A/N: So. Chapter 18. I know what you might be thinking: It's a day late. Two words: Spring break. Anyway, this is the LONGEST CHAPTER! Yay! And by longest chapter, I mean, the longest chapter I have EVER done. :) It had like 400 more words. Not much. But I have one person to thank: my avid reviewer, Sun Lord89! Yes, it is your fault that this chapter is longer. Give them a round of applause. Thanks to all my reviewers that I didn't call out. Reviews make my day, so I encourage you to review again! (Please). And, if you happen to be a Percy Jackson fan (or even if you're not a Percy-lover), you might want to check out my new fic! Yuppers, I have a new fic. Also, I was looking for a Betareader... PLEASE, PLEASE, if you are a Betareader, do your betareading stuff on my fic! I don't really know how they work, so... PM me, PLEASE. Hee hee.
Chapter 18!
Nasuada pulled out her coin purse and removed seven crowns – the fee for the biggest room in the only inn with a vacancy. They hadn't anticipated the crowd that had come between the time they had passed through the town to the time they had made their way back.
Murtagh openly gaped coin satchel's size.
That must have been what was weighing my pack down, he realized as he replaced the burlap sack on his back. Never had he seen so much; even though he had grown up in the king's court, he and Tornac had only lived on what they needed.
"A method of survival," Murtagh was always reminded as a boy, whenever he requested a treat. Though he suspected that Morzan loathed him so much that he wouldn't be treated if he asked, and that he was only kept alive for Selena's sake. She would never forgive herself or Morzan for the death of their only (or so the not-yet red rider thought at the time) son.
If only his mother were still alive. Perhaps the world would not have been so harsh on Murtagh and his half-brother.
Sometimes he thought Nasuada's demeanor was the one his mother might have carried. Like the way she'd haggled downward for the rate on their room, despite her bulging sack of crowns, until the clerk would not relent to six, or the way she scolded his for leaning too far over the edge of Thorn's saddle.
"Murtagh?" Nasuada held an iron key out for the rider to take. Murmurs started at the young man's name as he reached his arm through the tangle of limbs in the foyer of the inn and felt the cold piece of metal drop into his palm.
Nasuada spoke as she fitted her key into one of the three locks on their door. "Shall we find you an alias?"
Murtagh was surprised by this proposition. "Why?"
"You heard the muttering about you in the lobby, did you not?"
Murtagh shrugged. There seemed always to be some talk of his rugged looks or his vague familiarity to some people going on around his. He'd learned to take no notice.
Nasuada wiggled the key around in the second lock impatiently. "No matter. Murtagh isn't the most common of names, and people are bound to recognize you. You are a fine replica of Morzan if there ever was one."
"You've seen my father?" Murtagh asked, steering away from the undesirable subject of finding a suitable pseudonym for himself.
"No, not in person. Jeod found a fairth of Morzan in Ellesmera when I was a child. He brought back to the Varden for my father and Brom to examine."
"Where is it?" the rider questioned in spite of himself.
"They destroyed it, of course. Not before I sneaked a good look at it, though. Hmmm…" Nasuada frowned at the second lock, then swiped Murtagh's key from his loose grip and inserted it. Murtagh numbly heard the tumblers click.
"What do you think of Nogare?"
"Nogare?"
"For an assumed name," Nasuada clarified, unlatching the last bolt "It's hideous," replied Murtagh bluntly, his mind somewhere else. If there had been a fairth of his father, he wondered, who made it? And was there a fairth of his mother somewhere, too?
"Aneles?"
"No."
"Nroht?"
"No. I quite like my name: my mother chose it," said Murtagh wistfully, as if he remembered himself as an infant, being named.
"Well Murtagh is not the most common of names," Nasuada argued.
"In Galbatorix's court it is," the red rider countered. "Or, rather, it was. I think my father had all the men and boys called Murtagh put to death."
"So he did care about you. What of Nazrom?"
"Fine." No more terrible naming suggestions. "Couldn't you have come up something more normal? Or do you know of a man called Nazrom?"
"Of course not." Nasuada allowed herself a light laugh. "It's Morzan, spelled in reverse."
Murtagh scowled, about to protest. But wasn't it the perfect pun? He was, in fact the reverse of his father, if their physical appearance was disregarded. Still Murtagh had committed so many terrible deeds…
The room's door swung inward and the two tenants stepped inside.
"Barzul…" Murtagh swore.
What is it? Thorn inquired. He had been told to sleep out on the crag on which he'd first landed when they had reached Feinster, despite his vehement objections.
