Author's note: This is a longer chapter than usual. It just did not want to end! Perhaps I just simply like writing from Murtagh's point of view; he is, in my opinion, one of the most interesting characters in the original series. I don't really have any fixed length for a chapter, so expect them to be of varying lengths. I have had parts of this chapter lying around forever but just now did I finally get some time off to finish it. Uni has been hectic with the exam weeks and course projects and what not, and I have had to take some time off to fill out job applications. Luckily, I landed myself a position at a research lab for the coming summer, so that's one problem solved.
Anyways, we finally get to see some Galbatorix in this chapter… Really didn't get enough of his character in the books, but I did enjoy writing these scenes. Keep in mind that, as with many of the other character, this is my personal interpretation of him. Also exploring some moral talk in this chapter, yay!
As a side note, I got inspired and drew a somewhat sketchy picture of Murtagh and Tornac. The link to the corresponding Deviantart-page can be found on my profile.
Anyways, thanks for all the review and enjoy!
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Chapter 5 – Conversations
The wine tasted bitter.
Murtagh absentmindedly swirled the contents of his goblet; the fleeting warmth of the cup did little for his numb fingers. The ruby-red liquid filled each breath with the aromatic scent of sugary grapes, mixed with exotic spices of the south. Cinnamon and ginger, perhaps a hint of cardamom. The grapes had been grown and pressed down south near Belatona, a fact which had been mentioned many a time during the last hour or so. Apparently the hilly lands provided fairly fertile ground for vineyards, Lake Leona providing fresh water for irrigation; the wines produced were quite sough after, measuring up to the exotic blends originating from the Surdan coastal areas.
Perhaps the fault was not so much in the wine as in the company and the matters at hand. And it was freezing. Murtagh would have been unsurprised had his breath emerged in puffs of mist. The winter had set in colder than usual; already early frost had ruined a number of harvests in the northern regions. Apparently, even here in the capital, they were saving firewood by limiting the number of fires burning and providing warm circulation within the castle walls and floor. Murtagh had never been more thankful for the fur lined cloak he wore; consciously he tugged the thick woolen fabric closer for additional warm. His only regret was the absence of gloves. Murtagh glanced to his left towards the end of the table where the palace archivist Grenn sat scribbling away on a ridiculously long roll of parchment. Murtagh felt a pang of sympathy for the man: his knuckles where snow white and the man's lithe form shivered under the much lighter clothing he wore.
Murtagh sat up in attention as Galbatorix bid the representative of Feinster to reassume his seat. There had been an incident at a small border village a fortnight prior; supplies had been stolen and the local barracks had been burned to the ground under the cover of the night. Everyone at the table knew it was the Varden that was behind the attack; King Orrin of Surda was far too cowardly and his country too dependent on the bilateral trade with the Broddring Empire to risk Galbatorix's wrath. Murtagh doubted the man was unaware that it was only on the King's whim that Surda was allowed to continue its autonomous existence outside the borders of the Empire.
There was a scuffle of wood against the hard stone floor as Galbatorix rose from his seat in a flurry of silk and furs. The man's dark eyes and sharp facial features along with his tall form made for an imposing figure at the head of the table, demanding both attention and respect. He clasped his gloved hands behind his back as he cleared his throat. "You have my deepest sympathies Lord Karedyn. The rebels took it upon themselves to violate the revered peace we all strive for, and now they shall be brought to justice." The king's voice was iron, hard and unyielding, as he spoke. "An additional legion of fifty-eight men shall be departing with you to ensure the future safety of Feinster and its surrounding regions. Please give the Lady Lorana my deepest sympathies." Lord Karedyn nodded his head, expressing his thanks in his lady's stead.
'It isn't as if she can deny the king, even if the added presence of the imperial army is more likely than not to further stoke the flames. The presence of soldiers nowadays makes anyone feel uneasy, whether they be the Varden, Surdan or even citizens of the Empire.' Murtagh mused silently. He had met the lady Lorana only once before, on the day she had come to the capital to take up lordship of Feinster in her late father's stead and to swear fealty to Galbatorix. Murtagh had been present at the ceremony, as had nearly every other soul in the castle; Galbatorix liked to make such proceedings grand. He recalled her as a rather fair lady – even though he had only been seven back then – with fair hair and grey eyes that had somehow seemed so very sad. She had never married, as far as Murtagh had heard, and many scowled at her for that fact alone. However, no one could doubt her leadership, especially in such a politically turbulent region. 'And now the King seeks to shake the hornets' nest. It's as if he wants to draw the Varden out of hiding… Perhaps he has finally grown tired of the endless little scuffles.'
