Disclaimer : I do not own the Inheritance Cycle.
A/N : This story is dedicated to my most favorite writer. The one, I admire for his writing style – that's why the name 'Strong-Pen'. To Restrained Freedom for his healing story 'An Enemy's Heart'. May he finds the time and courage to finish it.
Within the bloody mist that obscures his past an image remains, coming from another world; the one and unique image the King's black magic has failed to eliminate. The image of a boy with curly, blond hair and sapphire eyes bending over him; long, soft fingers, a gentle touch, liquid energy flowing through both their bodies, their need for each other's soul. The youth still lives somewhere inside him with the pureness of his body, the innocence of his soul. And he curls around this treasured image, and tries to remain still and survive.
The Aggrieved and The Wrongdoer.
Cold, silvery moonbeams were allowed for an instant through black, rain-filled, menacing clouds, and lighted up the windswept, frozen land. Covered with a hooded cloak, a man appeared out of thin air in the cold, winter night. The freezing, high winds coming from the north-east, blowing within the narrow streets of the small town, had caused all the residents to seek refuge in their homes early. The man, walking hastily, pulled his dark coloured cloak tightly around his body, and throwing a suspicious glance over his shoulder, started towards the exit of the town. With long strides he passed the dark, empty streets, heading towards the big estate on the gently sloping side of the nearby hill.
In front of the entrance he slowed down and slightly lifted the hood of his cloak, permitting the watcher of the gate to see his face. The guard had instinctively raised his shield and sword, but as he recognized the man, he immediately let him pass. He was well aware that the messenger of the Lord was permitted entrance at any hour of the day and night. The man crossed the iron gates and through the inner courtyard he made for the heavy oaken doors of the main house. Two barking dogs rushed at him, but as they sniffed him, they ceased their attack and let him pass; one of them just followed him at a distance. Any other guard he met lift their hands, touching their helmets in greeting.
The barking of the dogs had already alerted the servant, and the newcomer found the entrance of the residence open and lighted by a candle, held by the old man.
The messenger uncovered his head and crossed the threshold.
'Take me to your master immediately!' he ordered the servant.
'I'm sorry, Sir, master has already withdrawn in the chamber with mistress' the servant stated brusquely.
'Then, wake him up, right now!' the messenger demanded hoarsely and as he came inside, he set off at a brisk pace which the servant had to scramble to match. 'It is a matter of a great importance.'
'Could this possibly wait until the morning?' With his short, aged legs the servant practically ran after him. The old man seemed reluctant to annoy his master so late. 'You had better see the scribe. I'll gladly wake him up and …'
The glare given by the messenger froze the blood in his veins. The dark tone of the other's voice indicated that there shouldn't be the slightest delay.
'Wake your master up! Now!'
The old servant passed the messenger into a small, comfortable parlour and asked him to wait there as he crossed an inner door leading to his master's bedroom. The embers in the fireplace were still glowing, and the messenger used the small amount of heat to warm his frozen hands. It was but a few minutes later, when a tall, stout man, at about his mid forties with light gray on his temples, entered the chamber. He was still wearing his night garments, a heavy, fur cloak thrown loosely on his shoulders.
'My Lord Cantos,' the messenger bowed respectfully to his master, 'I carry momentous news.'
The lord nodded at his servant to leave, and, as the old man withdrew, he fixed his questioning eye on the messenger.
'Varden warriors are hiding in the town.' The Messenger's voice came out low and hoarse, like a whisper.
Hearing the news, the lord narrowed his eyes. He approached one of the wide windows of the chamber and looked outside, in the freezing night. His gaze lingered from the inner courtyard to the low, thatched rooftops in the town beyond the foothills. In the thick darkness he could make two or three lit candles here and there. During the last few days, three empire brigades had passed nearby, the one heading towards Urû'baen and the other two towards Gil'ead; and Varden warriors had managed to destroy them all. Rumour said that the rebels had many losses too, and maybe some injured men had sought refuge inside the city. The lord knew they had done this before, they had relatives here.
Remaining silent, the lord of Cantos clapped his hands twice, and in an instant, the servant entered the room once again.
'My Lord, at your service.'
'Wake the magician up' the lord commanded. 'He has to report to his Majesty, at once.'
The old man bowed, and was already heading towards the exit to do as he was instructed, when the decisive voice of the messenger stopped him.