We were better off sleeping on your back! I'd hate to see the smaller rooms…
Nasuada repeated Murtagh's thoughts. "Thorn's back was more spacious," she observed, "and it was free." She spun in place, taking in her surroundings.
The room was approximate size of two horse stalls – one for each of us, Murtagh thought – in a very cramped stable.
In the left corner of the room sat two miniscule cots, one of which Nasuada was dragging to the right side of the room. Murtagh sat one the other, thinking a child would barely fit this straw mattress.
"It looked so charming from the outside." Nasuada wrapped her arms around her legs, feeling slightly claustrophobic.
"If I've learned one thing from living on my own in the wilderness for three years," the dragon rider said, "it's that is doesn't matter where you bed for the night, it's whether or not you sleep – or wake. We're safe here; that's all that matters." And with a creak of old springs, Murtagh went out like a snuffed candle.
When he for what seemed like the twentieth time that night, daylight was just peeping though a small window in the corner that he hadn't noticed the night before.
Good morning, Thorn thought to his rider.
Hmph, Murtagh thought in response, stretching his sore back. He felt several vertebrae snap into alignment. I suppose you slept well?
Like a rock, Thorn replied, but I didn't have a pretty companion slumbering beside me.
Murtagh blushed. Up until now, he hadn't noticed Nasuada's slow breathing. He cast a brief glance in her direction. She looked peaceful.
All we are to her is protection, Murtagh reminded himself.
I doubt that. She gave you a pet name.
A pet name? What kind out a pet name would Nazrom be? It's an alias, dim bat!
Just be grateful she doesn't snore. The wolves out here aren't as considerate, what with all their insufferable howling.
And do they taste good?
This elicited a mental chuckle from Thorn. Aside from the teeth, yes, yes they do. I only caught one, though, before the rest of the lot began to head for the hills. It's still early; care to come hunting with me?
I think I will, Murtagh replied, but I won't be eating anything.
Suit yourself. The dragon severed the connection link between the two.
The rider stood and yawned. He was still wearing the same tunic he had been when they departed from Aberon.
Murtagh fumbled around until he found a clean tunic, then he reached into his trouser pocket for his key.
After a futile attempt at trying to find the still-sleeping lady's key, he locked the middle lock with his key and stole out of the inn.
He hadn't realized that the place was called Empire.
I never would have stayed here if I had… The place was likely crawling with Galbatorix's spies. Then a thought occurred to him. I'll bet the goons that poisoned Zoë are still here. She deserves to be avenged. He still remembered the first time he met her…
Murtagh was on a mission for Galbatorix: Bewitch as many people possible into the king's command. Easier said than done. He'd first been directed to enchant Eastcroft. As if there were many live-in residents.
It still stuck in the rider's conscience. As if Galbatorix needed anymore senseless goons to do his bidding.
The only people who had to be especially sought out were magic users. They had to be sworn into the king's command directly.
So the first and foremost task was to locate all the magic users. The job had already been done in Eastcroft. Now, Murtagh was in – or rather, over – Feinster. He had probed the minds of each magician, and told them not to resist.
This was not the first time the red rider had been sent on business to Feinster: he had come here to bind Lady Lorana to the evil king, and he knew it was a big city, chock full of spell casters
Murtagh directed Thorn to land outside the gates. No need to send the citizens scurrying away in fear.
He made his way to the spell casters one by one, starting on the left side of the city – the wealthy district.
It was tedious work, unlike in Eastcroft, where there had only been nine magicians all together. Feinster seemed to be teeming with them: wealthy ones, poor ones, sick ones, healthy ones, men, women, elders and young people.
At last he made his way to the ramshackle part of town. He was fairly certain none of the magicians had gotten away Only one had tried to run, and he chose to run to this part of town, right into Murtagh's grasp, like a mouse skittering into a dead end and being caught by a lion. Murtagh stole his resolve as easily as the rest.
The last spell caster was feminine, as far a Murtagh could tell. Easy.
He stalked moodily into the blacksmith's shop that her vitality led him to.
"Come out and surrender," Murtagh recited for the umpteenth time that day. "His Majesty king Galbatorix is a merciful ruler, and you would do well to serve under him."
A girl in sooty black chainmail and thick metal-worker's gloves descended as spiraling staircase in the middle of the shop.
Murtagh was enchanted, just as the other magic users had been by him. The girl – about his own age – was beautiful. She had wavy, titian hair, and a heart-shaped face that was reddened by the fire she had just been tending.
"Don't hurt me," she pleaded. Murtagh couldn't imagine doing any such thing.
The rider snapped back to reality. Thorn, he thought, I think I've changed my mind about hunting.
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-Seastar97