Galbatorix regarded the other occupants of the room. "Is there naught else that has arisen to require my attention at this time?" The black eyes landed on a man three chairs to his right. "Lord Hamel, what news have you from the northern realm? Is there any truth in the troubling news I have heard as of late?" The man in question sat up proper and, with prompting from the king, pushed his chair back to stand, brushing away the wrinkles from his crumbled robes.
Murtagh liked him best out of the lot; the man was shrewd and sharp tongued. Despite all his faults, Lord Tarrant, governor of Ceunon, had picked his representative to the royal council well. Lord Hamel of house Silverthorne was a man in his late fifties with brownish red hair and stormy greyish blue eyes so common in the northern part of the empire. The man despised underhandedness and liars, valuing honesty, loyalty and the welfare of his kinsmen. Murtagh thought him a bit paranoid, but that was a given when one had lived his whole life pinched between the elven stronghold of Du Weldenvarden and the treacherous Spine. Murtagh suspected it was Lord Hamel's militaristic attitude and austere manner that allowed him such sway over the many decisions made in these chambers; somehow, during his fifteen years on the council, the man had gained a sliver of Galbatorix's respect. Although, at the moment, the man's usually sun-tanned countenance looked rather pale with a somewhat unhealthy blush adorning his cheeks.
"I'm afraid there might be some truth to these rumors that have reached the capital, sire. I have heard many complain of the poor harvest. Some suspect there will not be enough to last through winter." Lord Hamel explained cautiously appearing, to Murtagh surprise, ever so slightly hesitant. His face skillfully masked the grimace so apparent in his voice. "The children starve and the men will be too weak to sow the fields come spring. Already have the healers complained of fingers and toes lost to frostbite." The man broke off into a strong coughing fit; perhaps the winter storms had finally caught up to aging man's health. He took a deep sip of wine to clear his throat before continuing.
"And there are those that look to you, sire, both to blame and to judge. The people are unhappy, and it's not simply bandits and thieves doing the stealing these days." Hamel divulged. "I have conferred with many headmen of the northern villages as of late. They request aid from the crown to acquire grain by trade with the southern cities and perhaps Surda..."
It was the master of finances that interrupted lord Hamel's plea with a throat clearing cough. Struggling under his heavy-set stature the man stood on two wobbly feet to address the council at the king's behest.
"If I may, my lord, but with the current state of the crown's coffers we cannot possibly afford such measures. The poor harvest and the last few campaigns in the south have not come cheaply." The man explained. "If anything, we should consider collecting additional taxes this year as compensation, especially from the coastal areas. I hear they have had quite a successful year." Murtagh watched as the king rose from his seat and walked up to one of the many beautiful stained glass windows adorning the walls.
The air felt tense. Galbatorix was silent for a moment, apparently lost deep in thought. Without turning away from the window, he spoke. "Tell me, my dear lords, why is it that this Empire exists in the first place?" The king's tone was quiet, deceptively calm. Regardless it sent a shiver running down Murtagh's spine. "What is it that keeps this realm from being overrun by barbarians and rebels? Why is it that order preserves under my rule?"
"Stability"
"Prosperity"
Galbatorix's words cut the air like a sharpened steel blade through melted butter as he stalked down the length of the room. His fur-lined, black cloak of scaly dragon hide flapped in his wake.
"Order"
Murtagh gazed at the flustered master of finances. The man was sweating under his heavy velvet robes judging by his reddening face and slight quiver in his stature. Although it might as well have been that the man was ever so slightly drunk; Lord Darran was much revered for his untoward consumption of fine wines and Murtagh did not doubt the man was well into his fourth cup since the beginning of the meeting.
"Peace"
The king came to a stop at the head of the table. Black eyes leveled upon his master of finances' trembling form.