'Wait!'
Both, lord and servant turned towards the man astounded over the improper interference.
'My Lord, I beg you …' the man started. 'Think about the people … about your town!'
Lord Cantos snorted angrily, clasped his hands behind his back and started pacing up and down the room. What the man had just said made sense. The King would have already been informed about his losses. Were he to know that the Varden warriors had any relations within the town, his wrath may burst upon the inhabitants. He stopped pacing and stood in front of his messenger; unofficially, the man worked as a secret informer too, on his behalf.
'Does anybody know?'
'No, my Lord' the man said, a hesitant tone in his voice.
The pacing up and down restarted.
'Master, should I go and call the magician?' the old servant asked.
The lord of Cantos stopped once again in front of the window. The previously few lit candles had become even fewer. If it was possible to spread the rumour that the King knew about the Vardens' whereabouts, the rebels would make a point of disappearing the very same night. But if the King had already been informed about their presence within the town? He sighed, cursing the rebels from within his heart. Throughout his life, he had tried hard to remain just to his people and loyal to his King. And now …
'Master …?' the old man asked anxiously.
'My lord …!' the messenger pleaded.
'Husband!' a new, troubled voice entered the poorly lit chamber. He turned towards the inner door and saw his lady standing there, half hidden among the shadows. 'Our son … your firstborn …' her voice trembled. 'Let me remind you of him, dear husband, before you decide.'
The woman's form remained in the shadows, as a soft whimper was heard from within the other chamber.
The lord of Cantos, stumbling, sat in one of the two armchairs by the fireplace. Half of his face lit by the fading fire – his left eye glittered; half was hidden in the shadows. His elder son, a young man of seventeen years of age lived in Urû'baen, in the King's court. An easy prey in the Royal hands, if something should go wrong … The soft whimper was heard again, coming from the shadows. And it was not just him, but his two daughters too, reaching the age of marriage, a younger boy …
Lord Cantos closed his eyes and clenched his fists. The town, along with the nearby farms, counted four hundred and twenty eight souls. Women, children, old people …
He stood and approached the window again. The blowing wind hit mercilessly against the branches of the trees on the hill. He didn't like the soldiers around. He didn't like the rebels either. He had to protect both his city and his family. Determined, he turned towards his messenger and informer.
'Make sure that this rumour be spread; that the King has been informed and his troops are coming here to research. Do it tonight! In the morning I don't want any rebels around. And, you,' he turned towards his servant, 'make sure that the magician does not find out a thing. I do not trust the man.'
Both men bowed and left, and as the lord of Cantos enclosed his wife in his arms, the woman hid her worried face in the crook of his shoulder. 'I do not trust this magician at all' he whispered again, before they both disappeared into the shelter of his bedchamber.
As the messenger was heading towards the exit of the house, the skinny form of a man dressed in dark-coloured garments was hidden in the shadows of the dark corridor, watching him with a malicious glare. Treason, betrayal, treachery were cooking in here. His Majesty should be informed immediately.
Within this very night, his Royal Majesty, the King Galbatorix of Alagaësia had been informed by his magician of the misdeeds in Cantos.
~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~
The old servant bent over the body of the sleeping young man, and slightly nudged his shoulder.
'Master … Wake up, master!'
Murtagh jolted abruptly awake and sat up on his bed. His gaze fell on the window and he noticed the dark outside. Suddenly, an angry pain on his back reminded him, in a rather inconvenient way, his previous day's hard training. The young man had overtaxed his powers, fighting strongly and determinedly in the yard until late in the afternoon; and his sore body and muscles had taken their revenge on him all the previous evening. But, nevertheless, Murtagh was happy as he had managed to defeat Tornac in swordplay for three consecutive days. Trying to rest his tired body, he had done research in the library and finding a historical scroll of the Riders had relaxed in an armchair by his fireplace reading. And the scroll had proved to be a very interesting one, and the reading had kept him awake for the better part of the night.
The young man, scowling, collapsed exhausted on his pillows, and, sighing, closed his eyes, ready to fall asleep again.
'Master, wake up!' the servant insisted.
Murtagh turned to his side.
'What is it?' he grumbled with tightly closed eyes. 'Isn't it still the middle of the night? It's only been a while since I fell asleep … why are you waking me up?'
