The Warrior and The Dragon
(Part Two)
The slaves, dressed in rags, walked in a chain, one behind the other. The men's hands were tied behind their backs with leather straps. A thick chain passed through the iron ring on their right foot, connecting them in a long, pitiful line. Forced to follow the pace set by the one in front, their only concern was maintaining a basic rhythm in their steps to keep their balance.
They had been walking non-stop for hours, since before dawn, without stopping for water or rest. Some who stumbled and fell along the way, interrupting the line's progress, faced brutal violence from the slave traders. They were brought back into line with punches, kicks, and savage whippings. Those who could not respond immediately lay dead on the dusty edges of the public road, their eyes wide open with fear or confusion etched on their faces.
Among these unfortunate people, a few women could be seen, tied haphazardly among the men. An observer would notice that these women were all young, almost girls. After all, what value could an elderly woman have in the market of Dras-Leona? They, too, were covered in tattered clothes, some even bare-chested. The only concession the slave traders made to their gender was allowing their hands to remain free, though their feet were still chained to the long line. This small favor did little to help the women, most of whom staggered. The female slaves were so exhausted from the long march and the weight of the chain that they were indifferent to their indecent nudity, which they had long since stopped trying to cover.
Following the sorrowful line of slaves, and perhaps the most heart-wrenching sight of all, was a small cart pulled by two yoked oxen. The cart carried about a dozen small children, aged six to ten, locked in a wooden cage. These young ones were evidently the children of the slaves, having survived and deemed suitable by the slave traders to be sold just like their parents. Some children slept, exhausted from the sun and hunger, while others looked around with eyes filled with terror at the world that had suddenly become so uncertain and hostile. A small girl of about six reached out her hands, crying softly for her mother, having searched for her for hours.
It was already past noon, and the sun was descending from its zenith in a rarely cloudless sky for the season, scattering shadows and mercifully relieving these wretched souls from its harshest rays. Suddenly, two horsemen following the long line of slaves galloped ahead, raising dust with their horses' hooves. They stopped their horses and conversed with the apparent leader of the overseers among the slave traders. The men gestured intensely, sometimes showing displeasure towards the city gates and the setting sun, and other times towards the long line of slaves. Some slaves, taking advantage of the brief halt, collapsed one by one, exhausted, on the ground.
The two horsemen, leaders of the slave traders, were in a hurry to enter the city before dusk to settle their 'live merchandise' in the appropriate place for the next day's slave market. They needed to accomplish this before the sun set and darkness enveloped the already deserted market.
"Faster!" one of them shouted, pointing at the slaves with the stick he held. "There's a crowd at the gates, and time is running out. I have no intention of spending the night outside the walls, smelling the stench of all this scum."
After this immoral statement about their victims, the two horsemen spurred their horses and hurried towards the city gates to arrange their entry, bribing some of the guards if necessary.
The leader of the guards cracked his whip forcefully, striking the ground and implying he would gladly bring it down with similar force on anyone who did not hurry to get up and resume the march. Using derogatory and humiliating epithets unfit even for animals, the slave traders forced the chained ones to get up and walk again, leading them to the edge of the dusty road that reached the gates of Dras-Leona.
Hidden among the bushes with thick foliage, at a distance from the public road that kept him unseen, yet close enough to observe everything happening and to hear some of the conversations of those traveling to and from the city, Murtagh fixed a murderous gaze on the back of one of the slave traders' guards. In the palace of Galbatorix, where he had grown up, many slaves lived to serve their masters. Murtagh knew well that Galbatorix, in an attempt to please a clique of people who profited from the suffering of others, had allowed the unthinkable decades ago: the reinstatement of the institution of slavery, something the Dragon Riders of old had prevented.
Murtagh was well aware of the existence of slaves and the unpleasant realities faced by those who lost their freedom. He had heard about the notorious buying and selling of human lives in the large slave markets of the empire's cities, especially those of Dras-Leona, but he had never witnessed with his own eyes how these people were brought there. The slaves living in the palace of Urû'baen, uniformly dressed in simple gray tunics, men and women alike, always moved silently like shadows, ensuring that none of the lords would give them a second glance. They simply existed there, obliged to provide their services without compensation—whatever services were demanded of them—and a nobleman could easily pretend they were invisible. This is how he had treated them until now.
