Murtagh

By Namine3419

Chapter One: Fateful Night

Hello and welcome to my second Eragon story, "Murtagh". Yes, I know, Pale Hope has yet to be finished yet, correct? Well, the reason why I'm writing this is because I have serious writer's bock and need a break, lol. Anyway, I hope whoever reads this enjoys it, and I would appreciate your reviews; good or bad.

I do not own any of the Inheritance Trilogy characters (I wonder what would happen if I said I did?)

On a different not, does anyone here play a game called Guild Wars? If so, please add me so we can go kick some ass! Lol! (My name is Elaina Angrenost...yeah, I know.)

His heart was still racing as he exited the study, his fists clenched in a blind rage. How can he be so cruel? I'm a fool! Grimacing, he raced as far away from the king as he could, avoiding servants and nosy nobles along the way. His mind wondered aimlessly, the only thing directing him was the plush red carpet that lined the hallways of the massive white marble castle. The last of the sun's rays shone through the wide windows near the ceiling, a cool breeze racing down the corridor, chilling him to the bone. He had to get out of there, and he had to do it quickly.

The stairs to his room felt like an eternity to climb, and he was grateful to see the broad oak door that led to his small sanctuary. As if he were being chased, he slipped in quickly, locking the door behind him. "Murtagh?" He jumped, quickly reaching for the dagger he kept in his glove. Turning, he met brown eyes and relaxed. Tornac stood by the balcony, a worried expression on his old face. He had a gray eyebrow raised, and examined the boy that stood before him, "Are you all right? You look frightened."

"I'm fine," Murtagh replied, trying to keep his voice controlled. It wouldn't have worked anyway, and he knew it, but it was worth a try, "I'm tired and going to bed--"

"Spit it out, boy. Something's troubling you, and I know it. That look in your eye is a dead give away." The old man grinned, wrinkles showing up on his tanned face. It scared him sometimes as how Tornac could read him so well; then again the man had been around him since he was old enough to walk.

He sighed, running a hand through his hair, "I . . . think it was a mistake, joining Galbatorix and promising to help him. He's a madman! You couldn't even imagine what he asked me to do." Murtagh looked down, surprised to see his hands shaking, "But I can't disobey him, or who knows what he'll do." Frustrated, he slammed a fist against the wall, cursing. I just had to open my big mouth, he thought grudgingly, and now I'm going to be responsible for the death of hundreds!

Tornac studied him intently, then grumbled, "Yes, you did make a mistake by agreeing to help him, but we've already been through that argument. I will say this though; watch your tongue within these walls. You never know who might be listening!" His eyes softened, and a smile returned to his face, "We can go to my quarters; it's safe to talk there."

"And how is that?" He snapped, still slightly annoyed with himself.

Tornac only laughed, "None of your lip, boy. Just follow me, and take your sword." Murtagh gave him a questioning look, but he ignored it. The old man quickly rushed out of the room, darting down the hallway.

What's he up to? Murtagh shrugged it off; the old man probably just wanted to show him a new blade. They would spare daily, even though Murtagh had bested him since the age of seventeen. Still, they enjoyed their time together, and it was the only time he felt at peace in this blasted castle. The walls had eyes in this treacherous fortress, every corner and hallway a deadly trap. He grew wary of the assassination attempts, greedy nobles, or people that would just stare at him in either fear or utter disgust. Only growing angrier, Murtagh quickly strapped on his sword belt and followed Tornac, rushing down the stairs and following him out to the servants' quarters.

The sun had long set behind the castle walls, the night a sea of endless stars. There was no moon that night, but lanterns spaced out along the path were enough to light their way. Soldiers occasionally passed by him, saluting or bowing as was demanded, but Murtagh only grunted in response and keep going forward, his curiosity growing with each step. Fish splashing in a small pond to his right helped to calm his nerves a little, but his mind was still reeling from today's events. It was chilling to think that a man could be so deceptive, so manipulative that he wouldn't think twice in joining him. Murtagh shuddered, stopping momentarily to stare up into the sky.