'No, my Lord' the servant justified himself. 'It's very early in the morning!' It had already dawned outside, but the dark clouds prevented the weak light from penetrating the thick nimbus and falling on the land.
'Never mind, Joacum. I can do myself the favor to oversleep for once' the young man mumbled, and turned to his other side.
'It is his Majesty, the King, who asks for you, immediately!'
This last phrase made the young man jolt once again. Hearing the King's name he threw down the bedding, the sleep having abandoned his tired body. This time, despite the pain on his back, he stood up in a moment and grabbing the clothes the old servant had already provided, he hurriedly put them on.
'What is it? Is there something going on? Have you heard anything?' he showered his old servant with questions. His Majesty, the King asking for him? And at this time in the morning? He was aware of the King's habit to wake up at pre-dawn, but … ask for him at such an hour? It had never happened before.
'Except for the Dragon being upset and growling … no. No, my Lord. I know nothing of it.' The old man shivered. The mighty Dragon had the bad habit of tearing to pieces anyone foolish enough to disturb his sleep. The fact that he was growling so early in the morning was definitely a bad omen. 'I wonder, my Lord, that his roars have failed to wake you up so far.'
Murtagh sheathed his sword, ready to go.
'There are two guards waiting outside, to escort you to the throne room, master' the old man warned him, arranging a few small details of his attire.
Murtag's eyes narrowed. Royal guards outside his chambers, waiting to escort him? He could not help but wonder at the meaning of this. Thinking that it would be unwise to delay more, he hurried to the exit.
Walking hastily, he headed towards the throne room; the two soldiers followed him at a brisk pace. As he approached the long hallway, in the dim torch light he spotted four fully armed guards of his Majesty removing something that resembled to a human body out of the hall; and as his curiosity got the best of him, he shouted to them.
'Wait!'
Surprised by the unexpected intervention, the guards paused. Murtagh crossed almost running the last few meters that separated him from the hideous scene outside the doors of the throne room, and decisively he pulled the rag that covered the body. He felt the blood freeze in his veins and his breath cut short. The blood-drenched rag – actually the mantle of the dead – draped the body of a young man. His tightly closed eyes and his face were blood-smeared. His tunic was torn open and a deep, ugly gash divided his chest almost in two, letting mangled flesh be seen along with broken ribs.
With wide open eyes Murtagh looked at the guard, the one whose uniform-marks showed him to be the captain of the other three. What kind of weapon could have possibly caused this terrible wound?
'Who did such a thing?' the young man's voice was full of revulsion for the repulsive spectacle.
'It was the Dragon … who hit him at his chest.' The captain explained in a low voice.
Shruikan's wrath had caused this horrible, deep wound. Then the man in front of him would have fallen dead instantly. Shrinking back from the sight of this mangled flesh in horror, Murtagh covered the torn chest with the ragged, bloodied mantle, and his attention turned to the dead man's face. Among distorted features and blood stuck hair, he managed to recognize him.
'Cantos!'
This young lord was one of his most recent acquaintances. He had even befriended him.
Murtagh swallowed hard.
'If you please, my Lord, … do not touch this body …' the guard added hesitantly.
'Why?' he just managed to ask in a hoarse voice. And what he had meant was, why this? What for had this happened? A lump had stuck in his throat, choking him.
The guard shrugged and nodded at his fellows to go ahead. Murtagh stood still, frozen outside the heavy, oaken doors, looking at the macabre image that was fading in the dim lighted corridor, until the shadows covered the overwhelming spectacle from his eyes. There would be an explanation about this frightful thing he had witnessed; he was sure about it, and he hoped it to be a good one.
'My Lord! The King is waiting.' The guards who had escorted him, had already half-opened the door and urged him pass inside. He clenched his fists breathing deeply. Shocked as he may have been, he gathered himself and entered in a most dignified fashion.
The room was faintly lit and the throne in front of him empty. Out of the shadows stood the one, black wing of the Dragon, like a velvet curtain behind the dais. A low growl echoed off the walls around him. The King stood rigid in front of one of the wide windows looking outside, his hands clasped behind his back. Murtagh bent his knee and bowed his head, waiting for his Majesty to address him. In his chest he felt his heart palpitating with tension. The scene he had witnesed a few moments ago was still alive in front of his eyes; and he felt upset as he sensed his body vibrate with the deep growl of the Dragon.
The Κing moved from the window sighing, and approaching the kneeling young man held his shoulder firmly.