Although Murtagh abhorred the thought of slavery and had never used slaves in his service, he had never questioned or reflected on their existence. Now, the long line of half-naked and miserable men and women passing before him, dragging one foot with the heavy chain, made him reconsider how he had perceived their existence. Feeling nauseous, he was forced to listen to the unacceptable words and threats uttered by the slave traders' guards as the long line of slaves passed by, heading towards the city gates.
Almost everyone had passed by when one of the last chained women collapsed to the ground, inciting the guards' anger. The woman appeared truly exhausted, either unable to continue walking, clinging to the faint hope that the long march was nearing its end, or she had stumbled and fallen, perhaps both. She collapsed with her stomach on the ground, unwilling to continue even after the guards' threats, vulgar words, and obscene insinuations. Inevitably, the entire line of slaves ahead and behind her stopped as well.
The slave trader roughly nudged the woman with his heavy boot, and when she did not move, he kicked her violently. Another guard hurried over and repeatedly brought the whip down on her bare back, to no avail. The woman groaned in pain, writhed on the ground, and vomited bile, but the further mistreatment did nothing to help her get up and walk the last distance to the end of the long march. From the direction of the cage, voices and cries were heard from the little girl, who drew other children into her lament.
The brutal behavior of the guards towards the woman, along with the children's lament, triggered an instinctive reaction in Murtagh: the need to rush in and defend the unfortunate slave. His hand moved unconsciously and swiftly, grasping the hilt and drawing half the blade from its sheath when second thoughts made him stop mid-motion. The slave traders were many and well-armed. No matter how many he managed to take down if he attacked with his sword, there were enough to counterattack and eliminate him.
... Perhaps if Tornac were here with him...
The great loss of his friend and companion filled the young man's heart with sorrow once again. However, if Tornac had lived and was here with him now, he would likely have dissuaded him from such an action. Tornac had a logical mind and avoided unreasonable risks. The city gates were very close, and in the commotion that an attack would surely cause, the guards would not remain indifferent.
The instinct for survival overpowered Murtagh's impulse to help the unfortunate woman, who was already being lifted from the ground by her companions as best they could, to walk again. The thought that he would only end up either dead by the blades of the slave traders' guards or another captive chained at the end of the line, forced to share the miserable fate of these wretches, deterred him from attempting it. Since there was no prospect of success, there was no way he would risk it.
For these reasons, he withdrew his hand from the sword's hilt, hid as best he could among the dense vegetation, and confined himself to observing while cursing the slave traders under his breath. He remained motionless until the sorrowful line of slaves and children had moved far enough towards the city walls. Then he carefully advanced parallel to the trees, hiding behind them, approaching as close to the gates as he dared while daylight still held.
The instinct for survival had overpowered Murtagh's initial thought – to defend the weak – but his mind was already filled with guilt for not acting. He and Tornac had managed to fight off the palace guards, but the cost had been great. His beloved friend and weapon master had sacrificed himself to save Murtagh. If Tornac had survived and was here now, perhaps together they could have taken down the slave traders' guards and helped these wretches. But Tornac was gone forever, and Murtagh had to be realistic. He couldn't save them all by himself and had to ensure he didn't share a similar fate. As much as he pitied them, there was no hope for these wretched souls. They would likely be sold in the Dras-Leona slave market the next day, and the only thing he could do was hope they would end up in the hands of a compassionate master.
Though thoughts of his personal survival had deterred Murtagh from the irrational impulse, his feelings towards those who enslaved people had not abated. The sight of the slaves waiting patiently at the roadside for permission to enter the city after the merchants' carts and the lines of pilgrims fueled his hatred for the slave traders. Despite the distance, the cries of the little girl still reached his ears. He vowed inwardly that whenever he could, he would stab the slave traders with his sword without mercy. He would pierce them with his blade, killing them ruthlessly.
He hid among the bushes, his anger boiling inside him, waiting for twilight to pass with the closing of the city gates, anticipating the fall of darkness when he could approach more closely unseen.
For several days, Murtagh had been wandering around the walls of Dras-Leona, concealed by the dense forest on the northern side. So far, he had successfully hidden his presence from prying eyes and survived in the wilderness by hunting, risking small fires to cook his food and warm himself on cold nights. His purpose was to gather news by eavesdropping on the conversations of pilgrims and merchants traveling to and from the city, whenever he dared to approach the public road. At other times, he had tried to overhear the random conversations of the guards patrolling the ramparts at night, daring to move unseen parallel to the walls.