"Have a seat, lord Darran"
Had the situation not been so tense, Murtagh would have laughed out loud. Galbatorix truly had an air for dramatics. However, at that moment the king truly looked every part of the conqueror, warrior and leader he was; the man stood tall, at his full height, presiding over the court with his face drawn into an unpleasant grimace. "Murtagh" The sixteen year old jumped in his seat at being addressed so suddenly.
"Tell lord Darran what would happen should he deny aid to the loyal citizens of my empire and instead decide to rob them of what little they have left in these uneasy times."
Murtagh swallowed heavily; suddenly it felt like a heavy lump had become stuck in his throat. Steeling himself, he refused to meet the accusing, disbelieving eyes of lord Darran from across the table. Instead he focused on a spot in the air just above the lord's head. "The people of the north, as lord Hamel has already stated, are unhappy with the situation as it is. Refusing them aid would likely raise tensions between these rural areas and the capital as well as create general mistrust concerning the regime." Murtagh stated plainly, considering his words carefully. "Growing sympathies towards the rebel cause as well as open rebellion against the state would be more than likely."
It was Galbatorix's hollow laugh that broke the following silence. He sighted deeply in apparent disappointment. "Why is it that a mere boy of sixteen summers can understand the consequences of such actions better than most of those who have sat by my side for years?" His question was met by an uneasy silence.
There was a sudden knock on the chamber doors. Galbatorix glanced up sharply as did every other person in the room. "Enter!" Ever so cautiously the door on the left opened and a young squire scurried in to stand at the entryway. Murtagh doubted the fair haired boy was much older than his sister. "Well, what is it?" The king demanded, impatience evident in his voice. "Have you a tongue, boy? Why is it that you bumble in on a council in mid-session?"
The squire scrambled into a rather graceless bow. "A-Apologies, milord." The squire's voice sounded like that of a scared mouse. "T-th-the Lord Du-Durza has arrived. He seeks immediate audience with you, m-milord." The child stuttered, quacking in his very boots. Murtagh almost pitied him as he took in the lad's pale face and sweaty hands that fiddled restlessly with the hem of his tunic.
"About time." Somehow Murtagh thought the king sounded pleased. "Tell Lord Durza that I will see him at once. Dismissed." The squire needed no further encouragement as he was out of the door before Murtagh could blink.
"It appears we are finished for the day. I shall expect you all when we convene at noon tomorrow." There was no argument against the declaration. The king stood prompting the rest of the council to do so as well. "Lord Hamel, I believe we shall continue our discussion at dinner tonight, if it please you."
"It would be a pleasure, sire." The man in question replied, giving a deep bow in return which earned a ghost of a smile from Galbatorix.
Murtagh's shoulders slumped in relief as he made to stand and follow the already departing councilors out of the chamber. His back ached from the less than comfortable chair and his toes felt numb within his boots; he would stop by his chambers for an extra pair of socks before heading down to sparring practice – preferably a pair of thick woolen ones. Out of the corner of his eye he caught Grenn finishing packing away the final scroll of parchment and tucking away the half full inkwell in the little bag hanging off his shoulder. The man caught his gaze, giving him a slight smile before heading out, no doubt to finalize the records for archiving. It was only a moment later that only Murtagh and the king remained behind.
"What did you think of Lord Darran's attitude?" The question came completely out of the blue, yet somehow Murtagh hadn't been expecting the king to allow him silent leave. It was his usual forte to throw a person off his guard when they least expect it.
"I think the man is more concerned about appeasing his own craving for fine wine and soaps than anything else." Murtagh scoffed, speaking without consideration. It was only after the words left his mouth that he began to regret them.
It was both to his relief and surprise that the king did not seem even slightly offended, on the contrary Murtagh could have sworn he saw the man's lips quirk a little. "Ever so blunt, Murtagh. Just like your father. Never had the patience of the courtesy for these subtle little games of words." 'No, the man had a tendency to strike first and think later…. or not at all, if he had had his fill of wine.'
