Murtagh

“Now, O Rider, drink this,” said Bachel. And she handed Murtagh another vial, this one smaller, more delicate. Within was a pearlescent liquid that glowed with an unnatural luminance.

He stared dumbly at the vial, unable to make sense of what was expected. The floor and the ceiling seemed to spin; he swayed and nearly fell.

Bachel placed a finger against the back of his hand and pressed it toward his mouth. Her skin was cool against his. “Drink,” she said, and her voice was a wind brushing through branches bare of leaves, needles, or bark.

He drank. The liquid burned like brandy.

Then Grieve took the vial from his hand and closed the iron door.

“Give him his cloak, that he may remain warm,” said Bachel. “He is my child, after all, and I would have him treated as such.”

The garment landed upon him, a heavy petal of felted wool. He pulled it off his face. The fibers rubbed against his skin; he could feel each individual one, and they overwhelmed him with the influx of sensation.

Bachel bent toward him from beyond the iron bars. “Sleep, Kingkiller. Sleep…and dream…. Dream…. Dream.”

Her voice faded into the distance, and shadow swallowed her face as Murtagh fell backward—fell and fell and fell, and all the universe spun around him, and he cried out. But no one answered.

***

He was standing in the royal balcony overlooking the arena, Galbatorix behind him, looming and unseen, for Murtagh kept his gaze fixed on the sandy pit—the same pit where he’d killed his first man.

“Watch now,” said the king, and his voice contained the authority of rolling thunder.

Murtagh gripped the balcony railing until his nails turned white. He wanted to shout and rant—he wanted to leap over the railing and jump into the arena—but it would only make the situation worse.

Thorn stood in the center of the pit. He was only four days old: still weak, still unable to fly, though he kept raising his thin, undersized wings and driving them down in a futile attempt to take off. He turned in circles, chirping in concern, uncertain of where to go or what to do. He saw Murtagh on the balcony and let out a pitiful whine, and Murtagh knew his own feelings were affecting the hatchling. So he hardened his heart and, despite the anguish it caused him, closed his mind to the hatchling below.

“He’s too young,” he said from between clenched teeth.

“No creature is too young,” answered the king. “If he is to survive, he must learn to fight and feed. There is no other way.”

The iron portcullises at either side of the arena ratcheted up, and from each opening, a pair of grey timber wolves loped into the pit. They growled and snarled as they saw Thorn, and the fur along their spines bristled.

Thorn shrank back, but there was nowhere to run or hide.

“Please,” said Murtagh, gritting his teeth.

“No.” The king’s breath was warm against his ear.

The wolves circled Thorn. The dragon was longer than they were, but the wolves outweighed the hatchling by a significant amount.

After a few false starts, the wolves began to dart in and nip at Thorn’s wings and tail.