Murtagh

By Namine3419

Chapter Two: Rumors

Reviewers: Wow, it's been a long time since I updated. Probably because my other computer blew up...ANYWAY! I'm very happy that you all like this story, and as I said I will work on it when I have the time. Please read and review this chapter as well, and I hope you enjoy it as much as the other.

The morning was grey and hazy, the sun still low behind the distant mountains as Murtagh rose. His limbs felt stiff, his head dizzy, and for a moment he was lost and confused. That is, until he smelt the metallic odor of his own friend's blood still cracking underneath his nose, his hair meshed with the red mess. As if that wasn't testament enough to this sad realization, the corpse of the once strong man lay next to him, a shallow, lifeless thing that only held a glimmer of what Tornac used to be. Murtagh moaned, curling up into a secure ball and wanting nothing else but to lay their and sleep.

That was when he felt his horse's teeth scrape his scalp. He grunted, waving the beast away, until Tornac came back and bit him harder. The hair threatened to be plucked from his skull, and Murtagh rose with a curse, "Damned animal." Once again he rushed his hand towards the horse, only to have it caught in his mouth. The steed bit down hard. Laughing grimly, Murtagh stood, "I guess you're not just going to let me roll over and die." The horse snorted in approval, then went off to graze a few feet away.

He felt empty, cold, as if everything that once was him had been gutted and torn from his ribcage. Tornac lay, broken and lifeless at his feet, and he had no clue what to do with him. I won't leave him; I can't. He deserves better than crow fodder. Taking off his cloak, Murtagh bent down and gently wrapped the old man in the supple wool fabric. The once soft, beautiful green that had taken months to dye into the fabric was now faded and stained with mud and blood. A long time ago he would have been punished for its state, but now that seemed like such a trivial thing. Clicking his tongue on the roof of his mouth, Murtagh signaled to his horse and laid Tornac across the saddle; he would walk until they were farther away from the castle.

Even though they were miles away, the stench of Uru'baen drifted on the zephyrs, a smell that once would have excited him. Now it only urged him to the west, determined to avoid the city at all costs. Word traveled quickly from the castle to the city guard, and Murtagh had been asleep all through the night, unable to keep going after ending Tornac's suffering. The previous day's events seemed like some far off dream to him, as if they had happened to someone else and not him. It was absurd for him to believe that Tornac, his one and true friend, had been a spy of the Varden. He shrugged, eyeing the gray stallion that walked beside him, "You're not a traitor too, are you?"

He looked at him with soft brown eyes, then continued forward. Murtagh shook his head, "And now I'm losing my mind." If you can say you're crazy, then you're not crazy, said the little voice in the back of his head. A smile came unwanted to his face; who was it that had told him that? More than likely one of the old serving maids who used to talk to him when he was little, when he was still thought of as a weak and unintimidating boy who could hold a book better than a sword. That had changed quickly after the first attempt on his life. The would-be assassin had lost an ear and broke a few fingers, thanks to Murtagh's bite and a piece of his own bed. After that Tornac had taken him to the yard everyday, drilling him until whelps and blisters covered his hands.

It wasn't long before he could faintly make of the soft gurgling of the Ramr River. The sweet sound was a deceptive lie to the tempest of the cruelty of the actual thing in the raining season. He knew the river was miles away, and if he could hear it this far down, then finding a place to ford was out of the question. The sun was high in its afternoon position, and already he could see ravens circling him for the hope of a meal. Murtagh answered them with the middle of his finger, then stopped Tornac. The sweet smell of death threatened to make him retch as he reached for the body of his old master, the body stiff and unyielding as he lowered him to the ground.

Murtagh frowned, noting the flakes of dried blood that had yet to fall from his face. He had no spade to dig a hole, so his only option was a fire, and out in open that was the last thing he wanted to do. However, the hungry cries of the birds above made him pick up dried grass and place them accordingly around his old friend, and his hands were fishing around his saddlebags for flint stones. But the time he had finished making his small mound, the sun was close to the mountain's rim. The sky was dimming, and once again the thought of madness crossed his mind. Oakville, a small fishing town, was only on the other side of the river; even though it was miles away, the fire was sure to draw a few unwanted gazes. Cursing under his breath, Murtagh started making sparks, "Sorry I can't do more, old man."