'O, son of my best friend, it seems that I am surrounded by traitors.'
Murtagh gazed upward and faced his Majesty. The King's dark eyes – eyes that always caused him to shiver, whenever they had met and talked – glinted, the pupils dilated as if covering the entire iris. His lips were stubbornly pressed, a thin, straight line. The King raised him to his feet and in a conversational tone of voice, continued.
'Children! All of them. They are nothing more than children. Foolhardy children who know not what is best for them – children who need the guidance of those who are older and wiser. Imprudent, reckless, brainless children who turn against their protecting father, their Lord, their King!'
His voice vibrated more loudly now, raised a few tones higher, and the growling of the Dragon deepened menacingly. He clasped his hands behind his back again and started pacing up and down the throne hall. Murtagh's eyes followed the King, but he dared not move or interrupt the tense silence. The Dragon's growl ceased and the King stood once again in front of him. He seemed calmer now, as if he had relaxed.
'And what is left for me to do?' he asked. He was definitely not waiting for an answer to this question. 'To bring them back under my care, my guidance and my embrace.' In an instant his calmer face was distracted. His eyes sparkled and his voice took a harder hue.
'After I punish them first!'
The Dragon roared, and the young man found it hard not to flinch. But he tried to remain still and rigid. The King took hold of his shoulder; like claws, his fingers deepened into the young man's flesh.
'If your father was still alive, Iwould give the command to him. Now, you will take it in his place.' And with a terrible voice he continued. 'As you have so fervently pledged yourself to me, I command you, son of Morzan, to take a detachment of troops and destroy Cantos!'
Murtagh swallowed hard. He knew he could not refuse. He dared not refuse. No one would have dared to. The King looked at him in the eye, selfishly scheming, waiting for his reaction.
… destroy Cantos! … gods above …
Destroy the whole town? And what about the inhabitants?
'Your Majesty, how can I tell the innocent from the guilty?' the young man protested.
The King glared at him. Rage started to stir inside him. He goggled at him.
'Innocent? Who could possibly be the innocent there? They are all traitors! Burn them all at the stake and bury their ashes with dung!'
Murtagh was astounded. Had he just received the command to kill innocent men? Elders, women, children? Burn them … alive? He tried hard to stand and not to fall on his knees.
Now the King was in a terrible rage. His wrath was out in full force. He stepped up and down and continued to rant cursing his enemies and describing how he would scourge the land of anyone who bore him ill will. The young man had never seen him in this state. And suddenly he realized that the man in front of him didn't possess the mercy or foresight to gain the people's loyalty, and he ruled only through brute force guided by his own passions.
Next time the King addressed him, his lips were covered with saliva and his eyes glistened with fury. On his face was written the death sentence of so many …
'I've already given the orders for the detachment of troops to be ready and, you, son of Morzan, will lead them. You leave tomorrow at dawn. And may Cantos be an example to avoid.'
Gesturing the King dismissed him and Murtagh conventionally bowed and hurriedly left the throne room. The way back to his quarters seemed to him like a journey through hell. The mangled body of the young lord of Cantos … the terrible command, given so easily …
With the eyes of his soul he could see the city burnt, destroyed … The inhabitants dead, slaughtered … He could hear the pleas for mercy of the women … the cries of the children. The despair of hard-working men, being unable to save their families … The disgust and hatred against him, written on their faces, the detestation in their eyes … for him. Him! The son of Morzan, the son of the slaughterer …
He could see himself on his horse, giving the order. Trying to give this dreadful order…
… No! … I can't! …
He knew he would be unable to do this. He just couldn't do this. His young heart could not accept all this gratuitous violence.
… Not me! … Never! …
He reached his room and asked from the servants tasked to clean the place, to go and leave him alone. He sat in front of his table and hid his face in his palms. He could understand now that what had been said during his last meeting with the King the day of his last birthday, all these beautiful words, were all lies.
Like a snake he had whispered gilded lies into his young ear. Beautiful cities built across the country, filled with the greatest warriors, artisans, musicians, and philosophers. Peace and prosperity would flourish. Where were all these now? Over the dead bodies of the civilians? Of old people who had worked hard for a lifetime to pay taxes to the throne? Of women, holding babies in their arms, born to be offered as soldiers for the glory of 'his Majesty'? Of innocent children who would never reach adulthood to be his loyal subjects? All of them would die with a question on their lips. 'Why?' And they would die cursing his name.
