Thorn and Misery - Chapter 17
One morning, not long after his encounter with Clare and Corrin, Murtagh stepped out of his suite to join Galbatorix at breakfast and nearly trod on the platter of eggs, cheese and sausage that steamed just outside his door. A folded note written in precise script on heavy, official-looking parchment sat atop the pitcher of milk, which he picked up and read:
To Rider Murtagh –
His Majesty King Galbatorix has some pressing matters of state to attend to today, and bids you to spend the day at the south gate training yards. Supper will be served in the dining hall at the usual hour.
Murtagh grinned. It had been ages since he had really practiced physical combat, focused as he was on perfecting his magical powers. A day at the training yards was exactly what he needed.
Murtagh brought the tray of breakfast into his rooms, setting in down on the table in his sitting room. Since no one was waiting for him today, he ate his food at a leisurely pace, taking the time to actually enjoy the meal rather than scarfing it down as usual. As he ate, he glanced out the window at Thorn's empty shelter. It seemed the dragon was afforded no such luxury as a day to himself. Shruikan was stricter a master even than Galbatorix, and worked Thorn at a gruelling pace.
When he had downed a last gulp of milk, Murtagh set the tray and pitcher outside his door and took up his weapons. He slid his sword into its scabbard and clipped it to his belt, then slung his unstrung bow and quiver over his shoulder. Argedauth, his dagger, was already in its usual place in its boot-sheath.
His task complete, Murtagh stepped out of his suite. Proceeding down the corridor opposite the way he usually took to go to Galbatorix's throne room and the dining chamber, Murtagh followed the hallways and looped around until he walked along the main southern corridor. This was the largest and busiest of the ground floor halls, and Murtagh passed many people on his way to the training yards. They gave him a wide berth, some greeting him with nods or small bows, which he did not return. Most of them just stepped out of his way and sped past him with no further acknowledgement.
When Murtagh finally arrived at the training yards, he was pleased to see that the place had not changed a bit since he had last been there. Aside from the library, this was where he had spent the bulk of his time. The main yard was a wide field, shaded by the huge stony hill, but still outdoors. The grass grew in sparse patches here and there. Most of the field was worn down to bare dirt from decades of foot traffic. All around, Murtagh could see soldiers in mock battle, duelling each other with swords and battleaxes.
Other men practiced unarmed combat. In a far corner of the yard, two shirtless, sweaty youths wrestled on the ground while their companions jeered and hollered catcalls. A few men jogged around the perimeter of the yard, panting heavily.
At the far end of the field, Murtagh could see – and smell – the stables, where the bulk of the army's horses were housed. He had once known the chief ostler, Randan, and hoped the old man was still caring for the horses. He had always treated them exceptionally well, and had bred some of the Empire's finest mounts.
The archery yards lay to the right of the stables. Unlike the indoor court where Murtagh had demonstrated his marksmanship to Galbatorix, these were open to the general public. Most of the lanes were occupied by men either shooting or throwing daggers. A few had crossbows, and stood further back from the others as they took aim and fired bolt after bolt into the cork targets set seventy paces away.
There were even a few tilting lanes. Though Murtagh himself had never been interested participating in the joust, he had liked to watch the dangerous sport and had attended a few tournaments in his youth.
For a moment, he watched as two men in full plate armour lead their large, fierce-looking mounts to opposite ends of the lane. As magnificent as the horses were, Murtagh had trouble admiring them next to the splendour of a dragon.
An umpire, standing alone at the middle of the beaten dirt track, raised a red flag overhead and then lowered it, stepping quickly back out of the way.
The riders kicked their warhorses into a gallop and the animals charged. Digging spurs into the horses' sweat-streaked flanks, the men rose in their saddles as thy thundered down the lane. Aiming for the palm-sized target circles on each other's shields, the men lowered their lances into position and collided with a resounding crash. One man's lance hit the other's shield at an angle and skidded past it, nearly goring his opponent. Narrowly dodging a lance to the gut, the other rider surged forward and slammed his lance into the shield of his attacker.