It took a few moments for the blades to catch, but once they did a splendid inferno engulfed the body of the dead, and soon nothing was visible but a faint black outline. The smoke stretched long, dark claws into the pre-night air, as if it were to snatch the remaining sun away. Murtagh was saddling Tornac when the last of his master's body was eaten but the fire, and he dare not linger any longer. Digging his heels into the horse's side, he dashed forward, angling south to avoid the Ramr.

Sleep threatened to close his eyes, but Murtagh strode forward, determined not to stop until he reached the filth that was Dras Leona. Of all the places in the world he could go, that was his least favored; and it was the last place he hoped anyone would be looking for him. He'd frequently visited the dreadful city as a boy, the rotten smell and cries of agony still fresh in his mind's eye. He had been foolish enough to give an old beggar woman a few crowns, not even enough to buy a meal, when a mob of beggars and wretches came and nearly knocked him to his feet. Had it not been for the city guard, and a few of his own servants, Murtagh would've been robbed and most likely killed. Hopefully his appearance had changed enough to where they would not be so tempted to attack.

The sky was moonless, but there were no clouds. Stars twinkled down from the heavens, guiding him along as the hours passed. Deer stalked beside him, close enough to see what he was, but warily enough to stay out of arrow range. He watched them for a while, but soon lost interest as the sounds of people crossed his ears. To his left a few yards away was a small gathering of about fifteen houses, all made of brick and straw roofing. Cows and sheep grazed in the pastures beyond its borders, and sparse people littered the streets, laughing and gossiping. Murtagh envied the simplicity of their life; it was a sweet gift to be born out of the gaze of nobles. Tornac tossed his mane, whinnying hungrily. Murtagh leaned down, patting him on the neck, "Think they've heard of us yet, friend?" His own stomach was growling, and the smells of roasted pork lofted towards him from an inn's chimney. He scanned the tiny town, decided there weren't enough soldiers to hold him even if he were caught, and began to ride towards the smell.

The poorly barricaded establishment almost made him want to laugh. Small wooden sticks, fashioned as spikes, protruded from the ground as best they could, scarcely enclosing the entire town. Two guardsmen, local townsfolk form the look of it, stood guard near the entrance wearing armor fit for pigs. The first was a stalky man with no neck and a gigantic face, his many chins folding out of his collar. The second was nothing but a boy, at least three years Murtagh's junior, with arms the size of sticks. He eyed the approaching horsemen warily, as if he held a sword to his throat. Slowing Tornac, Murtagh called, "Hello sirs! Might I enter your town? I've been hunting for most of the day and need a warm bed."

The boy said nothing, but the large man stepped forward. Apparently wearing bastard steel made him bold, "Oi, and I guess you'll be tellin' me why you're all bloody and got no game?"

"Who said I was hunting for myself? Merchants pay a fine bit of coin for fine meat," he winked, "especially for all their fat lords of Uru'baen."

For a moment he thought the man would shoo him away, but a smile broke his large face, and yellow teeth shown behind his black beard, "That's for true. Lousy nobles; what good are they? Want us to agree to let them run the show, and they don't even kill their own food! Bah!" He spat, the waved him in, "Go on, rest up. There's an in at the end of this road. Tell the in keep that Harold sent you."

He nodded, "Thanks, I will."

"H-have a safe night." Squeaked the young man, watching as Murtagh entered the town.

Torches on high polls lit his way as Murtagh went down the well beaten path. Side roads curved up to little cottages, their doors and windows shut for the night. Few men playing at dice or hooting at local women littered the streets like stray dogs, their clothing shabby and dirty from the days work. From the look of it, Hollowdown Inn was the only place open, so that must've been it. It was a handsome building with stone walls and old black wooden beams. The mortar was old and burnt in some places, leaving tiny holes for rats and other animals to creep through. He pulled Tornac to a stop, dismounted, and tied him to a small hook built into the building. The horse bit his cloak before he could get to far. "Don't worry," Murtagh said, patting his nose, "you'll be safe here."