A couple of times, Murtagh had spotted the dreadful Ra'zac moving between the city and their desolate lair at Helgrind, riding their terrifying steeds, conducting who knows what business for Galbatorix. Having failed to learn anything about their comings and goings, he waited patiently for the right opportunity to confront them. He even contemplated whether it would be worth the risk to enter Dras-Leona disguised as a beggar, mingling with the diverse crowd of pilgrims. Perhaps in this way, he could move unseen by the Ra'zac, approach the two monsters when they least expected it, and take them down.
What had prevented such an action so far was the fact that, during the gate guards' inspection, he would not be able to bring all his weapons with him. From what he had observed, the soldiers' searches were thorough, and his weapons were far too valuable to be in the possession of a beggar. Even if he managed to justify carrying a bow and arrows as essential for hunting food, a sword like his would not go unnoticed for the quality of its steel. Nor could he conceal Morzan's silver-handle dagger, which he always carried in his boot with only the carved hilt showing, nor his ornately decorated hunting horn. How could a beggar justify such expensive weapons? The thought of hiding them somewhere in the forest and keeping only his bow and quiver of arrows filled him with intense unease. He did not feel safe without his weapons and could not decide to part with them for the time he would spend in the city.
As time passed, the prospect of encountering the Ra'zac somewhere outside Dras-Leona seemed unrealistic. So he thought of heading south in a few days, towards the desolate plain of Helgrind, the place he had seen them flying to on their disgusting steeds. This idea was more appealing to him, and he planned to prolong his stay near the city for the minimal amount of time necessary. He welcomed the thought that during his journey to Helgrind, he might find a way to hunt down and eliminate at least one of them.
Darkness fell quickly, and with it came the winter chill. The gates of Dras-Leona had been closed for some time, and the public road had emptied of people. He could only make out a group of merchants with heavily loaded carts, slowly making their way towards the city, unable to reach the gates before they closed. Now the people were preparing to camp under the outer walls, securing their animals, setting up their tents, and lighting fires to cook their evening meal.
Murtagh continued to watch them from a distance until their activities subsided, and they gathered around their fires to eat their meager supper. Then he moved silently and carefully behind the sparse vegetation separating the forest from the road, approaching them as closely as he could.
"It was bad luck that we didn't make it before the gates closed," said the youngest of the merchants, emptying his cup. The man had a cart full of fresh vegetables and fruits. The quicker he could sell them in the Dras-Leona market, the less damage he would incur.
The elder nodded in agreement. His grains were not at risk of spoiling, but his advanced age required a warm room and a soft bed to sleep in at night. A rug thrown on the hard ground inside a windswept tent, atop the cold stones of the walls, was the last thing he desired.
"Let us console ourselves, brother, with the fact that His Majesty's entourage is quite a ways behind us," he said, sipping his soup. "Tomorrow, before dawn, we should be at the front of the line outside the gate. Getting in before they arrive means we'll be early at the market, in time for the morning trade. Now that the king is visiting the city, prices for goods will surely rise."
The younger man agreed with him, saying something Murtagh's ears couldn't catch. However, the older merchant's words made adrenaline surge swiftly through his veins. The king was visiting Dras-Leona!? According to this man's words, it seemed so. His entourage was on the public road, where the merchants may have encountered them. Or they had heard some news about it. This also explained the presence of the Ra'zac so close to the city. Since the king planned to visit, after their criminal activities in Cantos, he had sent those vile creatures ahead to prepare for his visit.
The young man retreated deeper into the forest, clenching his fists. The king's entourage was coming to Dras-Leona... so Galbatorix himself was nearby. Murtagh was in danger! His first thought was that they were coming to search for him.
While he was still at the castle in Urû'baen, before receiving the dreadful order to destroy Cantos and his unexpected, nocturnal escape, he had heard nothing about a planned visit of the king to Dras-Leona. Galbatorix was not accustomed to such visits, and Murtagh could not remember the last time he had left the well-guarded castle of the capital. It was natural for the king to seek him out after his disobedience and flight, but... the king himself?
His second thought was more composed. It seemed impossible that Galbatorix knew Murtagh had headed towards Dras-Leona. Or did he? Either way, if he extended his stay in the vicinity, he was at risk. He decided to stay hidden deep in the forest that night and leave swiftly southward the next morning. The thought that the king and his formidable dragon might be searching for him in the wilderness terrified him. His previous plan to enter Dras-Leona disguised now seemed utterly repugnant. If Galbatorix planned to be here soon, Murtagh would make sure to leave as soon as possible. The night that was quickly approaching would be the last he spent so close to Dras-Leona. Tomorrow, before dawn, he would ensure he started a new journey heading in a different direction.