Murtagh knew even before the lance hit that the man was going to fall. The tip of the lance struck just under the centre of the shield and shattered with the force of the impact. The soldier popped from his saddle. He flew in a wide arc through the air, shedding his lance and shield as he went. Landing with a heavy thump in the dirt on his armour-clad rear, the jouster did not rise until his opponent walked over to him and pulled him to his feet. Dusting himself while attempting to maintain what little dignity he had left, the fallen soldier went to retrieve his lance and his horse.
As the jousters cleared the lane, Murtagh realized he had been staring at them for a full minute. Shaking his head, he hefted his weapons and trudged across the yard to one of the many practice dummies along the walled side of the field. The dummies, grain sacks stuffed with straw and fashioned into relatively human shape, had round wooden shields fixed to their 'arms.' They were for use by single warriors when no partner was available.
Depositing his bow and quiver, Murtagh drew his sword and charged, giving his body over to years of practice. His movements were fast and graceful, his brain barely registering the motion. Swiftly he lunged and jabbed, and then dodged or blocked imaginary return strikes. He was careful not to actually hit the dummy if he could avoid it, or it would come apart in an instant. They were not meant to last.
Murtagh would have preferred to have a real sparring partner, but he knew he could not approach any of the men here. From their hushed whispers and pointed stares, Murtagh knew that most of them recognized him, and their friends quickly informed those that did not. He was an outsider here, closer to the king than any of them were comfortable with. He forced himself to ignore them, and resigned himself to solitary practice.
Still, Murtagh was glad for the physical work. He relished each swing at the practice dummy because it was something with which he was familiar. He knew how to complete the tasks, and he knew what was expected of him. He had been trained in the use of various weapons since his childhood, but he had only just begun the study of magic. Though he enjoyed it the vast majority of the time, magic was arcane, complicated art that, more often than not, required him to learn again what he thought he had already known. Galbatorix insisted on tutoring Murtagh to the minutest detail, and was not satisfied until he could perform whatever spell or chant he was attempting with absolute perfection.
Murtagh often grew impatient with Galbatorix's strict tutelage, but had learned early on to keep his tongue in check. Though the king seemed not to care what thoughts passed through Murtagh's mind – all the better, since he could hardly stop himself from thinking them - Murtagh was rewarded with slaps or blows, both magical and physical, if he voiced his complaints.
As Murtagh's mind jolted back to his battle with the practice dummy, he saw that the straw figure was covered in rips from Murtagh's sword. Despite his best efforts, Murtagh had sometimes been unable to help himself landing the odd touch. Bits of straw were poking out through numerous holes and tears, and the wooden shield was starting to droop in a rather pathetic way.
Deciding to put the dummy out of its misery, Murtagh drew back his sword, and, with a final swing, decapitated it.
As he slid his sword back into its sheath and swept the sweat from his eyes, Murtagh felt a familiar prickle on the back of his neck. Whirling around, he saw that he was being watched.
Corrin, the boy he had met in the field some days previously, stepped forward out of the shadows. He glared at Murtagh, his blue eyes cold and contemptuous. The fact that he had a well-made and obviously well-used sword strapped to his hip was not lost on Murtagh. The boy was here for a fight.
Murtagh's suspicions were confirmed within moments. "You're not that good, you know," Corrin said. He was looking not at Murtagh's face, but at his sword. "I've been watching you. I could do better." He scuffed the toe of his worn leather boot in the dirt, still not meeting Murtagh's eyes. His voice was low and fast, and it sounded as if he had practiced what he was going to say beforehand. "My father trained me same as you, for a while," Corrin continued. "Then I got other teachers – better ones. I know the sword better than most of the men here."
Murtagh was in no mood to deal with Corrin and his bitterness. "Are you done?" he asked. "I have things I want to do today."
At last Corrin looked at him. "Don't you want to fight me?" he demanded, surprised. He had obviously assumed that Murtagh would fight at the least provocation.