… Never! …
The memory of a little boy entered his vision. A boy sitting on a windowsill … waiting for days, weeks, months … and then the soldiers came … He saw a young man, holding a hand and a half sword … raised, ready to strike … the boy crying, begging for his life … the sword falling … beating … the spilled blood …
… No! I cannot … I will not …
He pressed his eyes tighter. A few years ago, he had made a promise to a dead youth. He would be useful to others, he would risk his life to protect, and would be judged for his own actions and not his father's. And this promise he intended to keep.
Hours passed and he was still sitting alone in his room, in front of his table; with his face hidden in his palms, desperation growing to his core, when the Swordmaster Tornac entered the room.
'I've heard about it. Everyone in the castle is talking about this.' The older man took a seat at the other side of the table, facing his trainee and young friend.
Murtagh didn't answer, he just uncovered his face. He was pale and haggard; dark circles were already forming under his eyes.
'What are you planning to do?' Tornac cautiously asked.
'I cannot do this …' the young man's voice was hoarse.
'You cannot refuse this mission without risking your life.' Tornac said, 'And your life is the most valuable possession of yours. If you intend not to follow the King's orders then you must know that at the same moment, you put yourself in the opposite side of his interests.'
Murtagh nodded.
'I still cannot do this.'
Tornac looked at him with care, almost with tenderness.
'What will you do?'
'I'm leaving secretly tonight.'
'In that case I'll accompany you.'
Murtagh sat up astounded. He knew that the Swordmaster was loyal to the King. Tornac had lived the greatest part of his life in the palace, training soldiers for his Majesty's service. He knew that the older man befriended him deeply, but he never expected him to turn against the law of the King.
'There will be risk.' He cautiously said.
'I know. But, if you decide to leave, I will help you.'
'But … afterwards …' Murtagh trailed.
'Do not think about 'afterwards'. It's too early for this.' Tornac cut him short. The Swordmaster stood. 'I am going to make some preparations for the journey' he announced. 'You just make sure that there will be an exit left open for us.'
Murtagh stood up too. He grabbed the bunch of the flowers from the vase and started to the exit.
'Murtagh!'
He turned speechless and faced the Swordmaster.
'I know where you are going. But do not do such a thing, lad. Do not go there. Someone might see you in the graveyard and inform him. He mustn't understand your intentions. If there is any chance of succeeding, he mustn't know.'
The young man stopped hesitant. He swallowed the lump that had stuck in his throat. His fist tightened around the soft stems and petals, pressing, melting them and letting them drop onto the floor.
'I will not go.'
He returned to his previous seat, and covered his face with his palms once again. He felt Tornac's hand holding his shoulder firmly, comfortingly.
'She will be with you all the way, lad, you know that. She will be with you, wherever you go.' The Swordmaster could understand that the young man wanted to be left alone. 'Meet me at the stables tonight' he said and he got out of the room. And Murtagh was left alone to fight with his nightmares, past and recent.
Early in the afternoon of the same day, two soldiers were seated in front of a table in the barracks, playing dice. Some of their fellows dawdled standing around, watching the game.
'This roll will be mine' one of the gamblers said, and kissed the dice before he threw them on the table.
'It seems that today is not your day, man' one of the bystanders commented. 'Snake eyes? What unlucky dice!'
'No, no! I'm sure my Lady Luck is going to change. Come on Lady, show me your smiling face!'
'Well, well, well, what is he doing here?' his opponent grumbled, his eyes narrowed, directed towards the entrance.
The soldier noticed a young man standing there, nodding at him and recognized him immediately. He had seen him fighting in the courtyard many times and he knew that the Swordmaster Tornac was his personal trainer. This young warrior was not one of the many who lived in the barracks; his place was in the palace, with the nobles and everybody knew that he was in the favor of the King. The soldier had heard strange rumors concerning this young man, rumors that wanted him to be … but nonsense, The Forthsworn had never had children. He stood and, as the young man didn't move to come closer and meet him, he approached the door.
'How can I help you, Milord?'
The young man's eyes fixed at the other soldiers. A fiery glare made the men flinch, and mind their own business.
'I've heard that this night you keep the watch of the left postern gate of the castle' he said in a whisper.
