh. "I'm Adam," he said.
"Murtagh." He shook Adam's proffered hand, and was met with a smile that lit up his whole face. Adam's eyes were a strange hue; they seemed to change from brown to hazel to blue-green and back again in various lights. His strong nose and broad shoulders lent to him an air of maturity, despite his obvious youth.
"I don't understand," Murtagh said. "You would help a murderer?"
"I would help a man who looked to be in very serious trouble," Adam replied. "Besides, Connor deserved it." His eyes darkened as he cast his gaze downwards.
"Don't go talkin' like that, boy," ordered his grandmother. "The gods order forgiveness, you know that."
"Did the gods have their parents killed by that drunken scum?" the boy demanded.
"Connor killed me son an' his wife last autumn," the woman explained, in a surprisingly matter-of-fact tone. "Robbery. Adam's not learned ter accept that yet."
"He's dead now, anyway, thanks to you, Murtagh" said Adam.
Murtagh shook his head emphatically. "It is you and this lady –"
"Mirna."
" – Mirna, who deserve my thanks, but I really should be going. I am already late, and the person waiting for me is not going to be happy that I have strayed this long."
"Well," said Adam, "if you're in that much of a hurry, I suppose you could take the back way. That would get you to the main road, but it really would be safer for you to stay here for a while longer."
"Thank you once again," Murtagh said. "But I'll go."
Leading him to the door, Mirna said. "If yer ever in the city again, look for us."
"I'll do that," said Murtagh, and he turned to go. He was nearly back to the main road when he heard Adam's voice behind him.
"Murtagh! Wait!" he called. Adam ran up beside him, panting, and held out his hand. "I nearly forgot – you dropped this back at the tavern."
In his hand sat the little red dragon.
Murtagh took it from him. "Thank you," said Murtagh. "I thought I'd lost him."
"They're wonderful things, dragons, aren't they?" said Adam almost wistfully. "I only wish I'd seen a real one."
Knowing there was nothing he could say that would not be an outright lie, Murtagh though it best to simply keep silent. He nodded his agreement and tucked the figurine back into his pocket.
"Goodbye, and my thanks again for your help," Murtagh said, and clapped Adam on the shoulder before he disappeared down the alley, around the corner and out of sight.
A/N: A few changes here, mostly condensing to fix my passage of time issues. Because of the way the changes are shaping up, it's looking liker there are going to be fewer chapters, but the story itself will likely be longer.
- Miss Maddie