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Murtagh reluctantly left the small campsite where he had spent the early dark and freezing hours of the night. Knowing that the king's entourage was approaching Dras-Leona had previously deterred him from lighting the small fire he usually did, to prepare the remnants of his last hunt and warm himself. He hadn't even unwrapped the blankets to sleep, but sat between a rock and the half-rotten, fallen trunk of a tree, watching the dark entrance of a small cave he could discern in the distance. In the lee of this rock, he had settled his gray warhorse, covering it with his blanket, and he himself curled up close to its front legs, seeking the little warmth that emanated from the animal's belly.
Murtagh would have dared to seek shelter inside this cave earlier if the suspicion that it was occupied by some dangerous nocturnal creature hadn't deterred him. However, as the night hours passed and the cold made the tips of his hands and feet painfully numb, he decided to risk it. After all, for many hours, his senses had detected no activity inside, and the horse had shown no signs of unease.
What initially had seemed from a distance to be a small cave turned out to be a long tunnel that led deeper and deeper into the earth. The young man carefully took another step, smelling the damp, oppressive air that came from the depths of the ground. To move in the darkness, he relied more on his hunter's instinct, which was in full alert, rather than on his human senses. As he progressed deeper into the tunnel for hours, he couldn't see anything around him anymore. With one hand on the hilt of his sword and the other stretched out in front, constantly touching the earthen wall, he was already contemplating his return to the surface. His frozen campsite now seemed more desirable than the pitch-black darkness where the sloping tunnel had led him, and his discomfort with the sensation of blindness was great.
Suddenly, the touch of his hand warned him that the dark tunnel branched out into more than two passages ahead. Murtagh paused for a few moments, indecisive. Quickly, however, he turned back, determined not to risk any further with this futile exploration. He would sit again between the rock and the fallen trunk at the campsite near his horse. He would wait for the cold night's hours to pass and for the first daylight to start his journey again.
As he turned, determined to head back to the forest and the surface, his ears caught the faint, metallic sound of a blade being drawn from its scabbard. Suddenly, he froze in place. His fist tightened harder around the hilt of his sword, and he quickly drew his own blade, spinning around. Too late! He found himself suddenly with his back pressed against the damp wall and the tip of a blade grazing his neck. A heavy, male breath was heard close to his ear, and in the darkness, a mocking laugh accompanied it.
"You were slow! How many times have I told you that you need to have eyes in the back of your head?" The blade moved slightly away from his neck, allowing him some limited movement in the confined space. However, the sense that the attacker had not moved away from him remained.
Murtagh felt his knees buckle. It wasn't the cold of the night that had dulled his reflexes, nor the painful numbness he had felt for hours at the tips of his fingers. It was that voice that caused this unprecedented trembling. He knew that voice. He had heard the man to whom it belonged speak to him thousands of times, sometimes in a friendly, sometimes in an angry or strict tone. This was a voice he could never forget, one he would never forget as long as he lived, a voice he never expected to hear again.
"Tornac..." he whispered, distressed, stretching his hands into the darkness, groping towards the attacker, trying to touch him. Had he died in his sleep, without realizing it, and was now traveling - as a dead man himself - to the depths of the underworld? Had the weapon master come as a friendly shadow to take and guide him to the realm of death?
The attacker's blade clashed violently with his own, creating a loud clang that the narrow, long space echoed dozens of times over.
"You weren't ready for the attack!" Tornac's strict voice continued to scold him angrily. "How many times have I told you that you need to be ready to face your enemies even in the dark?"
Murtagh defended himself quickly. Had he mistaken the voice of some unknown enemy for Tornac's voice? Was he facing Galbatorix's magic, which, after discovering his hiding place, was now bent on finishing him off once and for all? This last thought spurred him to immediate alertness and counterattack. In the darkness of the underworld, he managed to catch the glint of the attacker's blade as it came down on him, parrying it once more. But the laughter that reached his ears again was definitely Tornac's.
"Tornac!" Murtagh shouted again. "It can't be... is it really you?" The glint of the enemy blade lowered, and the sound of it being sheathed echoed once more, accompanied by the weapon master's laughter.