Inside the room was like heaven. Warmth from a nearby fire kissed his cheek as lightly as a maid, and the smell of freshly cooked food set his stomach into a protest. Warm laughter and petty squabbles could be heard throughout the tiny common room, and in the corner was a small counter with a homely old woman behind it. She eyed him with distaste, a look Murtagh was quite used to, and signaled for him to come closer. He shrugged, walking towards the old crone while others sat and drank their fills.

She had eyes as gray as old stone, and her face was a ruin due to pox scars. Wisps of white hair dangles loosely around her ears, her scalp clearly visible through the sparse strands atop her head. She smiled a toothless smile at him, "Welcome young sir, and what might I do for ya?"

He tried to smile back, but the woman had a revolting smell to her, "Harold sent me; said this was the finest inn in town?"

"Aye, and he'd be full of shit too, no good son of mine!" She spat in a small bowl to her left, "But none the less, we have room for you. I assume the horse is yours?" He nodded, "I'll have my stableboy take him around back; be safer their. As for you, young master, for two crowns I'll have a nice warm bed for you and a meal to boot. How's that sound?"

He slid the crone her money, "Wonderful."

The old woman picked up both pieces and bit down on them as hard as he gums would allow. Clearly satisfied, she beamed and pointed, "Why don't you make yourself comfortable over there, and let Old Nan cook you up something nice. I'll bring a hot bowl of water to your room too," she winked, "blood isn't quite as becoming as a clean face, 'specially on someone handsome as you."

He smiled uncomfortably, then went to a secluded table near the corner of the room. A few heads raised as he passed, but none made a move to talk to him; he was grateful for that. Soon a pint of beer was beside him, but all he could do was stare down into the dark liquid, his thoughts elsewhere. Where would he go now? After Dras Leona, what then? Blending into the crowd would be hard, for sure, but for how long would the king look for him? I could fake my death. . . no, that didn't work last time. However, the only reason he was found then was because Tornac had led the search himself. They'd found the ten-year-old in the slums of Uru'baen, breathless and naked as he played with the local children. His guardian had been furious with him, but Tornac had laughed and scolded those who had been in charge of watching him. "He's just a boy," he'd taunted, "and you're supposed to be the finest knights in Alagaesia?" The wrinkled kind face stared back at him now, a red smile across his throat as blood sprayed out of the opening. Murtagh's hands started shaking, and for a moment he almost lost himself, when he overheard someone talking.

A merchant of Teirm, by the looks of him, was sitting in the middle of a large circle of barmen, their ears his to control. He was halfway through a story, his face red with drink, ". . .a dragon! A bloody blue dragon with eyes like a demon's! They say it possessed a small boy and uses his body to speak, magic flowing from his hands like the devil himself! Some say it was him that wiped out Yazuac."

"And I suppose Urgals are kind little imps that only want to play with are children and weave with our wives?" A man to his right added, taking a huge gulp of his own drink, "I'll believe that when I see it. The only way a dragon can come back is if we turn back time, friend."

"Alright, then explain to me why the king 'imself is so worried about finding that young lad, oh, what's his name, Arron?"

"Aragon?"

"Eragon!" A small maid in the corner shouted. She was holding a small poster with a boy's face on it, "His name is Eragon, and he's the new Rider." The room exploded in laughter, "What?"

"Darlin', there ain't been no Riders since Morzan and his bloody lot. If that be a Rider out there, then a slow and painful death to him."

The girl, a small thing with straw colored hair, stomped her foot and shrieked, "No! Not Eragon! Look at his face? How can someone so handsome be so evil?"

"Looks can be deceiving. It was rumored that Morzan had been as beautiful as an angel, yet he'd sooner kill a babe then look at it. Some say that the poor wench he took to wife committed suicide 'cause she spawned the son of the devil. . ."

It was more than he could take; Murtagh stood suddenly, ignoring the dots that danced in front of his eyes. Old Nan was coming around the corner, a plate of food in her wrinkled hands. He didn't look at her, "I'm going to bed early; someone'll eat it."