"No time for your blasted daydreaming, boy. Hurry!" Tornac grabbed him by the wrist, the old man holding him in an iron grip. He jerked Murtagh forward, practically dragging him to a small shack with thatched roofing. A candle was lit inside, and Murtagh noticed that Tornac's horse was tied up outside, saddled and ready, along with his own steed. He looked at the old man quizzically, but Tornac interrupted him, "Not now, wait until we're inside!" He flung the door open, led Murtagh inside, and looked around to make sure no one had followed them.

The inside was warm and dimly lit, the dirt floor covered with sparse strands of straw. A small table and two chairs rested in the middle of the room, a wood stove in a corner. There was a door to the back, which was home to Tornac's bed and dressers, and an array of blades of all sizes hung from the wall. What surprised Murtagh the most was a hooded man standing in a dark corner to his left. Instinctively he put up his mental barriers, fear and rage swelling in his chest, making it hard to breathe. He eyed the man coldly, "Who are you?"

Tornac placed a gloved hand on his shoulder, "Calm down, he's a friend. One that's told me some very troubling news." He gestured to one of the small wooden chairs, smiling, "Now, take a seat so he can finish his tale."

Murtagh raised an eyebrow, "More? What about the half that I missed."

"Not important." His smile never left as he forced the young man to sit, then motioned for the other man to continue, "If you don't mind."

The whites of the man's eyes were clearly visible, and he stalked around Murtagh like an inquisitive predator, "Are you sure he can be trusted, Tornac? I mean, he is his son."

Murtagh looked away, his eyes shielded. He was so tired of that phrase; it had cost him much heart ache. The boys his age never wanted to play with him, no adult would come near him, and it seemed he was always the butt of every cruel joke fate had ever played. Murtagh said nothing, only looking back and smiling at the stranger, "How do I know I can trust you? Men in hoods generally aren't the most trustworthy of people."

Tornac rolled his eyes, saying dryly, "Gentlemen, please; there are more pressing matters at hand. As for the trust issue, I can assure you the boy isn't loyal to him, and if you'd be so kind as to remove your hood, then maybe he wouldn't be so weary of you."

The stranger stiffened, and Murtagh watched him carefully. Covered hands reached up to his hood, the man muttering a string of curses as he lowered the dark leather hood. Hateful brown eyes stared down at him from an ebony face, his strong jaw line covered in a black, unkempt mustache. His head was shaven clean, and Murtagh had to stifle a laugh as he looked at the man's prominent ears. With controlled rage, he said, "Is this satisfactory, Tornac?"

"A name to seal the deal, if you please." He wore an amused grin, and a chuckle escaped Murtagh.

Crossing his arms, the man barked, "Shalev. Now, can we continue please? My being here jeopardizes not only my life, but yours as well."

A light went on in Murtagh's head, and for the first time in his life he looked at Tornac with confusion and fear. The man, whose face had once been loved as a father, was now alien to him and distant, all trust seeming to vanish within seconds. He stood quickly, the chair flying out form under him, "You're--! You're a--!"

"Alas, your quick wit has, once again, figured out things that it shouldn't," said Tornac with a sad smile. He looked the boy square in the eye, "Yes, Murtagh, I am a traitor, but to a monster with an iron fist. You must understand, I never meant to deceive you, and I certainly am not going to harm you, so if you would please sit back down--"

Disbelief flooded through his mind, making it hard to think, "Why?" He wanted to ask more, to scream it at the top of his lungs, but at the moment his shock wouldn't allow it. The man who was his first friend, who taught him the blade, who took care of him when he was ill, who was a father to him, was a complete and total stranger! He suddenly became very aware of how tired he was, and a wave of exhaustion took over him. Murtagh, dragging his feet, lifted the turned chair and sat, staring at both men with hungry eyes. He wanted answers, now.

Tornac sighed, his face looking older than usual, "It was never to harm you, never that. If anything it was to protect you, by your mother's request." Surprise shown on his face, and Tornac laughed, "Don't give me that look; yes, I knew your mother before she died. I was never allowed admittance into your father's castle when you were a babe, therefore making it impossible to take you when you were young."

"So, you're going to kidnap me?"

