Thorn and Misery - Chapter 23
Murtagh appraised himself in the mirror. His hair, now sandy blond, was cropped short. His previously grey eyes had darkened to a deep navy blue, and his short beard didn't entirely hide his rather weak chin. Murtagh's nose was broader, his cheekbones more prominent. He had a full lower lip and a thin upper, and was an inch or two shorter and just a shade wider than he used to be.
"There," said Galbatorix, appraising his handiwork. "You're ready." Galbatorix circled around Murtagh like a vulture. "Let's go over your story once again, shall we? Your name?"
"Darian," replied Murtagh instantly, stating a name he had always liked.
"And a surname?"
Murtagh had not thought of that. After a moment's hesitation, he said, "Tornacsson."
Galbatorix raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
"I am the son of a rich fur-merchant from Ceunon, on an errand to Furnost," said Murtagh in a rush.
"Good. You are not to speak unless spoken to. You are not to reveal your true identity to Teresa until the convoy stops in Furnost, and you are to return immediately after you have retrieved my sword, is that clear?"
"Yes. And if Lord Hector should prove…noncompliant?"
Galbatorix smiled coldly. "Use your imagination."
Murtagh couldn't help but feel a bit nervous at that. "But - "
"Oh, do shut up, Murtagh," snapped Galbatorix. "Yes, I know what I'm doing; no, you will not be recognized; yes, you do have to get the sword and no, blond hair doesn't suit you at all."
Taking one last glance at Murtagh, Galbatorix snapped his fingers. The hair and beard which had just moments ago been the colour of a summer wheat-field were now as black as midnight. "Much better. Now you may go."
Murtagh nodded resolutely and hefted his pack on his shoulder. His clothes, weapons and road supplies were packed, and the southbound convoy would be leaving in an hour. He had already said his goodbyes to Thorn. The dragon was disappointed that he could not travel with Murtagh, but he knew of course that it was impossible.
Turning, he had taken but a few steps when Galbatorix called, "Oh, and Murtagh? Use the girl if you must, but don't get attached. I can't afford any distractions."
Murtagh could practically feel the king's smirk boring into his back, but he bit his tongue and did not turn back. His eyes on his boots, he swept out of the antechamber off the dining hall, through the main doors and into the wide hallway. It felt glorious to walk down the many corridors without having people gawk at him. He could go entirely unnoticed. It had not been so much the bows that unnerved Murtagh, but more so the whispers and the pointed stares that followed him wherever he went. Now, with his appearance altered and his gedwey ignasia concealed by fine leather gloves,Murtagh was just another nobleman.
When he arrived at the front doors of the castle, Murtagh had no trouble spotting the long line of carriages. Footmen were helping ladies in travelling skirts into the caravans while a few heavily armed guards stood, ready to leave.
As Murtagh approached, a liveried clerk caught him by the shoulder. "Where are you headed, sir?" the clerk asked politely.
"Furnost."
The man nodded. "Right this way." He led Murtagh to a carriage near the end of the line. Murtagh gave his scanty belongings, his pack and his weapons, to one of the guards, who strapped them to the top of the otherwise empty carriage.
"We'll be stopping in Evin's Mill for the night," said the clerk, naming a small loyalist village on the grassy plain between Uru'baen and Furnost. "We should reach Furnost around noon tomorrow."
Murtagh thanked the man and took a seat next to the window, where he waited.
It was not long before the carriage door opened and a lady in the deep red skirts of a travelling gown stepped through. Murtagh took her hand and helped her into the carriage. Teresa took the seat beside the door.
"Thank you, Master –?" said Teresa.
"It's no trouble T – my lady," replied Murtagh. For the briefest moment he forgot himself, and nearly addressed Teresa by her name. "And it's Darian. Just Darian."
Teresa's head snapped up, and she gazed at Murtagh, her eyes narrowed, as if she was trying to see something that wasn't there. Then, she shook her head and fixed her eyes on the floor of the carriage.
"Pardon me, my lady," said Murtagh. "But would you not like the seat by the window?"
"No, that's quite alright," she said. "I'm afraid sitting by a window while travelling does not agree at all with my stomach."
Murtagh ducked his head and gazed outside. The last of the stragglers had entered their respective carriages, and guards and footmen walked up and down the long line, making sure that the straps on the luggage racks were tight and the doors shut. It seemed that Teresa and Murtagh would be the only two going to Furnost. Murtagh didn't know whether to be nervous or relieved.
At last the carriage jolted into motion. The convoy set off down the cobblestone path slowly at first, and it was several minutes before Murtagh felt the carriage roll onto dirt. He could not see the palace anymore; the rolling plains and tall grasses seemed to stretch on forever. Murtagh stared out the window at the passing countryside and readied himself for a long, dull ride. Murtagh had never much liked travelling by carriage. He preferred to ride on horseback, and, more recently, dragonback. At least he had something to do, and he could smell the fresh air. In a carriage it was just sit on musty seats and let someone else do the work.