She grabbed him with speed unseeming for one her age, "Sorry yougin', but you look like you haven't eaten in days." She smiled sweetly, "I'll bring it to your room." The old woman followed him, up the stairs and past a few noisy rooms, into a small hallway with a red door. He twisted the small knob with shaking fingers, to disgusted and enraged to notice it. The room was charming to say the least, with a small table to the side, a comfortable looking bed, but there was a small bell tower that rested above him. As promised, a small basin of water rested on a counter built into the wall, steam still floating above the water. The clacking of the dishes woke him from his daze, and he turned to find the old woman staring at him, "Darling, there's been something wrong with you the moment you walked into my inn." She crossed her arms, "I won't tell anyone if there's something you need to get off your back."

If only you knew, he smiled, "I'm just tired, ma'am, there's no need for you to worry. Thank you for your hospitality." He watched her with cool green eyes, giving away nothing. She seemed innocent enough, but the monster in the back of his mind was keeping him tense. If rumor of something so idiotic can reach as far as this small town, then his own freedom might well be on the line as well. She gave him nothing back, only a sad smile.

As she turned, she said, "You know, it isn't wise to keep everything locked up. My son, not that fool at the gate, but my first son died with a heart full of regret." She left him then, the door clinking ominously.

Slowly, practically dragging his feet, Murtagh walked to the basin, removed his gloves, and dipped his hands into the warm water. It was scolding hot, but he liked the heat; it made him feel clean. A small rage rested to his side, and he dipped it in the water, quickly bringing it up to his face. The warmth washed over him, relaxing his face and making him feel more at peace. He washed for a full five minutes, the water a red mess, his hair sticking to his face. Cool water ran down his back, soaking his shirt. Murtagh pulled it off and placed it on the windowsill, dirt and dust falling to the ground as the wind blew. Then he noticed how much his legs were burning, and how heavy his eyes felt. To tired to eat, Murtagh walked towards the tiny bed in the middle of the room, welcoming the straw mattress and tattered blanket.

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Murtagh woke suddenly with a cold sweat covering his skin. A deep sense of dread filled him, a feeling he knew all to well. The lights from candles had all flickered out, and it was close to dawn; the world was nothing but a black void. The only sound was that of his horse trumpeting in the stables, something that Tornac rarely did; something was horribly wrong.

As if on cue, there came a horrible shriek from below. A woman's cry, full of fear and pain, along with terrifying clinking noises. Murtagh cursed, leaping out of bed. How did they find me so quickly? He hurried around the room, quickly throwing on his shirt and strapping on his swordbelt, feeling slightly bolder with the cold steel hanging at his hip. Slowly, he walked to his door, opening it as quietly as possible.

There were voices; three of them. Two sounded as though death itself were talking, but the third was that of the old woman. She was weeping, her words slurred and hard to understand. There was a loud crash, a scream, and then she stammered, ". . .I don't know. . .!"

"Do not lie to ussss," there was a sickening slapping sound, and a man cried out. A chorus of harsh laughter followed, "It would be, mosst unfortunate for your ssson."

Murtagh bit his lip; the Ra'zac had found him. They're trying to protect me, a cold pit formed in his stomach; this had to stop. There were more cries from the people downstairs, which covered his footfalls. In the dark, Murtagh groped helplessly for a lantern or something to distract the monsters downstairs. He reached out a blind hand towards the wall, trying to find a line that would connect a small oil lantern to the ceiling. Suddenly his foot came into contact with an invisible table, and whatever was on top of it came crashing down to the floor. He stopped breathing.

"What wasss that?" There was a series of clicks, and then all was quiet.

"T-t-that would be one of our customers, please!" The old woman cried, "They mean no harm! This man you look for; he ain't here!" There was a sickening sound that Murtagh knew only to well; the sound of flesh being impaled by steel. A long gasping noise quickly followed, and Murtagh knew the woman was dead.

"M-mum?" The guard, Harold, gave a wordless cry of agony, then he too fell silent against a blade.