Shalev laughed this time, "In a way, yes, for reasons that will have to wait," Murtagh was about to protest when the man held up a hand, "until you're ready for them. But now back to why I am here; there is news that a new Rider has appeared. We know not if this is true, but the carrier of the egg has yet to return to her people, or Galbatorix has found their runners that would inform us otherwise. All in all, the news isn't good, and there have yet to be any signs that the rumors are true."

Another Rider?! This was all happening to fast; the room was spinning. Murtagh knew not of the woman he referred to, but the egg caught his attention. He could remember still, his father in a drunken rage, babbling on about some blasted egg that he could never find. One name that was embedded into his mind, along with a few choice words his father had used to describe them, rang loud and clear in his mind. Looking up, he stated, "You're with the Varden."

Both men looked at him with surprise, then Tornac nodded, "Yes, we are. I swear boy, you and your head. Now, let Shalev finish."

Shalev looked at him once more, made sure there would be no more interruptions, then said, "Ajihad wished me to check and see if word had reached you about this yet, and of course," he glanced quickly at Murtagh, who eyed him suspiciously, "the other thing."

"This is why I brought you here, Murtagh. I can no longer stay in the castle; Galbatorix will demand that anyone who live under his roof open their minds to his probes, to prove their loyalty. I would be killed on spot, therefore unable to protect you."

"Protect me? From what?" Save the crazy nobles that want me dead, assassins, my father's old enemies--He laughed bitterly as the list continued.

Shalev scratched his beard, "Maybe you don't need protecting, but if you stay, then he'll find this little meeting inside your head. You'll betray us to the king, willingly or not. Now, I suggest you leave tonight, sometime soon as to avoid suspicion."

Tornac saw the fear in Murtagh's eyes, "Don't worry, we aren't going to the Varden. Not yet, at least. I have a friend in Dras Leona that will hide us until the time is right." He turned to Shalev, a grave look on his face, "As for you, my friend, you should leave now and quickly. The guard is about to change, and after that there will be no hope of escape."

They clasped hands together, and the man smiled, "I'm glad to see you alive, Tornac; you've been gone for to long." In a low voice, Murtagh barely heard, ". . .and Brom'll be happy too." Acting as if he hadn't heard them, Murtagh looked up as Shalev did, an amused grin on his face, "You may have the shell of your father, but by the stars you act like your mother. That's a compliment, if you'll take it." He winked, then quickly left from the room, his footsteps barely audible as he rounded the house.

Once he was sure Shalev was gone, Murtagh slammed a fist down on the table, causing it to shake, "What is going on?!"

Exasperated, Tornac snapped, "An escape, if that hasn't been clear enough. Now, go back to your room and get some traveling clothes. Your bow too, if you can find it in that mess. If anyone asks, I am taking you hunting for a few days, but we're leaving tonight so we can reach the city and buy supplies before dawn." His eyes softened, and there was a sadness in his voice, "I planned on telling you all of this one day, Murtagh, I really did, but--"

"Enough; I'm going." He was angered by everything in the world right now, and he didn't want to look at the old man's face. Stomping out of the hut, he slammed the door and marched back to his room, quickly stuffing things into a small pack while cursing the world. All of this was too absurd for him to process at the moment, but one thing kept repeating in his mind; his mother had asked Tornac to spirit him away. She was with the Varden! Of all the people in the world that could be a traitor, he'd never thought his mother could be one. For some reason he smiled at the thought, an overwhelming desire to deny the king burned inside him. If my mother could defy him, then so can I. I refuse to become a pawn as my father was.

Murtagh began to walk out of the room when his hand quickly shot to his neck. Cursing, he turned quickly and rushed to his side table, removing a small necklace. The charm was in the shape of a small clover, and an old yarn string ran through the top leaf. It was once his mother's; the only thing he had left of her. Quickly stashing it in his pocket, Murtagh closed the door on the small room that had become his life, never to return.

He was painfully aware of the lack of human life around the castle, even at this hour. Very few, if any, windows had the glimmer of a lantern light, and there seemed to be no soldiers patrolling the grounds or walkways atop the walls. The quiet only added to his anxiety, and something told him that things weren't as they seemed. His eyes feel on his gray warhorse, Tornac, whom he'd named after his friend because, quite frankly, he didn't know what else to call him. His saddle was already in place, and it looked as if he'd been freshly brushed. He quickly stashed his belongings into the bags, placing a hand on the animal's nose, "Are you ready for this?"