"Not really, no," Murtagh said. "As I said, I have better things to do. Excuse me."
Pushing his way past Corrin, Murtagh was halted by an enraged cry of, "Fight me like a man, why don't you? You're not so brave when you don't have your dragon to hide behind!"
Murtagh sighed. It was the second time in as many weeks that his manhood had been questioned.
Again he whirled around. "Fine," he said, exasperated. If this idiot boy wanted a fight, then that was exactly what he would get. Drawing his sword, Murtagh advanced on Corrin, who pulled his weapon free in kind. "First blood wins," he said. As the challenged, he could state the terms.
"Fine with me," sneered the younger boy. "I'll have yours soon enough,"
Without another word, Corrin lunged at Murtagh, yelling wildly. Their swords came together in a furious crash of steel. Murtagh parried his blow and took a strike of his own. He slammed his hand-and-a-half sword against Corrin's slightly lighter blade, and their weapons caught at their hilts. Using his superior weight to his advantage, Murtagh leaned into his sword until they were locked body-to-body, a bad position for the smaller duellist. Murtagh threw his full weight behind the thrust, attempting to force Corrin to his knees, and was shocked when Corrin disengaged by dropping to the ground, and then rolling and landing with cat-like grace back on his feet. Murtagh over-balanced and very nearly fell, only to save himself with a swiftly planted foot. Corrin took advantage of Murtagh's momentary lapse of concentration and drove his sword towards Murtagh's unprotected left shoulder. Murtagh brought his sword up and blocked Corrin just in time, and their battle resumed.
After a few minutes had passed, Murtagh noticed that they had gathered an audience. A silent crowd watched intently as the pair continued to spar.
Though they were reasonably well-matched in terms of raw skill, Corrin seemed to favour unnecessary flourishes and spins in his movements. Murtagh preferred to keep his movements short and swift, moving as efficiently as possible in order to conserve energy. He knew that if they continued at this pace, Corrin would tire. He could use that.
Corrin was fast, but his blows lacked the driving power of Galbatorix's. Murtagh wondered if, after duelling with the king, he would compare all his future opponents to Galbatorix.
As the minutes wore on, Murtagh saw that he had been right – Corrin's endurance was starting to wane, doubtless due to his needless flourishes. He was trying too hard to be fancy, attempting to one-up Murtagh with show rather than skill. Sweat dripped from his black bangs into his eyes, but Corrin didn't dare lift a hand to wipe it away. His breathing was growing heavier. Murtagh had him outmatched with the relentless swings of his sword.
When Corrin attempted to slip his blade past Murtagh's arm, Murtagh saw a hole in his defence. He lunged forward and passed his sword to his left hand. This surprised Corrin, who had not expected him to be able to fight with both hands. Murtagh used his now free right hand to clamp onto Corrin's upper arm in a vicelike grip and pull their bodies close together, where he knew he had the advantage. Murtagh slammed the hilt of his sword onto Corrin's wrist, not hard enough to break it, but hard enough to make him drop his weapon. With a pained cry, Corrin was forced to let his blade fall into the dirt.
Grey eyes shining in triumph, Murtagh spun his sword around, not releasing his hold on Corrin's arm, and lightly nicked the younger man's chest through his undyed cotton shirt. He knew he could have cut deeper, but saw no point to it. His battle was won.
As the small patch of crimson bloomed at the point where Murtagh's sword point had hit, Corrin knew he had lost. He pulled free of Murtagh's now slack grip and collected his sword, not taking his eyes off Murtagh.
"This doesn't mean anything," he said furiously.
"Of course it doesn't," Murtagh replied.
Corrin glared at him, his whole body shaking with fury. "You –you - " he sputtered, unable to speak coherently. With a dejected cry, he shoved his way past their circle on onlookers and disappeared.
Murtagh slid his sword back into its sheath and picked up his weapons with grim satisfaction. He had suddenly lost interest in practicing.
A gap in the crowd opened for him, and Murtagh strode silently back to his rooms.