For a long time there were no sounds, and Murtagh thought this was all just a horrible dream. However, two gigantic thuds on the deck ahead of him snapped him out of his wish. There was a low hissing noise, and a smell like sick death. Fear threatened to paralyze him, his feet unable to move. Move! He jerked at his legs; useless. Move! MOVE! Sweat drenched his hair to his face, stinging his eyes. The Ra'zac, a shadow amongst shadows, crept closer and closer with the arrogance of victory. It reached out a warped hand to grab him. . .

Biting down on his lip, hard enough to draw blood, Murtagh snapped himself out of the miasma and drew his hand-and-a-half sword. The blade whistled as it cut into the wrist of the Ra'zac, the beast howling with pain as his hand left his body. Without thinking, Murtagh dashed past it, his ears seeming to hear more than they normally would. Along with his own heartbeat, he could distinctly make out the breathing of the other Ra'zac, and hear the howling of the other. It was amazing what adrenaline could do.

Something landed behind him as he reached the stairs. The Ra'zac shrieked, a sound that disoriented him momentarily, but long enough to give the demon an advantage. Something heavy landed on his back, and Murtagh felt himself falling forward, cursing as the stairs came rushing up to met him. He didn't know when he hit the ground, or if he actually made contact, for his world was swirling by him as the shrieks continued. Deep burning sensations flared up his back and arms, and he felt his sleeves grow wet. The world stopped spinning, and he lay on the floor dazed and confused.

His sword; where was his sword? He'd lost the damn sword! Murtagh rose to his feet, wobbling, fighting against the darkness to see the small sheen of his bastard sword. It lay a few feet away from him, stuck in some crack in the floor, but the Ra'zac was closer. Yellow orbs watched him, daring him to go for the blade. The other Ra'zac was at the top of the stairs now, his breath coming in haggard gasps. Murtagh could feel the effects of their poison crawling up his skin and making his spine tingle. Fear would be the death of him. As quick as a cat, he reached down into his left boot and pulled his hunting knife from the leather sheath. The blade went sailing towards the Ra'zac near his sword, striking him in the shoulder. Murtagh rushed forward, yanked his sword free, and grabbed for the knife.

The Ra'zac would have grabbed his wrist in return, had it not been a bleeding mess. The creature shrieked in pain and anger, chasing after him with inhuman speed. Murtagh bolted for the door, or what was left of it; the once oaken doorway had been blasted apart, the splinters littering the floor. Why was it that he had not heard any of this? The reason became quite clear as he left the inn.

The town was littered with the dead bodies of her people. Children were thrown from bedroom windows, some impaled on broken glass or stakes. Women and men died in each other's arms, some with the horrible burns of Seithr Oil covering their bodies. Houses were burned and broken, a ruin of what once had been a happy community. The bell, he thought, still rushing down the street. He just noticed it now, but the bell must have been ringing the entire time, hiding the village's cry. There was a sudden rush of wind, and a black mass landed a few feet away from him, black blood dripping down upon him as if flew over. The Ra'zac howled, pointing a decrepit finger at him, "You will go no farther, Morzan ssspawn!"

Skidding to a halt, Murtagh brought his blade up, ready for anything. The other Ra'zac soon joined his friend, "You'll pay dearly for my hand, boy!"

Smirking, Murtagh said, "You'll have to catch me first." Confused, the Ra'zac watched him warily, expecting him to bolt once more. He clicked his tongue, and in an instant Tornac was racing towards him, full speed. Murtagh ran to his side, leapt, and grabbed the saddle while the Ra'zac jumped out of the way. Climbing on as best he could (Tornac was bouncing him enough to make his teeth rattle), Murtagh slung one leg over the side of the beast, while strapping the other in the saddle. On his horse, Murtagh was untouchable, invincible. No one could catch him once he and Tornac took flight. That's how it's always been, he thought, laughing as the frustrated cries of the Ra'zac echoed in the distance.

Even though they were a good distance from the town, Murtagh did not slow. Tornac was in a constant gallop, froth gathering around his mouth, but Murtagh feared to slow. Dawn had broken hours ago, dew still glistening on the autumn field. There were scarcely any trees around for shelter, and he avoided the Ramr all together. He was making for Dras Leona, avoiding roads and other outposts that would be looking for him. It would be a game, he decided; the deadliest game of cat and mouse he'd ever play.