"More ready than you," Tornac, the human, was already seated on his copper mare. The animal was built for speed, its thin legs kicking nervously as it smelled Murtagh. The horse had never been fond of him. The old man looked down at him, "Saddle up; we need to hurry. Is your sword sharp?"

He saddles Tornac quickly, then trotted beside his friend, "What's the problem?"

"Just a feeling."

They rounded the final corner that would lead to the main gate when Tornac cursed. The bridge was still lowered, but surrounding it was more than half of the castle's guard, all armed with swords or spears. A chill ran down his spine as Murtagh asked, "How did they know?" He sighed, a defeated look on his face, "What now?"

"We fight, what else?" Silently he drew his sword, signaling for Murtagh to do the same. Tornac waited for a moment, then spurred his horse forward, a cry tearing from his lips. Murtagh followed suit, his sword whistling in the air. There was a surprised yelp, and the hooves of Tornac's beast came crashing down onto a man's chest, crushing him beneath the weight. His sword quickly decapitated the soldier next to him, blood dancing in the lantern light.

He hesitated, I've sparred with half of these men. Murtagh glanced around at some of the younger soldiers and thought that there was no way they would attack him; a small slash to his ankle woke him from his dream. He viciously tore into the young man he knew as Keith, the son of the smith that had forged the very blade used for his death. He grimaced, then became concentrated on the fight, all emotion leaving him. Three soldiers came at him with swords, all going for the legs of his horse. He cut one man in the shoulder, while another was stabbed through the heart. While his back was turned, the third man made a jab for one of his arms. Murtagh pulled his blade free just in time to block the blow, then cut off the man's head, the neck spewing out blood to make a crimson rain. He could have easily killed me, he raised an eyebrow, unless the want me alive!

To his right Tornac was fending off two spearmen, one jabbing at his ribs while the other tried to kill his horse. Neither man nor beast would be so easily thwarted, and he stabbed his assailant through the eye, the horse biting his own attacker's nose clear off. Soon the commotion had brought the attention of the castle, and there were shrieks and cries pouring out of the windows and doors. Murtagh did his best to ignore the noise, but soon it became to overpowering to just toss to the back of his mind. A particular voice made his blood grow cold. From atop the main tower, he could faintly make out the face of Galbatorix, barking commands as he pointed down at him. For a moment he thought that the king was staring straight into his eyes.

"Snap out of it, Murtagh!" Barked Tornac. He was pointing to the roof tops, which were now covered with archers. The bowmen's deadly arrows were pointed towards them, anxiously waiting to taste their blood. "Ride!" Tornac slapped the back of Murtagh's horse, and the animal took off. Before he could calm him, the old man was far behind, fighting off a few more soldiers.

Murtagh pulled hard on Tornac's saddle, shouting after the old man, "Tornac!" One of the soldiers slashed his sword quickly towards the old man's stomach. From that distance, Murtagh wasn't sure if it had hit or not, but in response Tornac brought the hilt of his blade down on the man's face, crushing his nose. He quickly dashed forward, knocking the few who stood before him to the ground. Murtagh followed, apprehension growing as arrows whizzed by his head. His eyes widened, "Look!"

Lazily Tornac's eyes rose, and he cursed; they were bringing the bridge up. He kicked his horse in the side, recklessly racing at a breakneck speed towards the bridge. Murtagh was right beside him, his sword down to his side. The bridge was almost to a sixty degree angle when they bolted out of its top, barely clearing the small stream below. Arrows chased after them in the blinding night, the horses continuing on as if being chased by a demon.

They kept this pace until they were a few miles from the castle, their horses breathing as hard as they were. Murtagh rested against Tornac's gray mane. "That. . .," he gasped, "Was. . . insane!"

Tornac laughed weakly, "Yes, it was. . ."

"Tornac?" He cried as the old man feel from his saddle, "Tornac!" Without stopping, Murtagh leapt from his horse and ran back to the old man, who was now laying face first in the dirt. There was a rich smell in the air; Murtagh knew it was blood. Carefully, he flipped Tornac over, his hand becoming soaked with red liquid. He could feel tears burning his eyes, "Oh no. . ."