'You have heard well, Milord' the soldier agreed.
The young man pressed two silver coins into the guard's palm, looking at him in the eye.
'There is a lady, in a nearby village …' he lied. 'Without my presence she will be very grieved tonight. And I do not wish her to be grieved.'
The guard gave him a crooked smile.
'Do not worry Milord. Your lady will be pleased.'
The young man left and the soldier returned to his fellows smiling, with sparkling eyes.
'It seems that Lady Luck has smiled at me today' he said. 'And she has smiled at me for good!' he added.
Later that night Murtagh stuffed a few necessary clothes in a bag and gathered all his weapons. He strolled around the rooms absentmindedly, touching his familiar things, a quill on his desk, a book on the shelf, Tornac's silver cup ... A moment before he left the room to seek cover in the shadows of the corridor, he opened again the bag and placed the silver cup with the copper maple leaf on it carefully inside. Then he made secretly for the stables to meet with Tornac.
The Swordmaster was already there, waiting for him with the saddled horses. They just nodded to each other and Tornac passed the bridle of his gray war horse in his hand. This was a friend he would never abandon. The animals were ready, their hooves wrapped in cloth to muffle the noise.
Just before they exited the stables Tornac grasped his shoulder. Murtagh turned abruptly and locked eyes with the Swordmaster.
'Lad, whatever happens, remember this: your life is the most important thing; run to save it. If something happens to me, know that what I care most for is your dear life.'
Murtagh could sense the care and love this man had bestowed upon him since his childhood.
'Nothing is going to happen, Tornac, either to me or to you. You are the best swordsman in the whole of the Empire' the younger man said and his chest filled with pride and confidence.
The older man gave a lopsided smile and tightened his grip on the younger one's shoulder.
'I know that, lad, have no fear. Nothing is going to happen.'
A faithful servant, serving at this late hour his Majesty in the throne room, would affirm later that Shruikan was uneasy this night. Growls and puffs of smoke and fires from his nostrils filled the hall. The King, sitting on his throne, was uneasy too.
On top of the highest tower of the citadel, the astrologist was leaning on his ancient celestial map. On this night, the bright flame of the 'Warrior' was even brighter.
~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~
'You have not captured him!'
A deep, menacing growl started behind the throne, stirring their guts and bringing on the surface of every man's consciousness the worst of his fears. All of them fell on their knees at once and bowed their heads to the King. The one and only guard who dared a glance at his Majesty, saw him standing rigid, cruel, inhuman before his throne, his fists clenched, his face a mask made of stone. The growl grew more frightening and menacing until it turned to a loud roaring. An enormous lazulitic eye opened looking at them with murderous intent, and a jet of dark fire darted above their heads. The edge of a black-velvet wing and hard, deadly talons hit the stone floor beside the trembling men, causing pieces of masonry to scatter about. The Dragon howled the King's wrath.
The man on the throne glared at the captain of the squad.
'You and your men were not capable of stopping a boy!'
The captain didn't dare to raise his head and look at his Majesty. His breastplate and clothes were covered in blood, his left hand pressing a deep bleeding gash on his right shoulder. Many of his men were wounded too and pieces of their armor were torn and blood stained.
'Your Majesty' the captain protested 'they both fought like fiends, coming out of the shadows. Their swords were bloody with the blood of my men.' His voice sounded full of awe as he added. 'They killed so many good soldiers. I've never seen men fight like this … never in my life. As if they were demons of the underworld … Demons of the night, who took advantage of the dark.' The captain's terrified eyes fell on the King's boots, as he descended the dais and approached him. 'Both of them have decimated my men' he muttered.
The King stood before him at a small distance and the soldiers bowed their heads lower, quaking with fright. For a while the only sound that was heard was the deep growl of the Dragon. When the King spoke, his voice was hard, holding no mercy.
'Speak!'
Trying to stop his teeth from chattering and cease his shudder from the blood loss and fear, the captain began to report. The King standing so near him and the Dragon growling so menacingly forebode nothing good.
'We tried to form a circle around them to prevent their escape, but instead of engulfing and arresting them, they managed to escape our grip every time.'
The captain swallowed hard. The Dragon's growling hardened to an angry roar and another jet of fire passed over their heads and hit the side wall, turning a banner with the Empire's crest on it to a smoking, half-burnt rag.
