Murtagh

The dreams that night were worse than before. They seemed more potent and immediate, but also more distorted and disturbing. Slaughtered villages rose before him, and memories of battle brought cold sweat to his brow. A current of deep notes—too discordant to call a melody—ran throughout, and it reminded him of the feel of a dragon’s mind, only vastly larger and more twisted and alien than even the maddest Eldunarí.

Then, amid the cavalcade of bloody images, came a memory. A true memory:

The arming room smelled of rust, oil, leather, and stale sweat. Afternoon light poured like honey through the slit windows and lit the blades of spears stored in racks along the walls. It was a room of many hopes…and many fears.

Tornac tugged on the buckles along the side of Murtagh’s breastplate, checking that they were properly tight. Then he slapped Murtagh on the shoulder. “Good to go. Keep your breathing under control and you’ll have nothing to fear.”

“Nothing?”

“Not from the likes of Goreth. He’s fast enough, but he hasn’t the technique.” Tornac came around to Murtagh’s front and gave him a look-over from top to bottom. “You’ll do.” The words were more comforting than the armor, but even so, Murtagh knew the tough-minded swordsman was putting on a brave face. Goreth was one of the most feared duelists in the king’s court. He’d wounded three men in the past four months, and out of his twenty-seven duels, he’d lost only five.

Tornac read Murtagh’s thoughts easily enough. He always did. “Be of good courage. It’s an exhibition. The king doesn’t want to see you killed any more than he’d like to see a prize horse put down.”

“I know.”

“Remember what I taught you and you’ll acquit yourself with distinction.”

Then Tornac surprised him by giving him a brief embrace. It was the first time the swordsman had shown such emotion—but then, it was the first time Murtagh was to fight a duel.

They parted, and Murtagh let out a shaky laugh.

The brightness of the sandy arena caused him to pause and squint as his eyes adjusted. It was a brisk autumn day, but expectations of combat had raised his pulse, and he already felt overly heated in his armor.

The stands were packed with nobles, there to witness the spectacle of Morzan’s only-born son in an ostensibly friendly contest of arms against Goreth of Teirm, he of the silver sword. The duel had been Galbatorix’s idea. He had chanced to pass the sparring yards while Murtagh took his daily instruction with Tornac, and upon seeing them, the king had proposed that a more formal test of Murtagh’s skills might be appropriate. And as always, what the king desired was soon made manifest.