"Regardless, you did well putting lord Darran in his place. The man is as useless as a blunt sword in battle when it comes to sympathizing with the needs of the common man – a skill even I admit every leader must have – but he has his uses." Murtagh nodded his head stiffly in apparent gratitude. Once again, Galbatorix failed to see anything but his father's shadow. Or perhaps, Murtagh suspected, that was all the man ever wanted to see. Assuming the conversation over, he turned to leave. However, before he had taken even five steps towards the door, Galbatorix's voice rang out once again. "General Barst inquired after you the other day. I will say the man sounded quite impressed. Apparently he has been following your performance on the sparring grounds from time to time." The king's voice was veiled in self-directed smugness and pride.
Murtagh had gone stiff. He had an inkling of where the conversation was heading, and he did not like it one bit. No piece of news concerning Galbatorix's top general was ever pleasant; the man was a ruthless killer, excessively patriotic bordering on fanatical, and above all deep in Galbatorix's pocket. The man would've burned down Du Weldenvarden single-handedly had Galbatorix only given the order. Murtagh had only ever seen the man on the training grounds or when he was reporting to the council or Galbatorix in person; never had he spoken to him.
"I have arranged for you to squire for him in once you turn seventeen, should you be willing. I dare say it would be a most advantageous opportunity." Galbatorix elaborated. "I hope you will consider it."
To Murtagh, the words sounded more like an order than a proposal. Nevertheless he forced himself to smile to appear grateful. "I will consider it, sire." Apparently the acute answer was enough to please Galbatorix. The man soon bid him leave and Murtagh was more than happy to comply, if only to escape the now stifling atmosphere of the council chamber.
He practically raced through the halls. The corridors were mostly empty at this hour; most of the castle had apparently retired for an early dinner. His hurried steps echoed softly and it wasn't long before he found himself in the Hall of Tapestries, an ancient relic from the time the city had been under elvish occupation. He remembered spending hours upon hours here with his sister when he was little, perhaps only a few months after they had moved permanently to Urû'baen. The beautiful fabrics hanging from the walls had fascinated his young mind with their colorful pictures and curious tales. There were tapestries depicting breathtaking landscapes, ancient rulers, mythical creatures and heroes, and frozen snippets of history from long before the fall of the riders. Murtagh had often wondered why Galbatorix had allowed the room to remain in its original state. The man had not been as kind when it came to other historical records; Tornac had once told his two charges of the massive book burnings and the many hangings of learned men - mostly members of the secretive sect of Arcaena – that had followed Galbatorix's swift rise to power.
From the four corridors that led from the room he chose the one on his right. He knew it to be the quickest way to the sparring grounds on the eastern side of the castle just through the rose gardens. The nearing thunder of metal boots against the hard stone floor made him pause. 'More than five, less than twelve'. Out of curiosity he ducked behind a nearby pillar to hide his presence. To be honest, it felt somewhat childish and embarrassing, yet something told him to stay out of the way.
He didn't have to wait long; a short moment later an ordered group of armored soldiers and guards marched his way. Two lines of five, each of the ten men wielding a standard issue sword at their belt whilst clad in a crimson tunic bearing the infamous twisted flame embroidered in gold. Murtagh wondered their purpose until he spotted a slumped, staggering figure being half dragged by the two men in the middle. Long, matted hair that had apparently once been either a pale blond or silver was covered in a grimy, brown mixture of blood and dirt, the ragged and tattered clothes barely hung onto the figure's lithe frame. Murtagh's nose picked up the sweet, yet stinging, smell of puss from an inflamed wound. The figure was undoubtedly male, yet his features were sharp and cat-like; the pointed ears told the rest of the story. 'An elf! What on earth is an elf doing so deep within the Empire?' Murtagh craned his neck for a better view before the company disappeared behind a corner. Faintly, Murtagh recognized it as the way leading in the direction of the throne room.
He thought he was alone once more, until the gentle scuffle and squeak of leather alerted him to the presence following in the company's wake. At first he thought it was just another soldier or perhaps a servant, judging from the apparent lack of clinking armor. That was until he caught sight of the man's appearance. A cold shiver ran down his spine. He was rather tall and extremely thin, clad in shining black leather armor with a billowing cape fastened at the nape of his neck by a silver clasp; Murtagh briefly caught sign of a blade hilt at his waist. The man's steel toed leather boots made a soft clinking sound with every step. But what really threw Murtagh off guard was the man's face, framed by locks the color of fresh blood. The skin was deathly pale, perhaps a bit pasty. In some places it pressed at the man's facial features so tightly that Murtagh could clearly see the veins underneath. Murtagh didn't even realize he was suddenly holding his breath as he followed the man's form.
