Murtagh

It was a lucky strike. Murtagh could not have hoped to duplicate it in a week of sparring. He did not hesitate and followed through as Tornac had taught him and slipped the point of his sword under Goreth’s arm and pricked him in the armpit, where the armor did not cover.

It was a narrow wound, but deep enough to cause Goreth to cry out and fall to the ground and to mark the end of the duel.

Or so Murtagh thought.

With blood dripping from his limp left arm, he looked to the king for the final verdict. It was tradition for Galbatorix to declare the winner of any contest he sat in witness of; the king’s word was final, and until he spoke, no outcome—no truth—was official.

The shadow leaned forward on the throne, and glints of light appeared on the tips of his crown, but the king’s face remained too dark to see his expression.

“Make an end of him, son of Morzan.”

At first Murtagh did not believe what he heard, but Galbatorix’s voice carried with unnatural force, and there was no mistaking his words. The crowd grew tense, and several gasps and cries sounded among the rows of seating, but no one spoke out against the king’s command. No one was so foolish.

Goreth had not their restraint. He began to beg in a high-pitched voice. In an instant the image of the famous warrior vanished, replaced by yet another frightened soldier crawling on the battlefield, pleading for mercy from the approaching enemy.

Murtagh hesitated. He frantically searched the edge of the arena, searched for any means of escape. Then he saw Tornac standing inside the entrance tunnel to the arena, out of sight from the audience, but in plain view of Murtagh. The swordmaster’s face was pale and pinched, and he looked as if he wanted to speak, but his lips remained pressed together, and his expression was severe. He shook his head, a single, short movement, and Murtagh understood. There was no escape to be had. And no help either.

“End him, son of Morzan.”