'Their swords dripped from the blood of my men as they were falling, mowed down like grain. And, when it seemed that we would take control over them, the younger one with his frenzied horse tried to break our hold, and jumping over two soldiers, managed to escape. His companion stayed behind to cover for him. We were unable to overcome the man with our swords, neither did he allow us to reach out and chase the other. Taking advantage of the fact that he was on horseback he flanked us from left to right mercilessly. Finally, when he turned to flee, one of my men threw a knife at him from a distance, and it struck him on his back. This was his undoing. His younger companion, turned towards him and seeing him fall, screamed his name. Like a demon with fiery eyes, he brandished a blood dripping sword, flashing in the dim lantern glow; and for a moment, we thought that he was about to rush against us and take his revenge on the few who had remained alive. But changing his mind, he turned and ran away like a madman. We haven't managed to capture him, but his companion is dead, your Majesty' the captain faltered.
The King remained silent and after a while the angry growl of the Dragon ceased.
'Where is the body? Bring it to me!' the King commanded and two of the guards hurried to execute his will.
They brought the body inside and placed it at the King's feet. Tornac's eyes were wide open, his lips slightly parted, as if the man was about to speak at the moment of his death. His chest was blood-clean, but his gloved hands and the sleeves of his doublet were covered in blood stains; blood that surely did not belong to him. The King looked at him for a while with a cold stare. Then, he gestured to the men of the squad to leave. Breathing with relief the men hurried out the throne room and closed the heavy doors behind them. The King leaned over the body.
'Tornac, my faithful servant!'
The ironically spoken words held inside them a large amount of restrained malice. The Dragon roared behind him, releasing from his nostrils black smoke and dark fire. The hard talons tore against the stone floor next to the body. Inside his darkened mind a half-forgotten, bloody image appeared.
… a youth, with long dark hair leaning on the top of another, like an angel of doom …
The venomous anger of the beast was released and Shruikan advanced simultaneously against the fallen body of the Swordmaster and the King. With his mighty, strong wing he shoved the King, making him fall on the body of the dead man. For an instant Galbatorix was facing Tornac's open eyes. The King's dark magic, used along the Dragon's true name, forced Shruikan's wrath to subside; and he was confined to roaring in anger and pain, as he was forced to withdraw behind the throne.
The King grabbed the dead man's hair and lifted his head, bringing it closer to his face; his voice began to unleash his wrath.
'You, traitor! I trusted you with the son of Morzan! I believed that you were my loyal servant, but you have proved to be more loyal to … this boy than your King. Where is your trainee Swordmaster?'
The King looked at the staring, open eyes of the dead Tornac. The slightly turned corners of his lips, held a hint of a last mocking smile. And his Majesty imagined that he could hear the last words these lips had cried.
'…Run, my lad! Run as fast as you can. Run! …'
He imagined he could read on this stony smile the ironic words addressed to him.
'…He is not yours anymore! You will never have him! …'
And the King understood that he had lost this battle. This battle, but not the war. Never! The son of Morzan would be his again … someday.
Meanwhile, having withdrawn behind the throne, the Dragon, growling, covered his head and body with his enormous wings, like two black, velvet curtains falling on the floor from the ceiling. Touching his snout on the stone slabs and closing his eyes, he concentrated on the same soothing image he had been treasuring in the depths of his core for one hundred years now, trying to survive …
… a youth with curly, blond hair and sapphire eyes leaning on the top of him. Chastity and innocence spring from these eyes and shower him with pure love. Hands with long, white fingers, a gentle touch and then, a liquid fire burning them both. A creature, as if coming from another world, the world of the others …
From within his soothing sanctuary, the mighty Dragon heard the voice of the King speaking, cursing, threatening. And this voice brought upon the surface of his soul the other thing he remembered.
… another youth, with long dark hair leaning on the top of the fair one, like an angel of doom. Eyes filled with guilt, his voice full of remorse.
'This was not the agreement!' the youth's voice says trembling. His hands smeared with crimson, tainted with the blood of the beloved one.
'Too late Morzan! Now you have turned against them. You are mine! Mine, forever.'
He sees himself as a hatchling …
… taken … stolen … dishonored …
… in the hands of the killer …
And then the curtain of blood, of destruction, of pain, covers everything else. And he howls, and curls, and squirms, and sinks deeper and deeper into chaos …
~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~
A/N: Thanks for reading.