Murtagh stiffened as the shade – for that was the only thing the man could possibly be – stopped right in front of his hiding place. For the first time Murtagh caught full view of the stranger's blade. It was extremely thin, judging by the shape of the sheath, and undoubtedly wickedly sharp. The shade shifted, his cape sliding once more to cover the blade, and Murtagh found himself staring directly into the creature's eyes.
The shade's eyes were a stark maroon, sunk deep into the skull. The low lighting of the corridor gave them chilling glint. Every instinct told him to flee; for the first time in a long while Murtagh felt genuinely frightened. The shade regarded him with apparent disinterest. Then, thin lips curved into a disturbing smile, revealing two rows of filed teeth. Murtagh shivered. His right hand fumbled instinctively for the familiar hilt of his sword only to clasp thin air; he had left his sword up in his chambers that morning because of the council meeting. Mentally cursing he prepared to draw the small knife concealed within his boot.
The shade turned away, apparently losing his interest. It wasn't until the sound of his retreating steps had faded completely, that Murtagh allowed himself to draw a deep breath. He felt faint and swiped at his forehead only to find it covered by a thin film of cold sweat. He quickly fled the scene in the opposite direction, his steps much more hasty than normal.
"Something troubles you." It was less of a question and more of a statement. Murtagh could clearly see the genuine concern in his teacher's gaze. "Tell me."
Murtagh shrugged his shoulders whilst toying with the frayed wrapping of his sparring sword. He would have to have someone renew it when he found the time. "There isn't really that much to tell. Just trouble sleeping." The lie left a nasty taste in the back of his throat. The look he received told him that Tornac was quite unconvinced.
"I can see that." The man remarked, making note of the dark bags that had become more prominent under the youth's eyes as of late. The lad's cheeks were also hollower and his countenance paler than usual. "Have you eaten anything?" He received only a shrug in return. Tornac gazed at his charge knowingly. Honestly, sometimes it seemed the man knew Murtagh better than the boy knew himself. "Come. Your lessons are over for the day, are they not? There is someplace that might cheer you up. Or where we may simply talk in peace." If Tornac was surprised by the lack of any protest, he did not show it.
The man dragged Murtagh through the bustling streets of the middle district of the city in quite a brisk manner. The usually muddy streets were frozen solid. The winter breeze howled through the narrow alleys with vengeance and the cold was quick to bite their cheeks red. By the time they came to stop in front of a shabby wooden building by the wall separating the middle and lower districts, Murtagh was shivering with his fingers tucked into his armpits for much needed warmth. A sign hung above a windowless door, creaking as it swung in the wind. 'The Dragon's Talon' it read in scratched red and curly script.
The warmth that greeted them as they entered was a welcome change from the gnawing cold. Immediately Murtagh was barraged by a cacophony of sounds. The air was filled with conversation, stomping feet as well as drinking songs; there was even a man by the bar playing the fiddle with his companions singing to the tune. The place was packed, mostly with common folk and visitors staying for the night. Tornac received many a warm greeting as they shed their cloaks and made their way up to the bar. A burly, rather heavy-set man stood behind the counter polishing a cup with a murky rag that had definitely seen better days.
"Hey Thomas, get me and this young chap something to drink will you? The usual if you please." Tornac called out over the loud chatter.
Murtagh shot the man a disbelieving look. "I can't drink, not until eighteen!"
The barman, now identified as Thomas, smirked at him in amusement eyeing the sword at his side. "Old enough to wield a blade, old enough to drink." He stated jollily thrusting two tankards into Tornac's hands. "I'll put it on your tab. There's a table in the corner that's free, by the stairs. Call me if you need something, eh? Good to see you, old friend." Tornac offered the older man a nod and a smile. He led Murtagh off to a vacant corner table, expertly dodging both the jolly and intoxicated patrons in his way without spilling the drinks.
The atmosphere was a bit calmer where they sat down. The lighting was a bit dimmer as there was only a single dusty oil-lantern to cast light. A pair of men sat not too far off, conversing in quiet tones with their forms masked by shadow. One of them glanced up briefly as Murtagh drew out a chair for himself, its battered legs screeching quite nosily against the floor. Tornac offered Murtagh his mug, already nursing his own drink, sniffing deeply at the odors before taking a sip.