"Were you expecting someone else?" Tornac said sarcastically, and Murtagh shuddered as he felt a bony hand grab him, holding him tightly by the arm, leading his steps towards the exit.
Holding his sword in hand and ready for any potential outcome, he followed obediently, always prepared to defend his life. His heart was pounding wildly, and he felt his temples throb from the tension. In the darkness, his nostrils caught the familiar scent of his unexpected companion. It was Tornac, without a doubt, walking beside him, holding his arm, leading him back to the forest. But how could this be happening? Murtagh's mind raced. What if... what if Tornac wasn't actually dead? Murtagh had seen him fall from his horse in front of the gates of Urû'baen, but... maybe... maybe he had somehow survived. Perhaps he had managed to escape, following his trail, to meet him again.
"Tornac, I saw you fall! How did you manage to survive? How could you follow me, find me again?" The questions brought by hope were choked in his throat by emotion. Tornac, his friend and companion, was with him again. He had mourned him needlessly. Tornac was so skilled with the sword that no man could defeat him. He was the best swordsman in Alagaësia! "I thought you were dead… lost forever," Murtagh said, his voice breaking with emotion. "But you are here again… with me!"
The man beside him laughed mockingly in the darkness, his grip tightening on Murtagh's arm. "Of all those I've taught over the years, you were the one I never expected to question your own senses," he replied. "You saw me fall from the horse in front of the gates of Urû'baen. I'm dead, Murtagh! I was killed trying to open an escape route for you from the king's palace. Don't you remember?" His tone grew as harsh as his grip.
Upon hearing these words, the young man froze, rooted to the spot. The first thought, that he too had died in his sleep—hence this encounter—returned to his mind. Or if he was still alive... then he was surely a victim of some spell that Galbatorix had cast against him. Murtagh jerked his hand away, evading the other's strong grip. Yes, Tornac was dead; he had seen him fall from the horse, his body left before the gates of Urû'baen. It was impossible for him to be walking beside him now or holding his hand. Turning abruptly and raising his sword, he faced the specter of his weapon master.
"You say you are dead. If I am still alive, how can I meet you?"
They were nearing the entrance of the cave within the forest. Murtagh heard the call of a night bird piercing the night air and the light whinny of the horse. Tornac's light-colored hair reflected faintly in the gradually thinning darkness; the whites of his eyes glistened, thick and clouded, without irises, his cheeks strangely pale. With a long, bony finger, he pushed aside Murtagh's blade that had touched his chest.
"I like that," he said. "You are, as I taught you, always ready to face dangers. Don't believe anything or anyone easily! Think twice and thrice before you gift someone with your blade's art in battle. As for the slavers..." here the weapon master laughed again, this time heartily. "If you had attacked, you would have surely taken down some of them, and some of the unfortunate slaves and their children might now be free. It is good to help those who are weak and in need. Know that this is not without risk to yourself. Just remember what we once said. You want the world to remember you for your own deeds and not for those of Morzan."
Murtagh, surprised by those words, prepared to respond. Tornac's gaze appeared blurred, his cheeks strangely pale in the night. But at that moment, the night bird cried out again. Murtagh started, realizing he had fallen asleep sitting, leaning against the rotting tree trunk. Beside him, the horse nickered softly, touching the young man's thick hair with its moist muzzle. Murtagh jumped up angrily, alone in the forest's wilderness, frozen in the cold night surrounding him. Tornac was nowhere to be seen. Nor was there an entrance, or a cave, only a cluster of bushes among the trees. All was just a nightmare, products of his fear and pain.
Murtagh strained to understand his surroundings. The night bird had disappeared among the trees, and the silence of the night spread again within the frozen forest. Yet he felt that something had changed. His instinct would not let him rest. Tornac may have visited him as a specter in his dream, but he was not in danger from this specter. There were other dangers that might threaten him.
Murtagh girded the sword that lay beside him and took his bow and quiver of arrows in his hand. He was still disturbed by the nightmare and sleep would not close his eyes again. Deciding not to wait until dawn, he calmed his horse with a stroke on its forehead and prepared to set off on his journey. His instinct had warned him that he might be in danger; that unseen eyes might be watching.
The Ra'zac, those vile servants of Galbatorix, were surely closer than he had believed all this time, lurking threateningly in the darkness.
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(to be continued)
A/N :Thanks for reading.