Murtagh and Teresa rode in stony silence for most of the afternoon. Murtagh even dozed off once or twice, resting his forehead against the windowpane. Finally, Teresa spoke. "I'm sorry, Master Darian," she said. "I'm not a very sociable travelling companion, am I? My stomach…" Teresa trailed off apologetically.
"That's quite alright, my lady," responded Murtagh. "I understand."
"It's not as bad now," Teresa said. "What brings you to Furnost?"
"Business," Murtagh responded immediately, just as he had practiced. Not a lie, not a lie, he told himself. "I'm a fur trader from up north." Dirty, stinking lie.
"Really? We get some lovely mink around Furnost," said Teresa. "But I'm afraid you're a few months late for peak season."
"Well, I'll be doing some research," said Murtagh, eager to steer the conversation away from a topic he knew next to nothing about. As he was casting around for a change of subject, a sudden jolt rocked the carriage. The bump was so hard that Murtagh had to grab the windowsill to keep from falling out of his seat.
"What was that?" Teresa asked.
"Wait here," said Murtagh. "I'll go and talk to the driver." Murtagh unbolted the carriage door and stuck his head outside. It looked as though their carriage had swerved and crashed into the one in front of it. "Excuse me," Murtagh called to the large man who held the reins, "but could you tell me what - ?"
But Murtagh's question was cut short by a sound that Murtagh knew only too well: it was the sound of an arrow whistling towards its target.
The arrow, fletched in wicked, inky black feathers, sprouted from the driver's eye. He reeled wildly and, with a cry of agony, toppled from the carriage, the horses' reins still clutched in his hand. His charges screamed in fright at the sudden fall of their master and reared. The front hooves of the horse on the left flailed madly and came down on the top of the fallen man's head, crushing his skull.
It all happened in less than a second, but in that time Murtagh was able to register the shouts of the caravan guards as they grimly drew their weapons, and the confused screams of the nobles inside the carriages. From the crest of the next hill, the answering calls of the enemy as it charged towards them were growing clearer.
Murtagh ducked back inside the carriage, narrowly avoiding a second volley of arrows. Teresa looked bewildered. "What's going on?" she demanded.
"Stay in the carriage!"
"But -!"
"Teresa, stay here!" Murtagh hauled himself to the top of the carriage and groped for his bow, but it was secured too tightly. He couldn't free it, and the longer he stayed in the open on top of the carriage, the longer he made a target of himself. Murtagh turned to his sword, giving it a hefty tug, and he was relieved to see that it came free without objection.
Leaping off the roof of the carriage, Murtagh rolled as he landed and came up on his feet. To his horror, the enemy were almost upon them. They had passed the hill and were advancing upon the convoy, shouting battle cries. Their number far surpassed the two dozen armed guards that travelled with the convoy.
The people in the carriages were screaming as the guards tried to keep them there. One of those guards tried to shove Murtagh back into his own carriage.
"Get off me," cried Murtagh angrily, "I can help!"
The guard shrugged. "It's your neck." He ran off to the front of the line, where their attackers had already hit. With a furious cry, Murtagh followed.
Forgetting that he wore no armour, not even chain mail, Murtagh charged forward, and was conscious of nothing but blind, unrelenting rage. He set upon the first man that attacked him, swinging his hand-and-a-half sword around in a deadly arc and beheading him. Murtagh gave himself over to the battle-lust that sprang to existence at the spray of the dead man's blood on his face.
Over and over again he slashed at his enemies. Many fell almost immediately, but just as many lived long enough to fight. Several times, Murtagh sustained small wounds.
In the heat of the day, it didn't take Murtagh long to start sweating heavily. For every man Murtagh killed, it seemed two more replaced him. On and on they came in an endless wave of death. Murtagh killed without thought, knowing only that these men must die.
Die.
Wait a minute, thought Murtagh, what am I doing? If he hadn't been in the middle of gutting his foe, Murtagh would have slapped a hand to his forehead. In the heat of battle, he had completely forgot about magic.
As his adversary fell, Murtagh risked a split-second to steel himself. Summoning his power, he raised his right hand and shouted, "Deyja!"
A wave of what felt like hot wind exploded out of Murtagh, knocking his breath away and raising a dense cloud of dust around him. When it cleared, he could see that the ten or so men that had surrounded him had collapsed, clutching their chests. Blood dripped from their noses and ears: their hearts had burst.
As his enemies died, Murtagh let their energy pour into him, strengthening him and banishing his fatigue. He raced forward, fuelled by a manic vigour that came from both killing and using magic. Murtagh slaughtered anyone who stood in his way with a sense of soulless detachment.
Murtagh's sword bit deeply into any that dared come near him, slitting throats and slicing bellies. He kicked their bodies out of his path and rushed ever on.
Vaguely, Murtagh then heard the sound of horns in the distance. At last, the enemy seemed to be retreating.
Suddenly, Murtagh felt a wave of sick dread wash over him. He knew those horns.
It was the Varden.