Murtagh gagged as he took a rather generous gulp from his tankard. The drink was sour and burned his throat as he swallowed. "Ack! What is this this? It tastes absolutely vile." He sputtered glaring at Tornac accusingly. The man only grinned at him toothily over the rim of his mug.
"A bit too strong? It's not ale, I'll tell you that much."
Murtagh grimaced. From then on he took to only taking small, slow sips. The cold in his limbs was ebbing away. Whatever it was, the brew was starting to ever so slowly ease the annoyingly persistent throbbing feeling at the base of his skull that he had been suffering from all day long. The drink was strong; he could only imagine feeling much worse come morning.
"So are you now going to tell me what has got you so down?"
Murtagh set his mug down with a soft thunk, bringing his hand up to gently rub his temples. He sighted. "There really is no fooling you, is there?" Murtagh stated wryly, the fingers of his left hand tapping restlessly against the scratched and battered table top. "It's many things, actually. Don't really know where to start."
Tornac gave him a long, searching look, and for a moment the man looked years older than he truly was. "Well what about today then? Is it something to do with that meeting you attended, or perhaps something else?" Murtagh gave a silent nod; the man had hit the nail right on the head.
"There was an incident that came up today… well, actually one of several that have occurred during the past months. A village was pillaged and robbed, the barracks burned to the ground. There were some casualties, mostly soldiers stationed there." Murtagh's voice was hoarse. His mouth felt dry despite having just taken a sip. "What bothered me most, however, was the King's reaction. He wasn't furious, not really. It was more like he was amused."
"I assume it was the Varden behind the attack" Murtagh nodded. "Tell me, what do you know about them?"
Murtagh considered the question for a moment. "No much, besides the obvious I suppose. They are rebels, fighting to overthrow the King. They have mostly humans within their ranks, although they apparently have alliances with both the elves and the dwarf clans. Most suspect they have a stronghold somewhere in the Beors." Those facts were common knowledge; Murtagh knew as much.
Tornac hummed in agreement. "The Varden are freedom fighters… well at least that is what they themselves believe. Yes, they rebel against the king's rule and attack his borders, but you are missing the end goal." Tornac explained in a low tone. Murtagh gazed at the man curiously. "They fight for the freedom and equality of all races. And while that is undoubtedly a noble pursuit, their means a questionable at best." Murtagh snorted into his mug at the clear understatement. However, Tornac's humorless look was enough to refocus his attention.
"What one has to understand is that you do not go about winning a war against any regime, let alone one that has stood close to a hundred years, by staging petty squabbles over small border towns." Tornac muttered taking a sip from his tankard. "To Galbatorix, the Varden are little more than a disarrayed group of rowdy peasants armed with pitchforks."
The king's disregard angered Murtagh. "Still, the king should do something to put an end to them. Not let towns burn for his sole amusement." 'How can he just sit by and let them suffer? Can the people truly not see that?'
"No man wants to take up a sword voluntarily, leave his home and family to fight for some high lord. This Galbatorix understands. To the common man, Galbatorix's rule means only one thing: stability. It is one of the main reason's the King continues to have his people's loyalty. To them, the Varden is but a violent group of murderers and thieves threatening to rob them of their lands, families and livelihood. Most only care about the simple things in life: reaping the year's harvest, having enough to put food on the table and seeing their children grow up to live long and healthy lives." Tornac words were stony and his eyes had turned darker than normal. He glanced around for any unwanted ears. "As long as Galbatorix holds the peoples favor, the Varden are no real threat to him. You have to understand that this land hasn't truly seen war since the order of the riders fell near a hundred years ago. People have grown complacent and Galbatorix wants to keep it that way."
Murtagh's eyes widened in sudden realization. "He fears conflict not with the Varden, but from within." It was then that the king's reaction to the troubles of the North began to make sense, especially his sudden outburst at Lord Darran.