Tornac looked down, then laughed, "I'm. . . not as good as I used to be. . ." He trailed off weakly, his body shaking. "Murtagh--"

"Don't talk, you need your strength." He began to rip open Tornac's shirt, removing his own cloak to use as a bandage. In the dark he could barely see, but the half moon allowed some visibility. There was a huge, gaping gash below Tornac's ribcage, blood flowing out of it like a red waterfall. The old man coughed, blood lining the tips of his lips. He cursed, rage boiling inside him as he swore to utterly destroy the one responsible for this.

Tornac saw his expression, "To late--I already killed the bastard." He sighed, then reached a blood soaked hand up to Murtagh's face, "My boy. . ."

"I said don't talk--!"

"I don't have--the time to talk again, so listen good. . .!" He closed his eyes once, "Ever since you were born, I was destined to know you. I," he paused, sucking in a painful breath, "I was supposed to kill you." He laughed bitterly, then continued, "But then Morzan was slain, and your mother, bless her heart, died after returning to you. I didn't think it was fair, for a family to suffer so much, so I decided that I would watch over you and make sure you didn't become the next Morzan."

"Don't say such things," Murtagh said, his voice cracking, "you sound like a dead man."

"No, a dying man. Dead men have no words for the living." He rubbed away a stray tear from Murtagh's face, blood streaking along its weak path. Taking another breath, he whispered, "I never thought I would grow to care for you. Like so many I was blinded by hatred for your father to make any fair judgment about your own character. However, that soon grew not to be the case, and I--" His hand fell, "I started to love you, as if you were my own son." A weak smile was on his face now, "I do not regret one second of knowing you, Murtagh; you're a good man." His voice quaked, and he tried to hold down a cry. The wound was causing him such pain, it was hard to concentrate, "Murtagh, you need to know. Do not go back to the Empire! If you do, a fate much worse than death will befall you."

"Why would I go back?"

"Be--because, Murtagh, there is something in that castle that is destined for you. Something that, if brought to life, would doom all that oppose Galbatorix and doom the people of our land to an eternal life of oppression."

His eyes widened, "I'm--?!" Tornac's head nodded in confirmation. No wonder so many wanted me dead! No, this cannot be; what would make me worthy of such a gift? Murtagh took Tornac's hand, squeezing it gently, "Enough talk, you need to sleep--"

"This wound pains me, and I know I shall never recover. . ." He reached down to his hip, removing a small blade. He looked at it contently, then placed it into Murtagh's hand. "It's a sin to kill one's self, so if you don't mind--"

Murtagh's eyes widened as he looked from his friend to the blade. The small weapon looked more and more evil as it rested in his hand. His voice barely above a whisper, he croaked, "Do not ask this of me. . ."

"Please, my boy, my--my son. I would rather it be you to end my life than by some painful wound or a wild beast. This pain," he cried, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth, "it pains me so. I can't think, and breathing is only becoming harder and harder. Please," his eyes were weak, "set me free."

"I--" His voice failed him, and the boy of eighteen looked at the man that had raised him. The man who he knew as a friend, mentor, father, and now a rebel. Overwhelming sadness threatened to take over him, but he firmly held the blade before his father's throat. Tears streamed freely from his eyes, though he neither felt them nor acknowledged them; he never took his eyes from Tornac's face. The old man closed his eyes, awaiting the sweet embrace of death, "Tornac?"

Tiredly, he responded, "Yes?"

"I love you too, father." A smile crept onto the old man's face, and the dagger sank into the soft skin beneath his chin. Blood sprayed into the air, soaking Murtagh's face. A scream like a rabid animal roared from his mouth, and madness threatened to drag him back to the castle and kill every soldier on the grounds. He stood, the blood dripping from his hair, when something wet fell from his eye, then another. Violent sobs forced him back to the ground, his entire form racked with endless waved of sorrow. It hurt, more than any wound he'd ever suffered. Everyone was gone. His mother, and now his dearest friend. He heard a faint clop of horse hooves, and felt Tornac's warm fur against his cheek. Sobbing openly, Murtagh drifted off to sleep, the horse watching over him.