"That he does." The older man nodded solemnly. "But as for the Varden, do you truly not think the king hasn't tried to be rid of them? Yes, at the moment the Varden is in disarray. Has been for years. Yet still they have managed to evade him. Galbatorix fears the day the rebels find a strong leader, one with both the charisma and authority to truly rally the three races under one banner. And by that I mean all three." The words were left hanging in the air, and it took a while for Murtagh to decipher their true meaning.
Tornac picked up his mug once again to take a sip. It came up empty. "Ah, seems like I'm in need of another." The man stated peering amusedly into his empty mug. "Nothing like a refill to lighten up the mood." Murtagh rolled his eyes. The tension of the previous conversation was quickly fleeting.
It was late into the evening that they made it to the castle gates; it was barely an hour before the start of curfew and the streets were not quite so crowded. Darkness had already fallen quite some time ago, as it often did during winter when light was sparse, but the many softly glowing lanterns made the night air so much more bearable. Murtagh neared the gates tugging along Tornac's somewhat stumbling form. The man had spent most of the evening after his second drink teaching his young companion the many intricacies of local drinking songs; some of the more creative verses had left Murtagh blushing quite heavily. The older man's short-lived hubris had begun to subside as the hours stretched on, however, and now he was mostly suffering from a steadily growing headache.
There was an older man arguing with the castle guard, his voice loud and pleading. It was quite difficult to make out his features other than his travel-worn, somewhat ragged clothing, but Murtagh could just barely spot a messy mop of silvery hair and blue eyes that glinted in the firelight. Not that he paid that much attention. One of the guards, a younger man whose name Murtagh couldn't recall, grinned at them when he caught sign of the infamous swordsman's staggering form. Murtagh rolled his eyes at the man.
The sudden noises of commotion startled him from his stupor. The air was thick with shouting and anguished screams. Suddenly Tornac was standing upright, alert with his hand resting upon the handle of his blade. There was the unmistakable sound of swords clashing and twang of crossbows being fired. They raced towards the sounds of battle with sudden urgency hurrying their steps.
They turned the corner to find the courtyard was ablaze with flames. What seemed like half the palace guard scampered around in apparent haste and a state of panic. An indiscernible onslaught of orders mixed in with the roaring flames and clang of metal. The heat and light momentarily blinded Murtagh as the overpowering stench of smoke and blood filled his senses. Vaguely, he heard someone call out his name with unexpected urgency.
The blade came out of nowhere. Murtagh did not even see the elf strike before he was startled by the sharp clang of steel meeting steel. Tornac had his dagger out, deflecting the strike that would have otherwise taken off Murtagh's ear, at worst nicked a vein on his neck or sliced it wide open. He had his own blade drawn to catch the next strike. The impact was surprisingly powerful and heavy and Murtagh felt his arms buckle under the weight of the blow. He spun away, deflecting the offending blade to the side. Gaining some distance, he looked up at his opponent.
Murtagh stared into the elf's narrowed eyes and was taken aback by what he saw. Grey eyes blazed with unadulterated hate, veiled by what Murtagh would only later recognize as fear. "Wyrdfell! Traitor!" The elf screeched along with a violent string of words in a tongue Murtagh didn't recognize. Murtagh caught sight of a rather large gash at his opponent's side, steadily dripping blood. He had no further time to reflect as the elf lunged at him yet again. The speed caught him off guard and he stumbled back, barely dodging the attack. The next couple of wide swipes came in quick succession. The latter managed to nick his thigh and Murtagh tripped over his feet in surprise. Only instinct saved him from the follow-up attack and he found himself holding off the elf's weapon with his cross guard. He could practically hear the blood pumping through his veins as his heart sped up. The ground pushed against his back harder with each frantic breath as the elf's strength began to overpower his own. His arms trembled uncontrollably and sweat smeared his face. He closed his eyes, concentrating solely on herding of the offending sword. And suddenly, the pressure was gone.
Murtagh looked up to find a pair of wide eyes staring straight into his own. The elf's face was blank, the earlier fury dissipating into silent shock. The eyes quickly flashed between Murtagh's own and the blade in his hand, returning to blankly stare into Murtagh's brown orbs. "Brown, not grey." The whisper was so quiet Murtagh could have imagined it. There was a painful gasp. Suddenly, blood dripped from the elf's mouth onto Murtagh's face. He slumped forward. Murtagh saw black.