A/N : It's been a long time since I've last posted on this story. I know and I apologize for it. My heavy schedule would not permit the ff writing, although I would love to. Nevertheless, this story is no more in hiatus thanks to the fervent, new writer Dragonriderofold who very kindly has offered me his help. I would like to express my most sincere thanks to him, as well as to BookAdictArchiver and Scarlett Barnes. For their limitless patience and wise counsel I'm eternally grateful.

The Warrior and The Dragon

(Part One)

The hour was late. It was already past midnight, but the lord of Dras-Leona, Lord Marcus Tábor, had not yet retired to his quarters. In the two wide fireplaces of the main hall in his castle, the fire had already consumed the wood into embers. The wind, blowing from the hinterland, was so strong that the windows rattled. The lord of the city had remained seated in his hegemonic seat – the symbol of his authority in the rich city of Dras-Leona – hours after the rest of his dinner guests had left his castle. His thoughts and concerns, his doubts and qualms, plus a glass of strong wine he had served himself from the silver jug, were his only companions at this late hour.

The lord was drinking; he was drinking to suppress the heavy feeling of the imminent destruction that might already have been hanging over his head; he was drinking to quell the void that so unexpectedly had filled his core; he was drinking to suppress the fear that had paralyzed his members. In a few days, the king Galbatorix was supposed to visit the city of Dras-Leona; a very strange fact indeed, considering no one remembers the last time he bothered to honor his subjects with a visit. His two dark and repulsive servants, the Ra'zac, were already strolling around, examining everything and everyone, preparing the city for His Majesty's forthcoming.

Lord Tábor emptied his cup for yet another time, and then put the glass onto a silver disc, sighing deeply. What might be the reason of Galbatorix's presence in Dras-Leona? What did the old Dragon-King want that could make him decide to leave his centennial den for a travel? Since lord Tábor could recall in his 40-year-old life, something like that had never happened before. Galbatorix was not supposed to go anywhere for a simple official inspection.

Truth is, Marcus Tábor had abused his powers many a time, especially of late. And now he was afraid he would be uprooted. From a very trusted informant Lord Tábor had bribed in the capital, he found out that the dark-scaled Dragon was reluctant to respond to the King, most times disinclined to his will. But then again, who could tell for sure the exact relationship the Dragon and his King-Rider shared? Nevertheless, the King was coming soon, and Lord Tábor felt as if he had seated himself on the burning embers in his fireplace.

For many years, Lord Tábor was very careful every time he committed a fraud, and he took a great care to cover all his embezzlements. The truth is that his lordship had overdone it lately. The income taxes demanded by His Majesty had been reduced to the half. Every time the King's tax collectors visited the city of Dras-Leona, their chest – destined to the royal treasury – was carried out lighter and lighter, depleted of gold. Galbatorix had finally realized the theft, hence the financial inspection. Had Lord Tábor tried in vain to compensate the lost weight of money by adding beautiful object and slaves to the owed sum? None of these offers could mitigate the misappropriation of the royal fund.

Lord Tábor sighed deeply in frustration yet another time. Was it his fault that he estimated luxury in abundance? Was it so bad that he was used to sending his servants and agents to the market, to bring him back whatever he desired, and on an everyday basis? Tábor loved the days where merchants arrived in his castle, even from the most remote placed of the empire, bringing in the finest wines produced in their distant homelands; the most excellent liqueurs and delicacies to satisfy his insatiable appetite. He considered it necessary to add to his collection the most priceless jewels and the finest pearls, exquisite velvets and precious fabrics, wonderful works of art created by the most experienced hands, weapons embellished with egg-sized polished gems. He liked to welcome beautiful girls – still unseen by other men's eyes – girls with fair complexion, unblemished by sunlight. He also loved the exotic flowers of the wandering tribes; maidens with skin several shades darker, tanned by the desert sun. Lord Tábor accepted every one, and he was delighted to spend his mornings choosing the merchandise himself, buying the finest for his lordship. Tábor had a very expensive taste, even more expensive than his clique.

A city like Dras-Leona—a vast and famous city dedicated to the worship of Darkness; a city that possessed wealthy households in its center, as well as many rich merchants downtown; merchants who profited greatly from the many pilgrims travelling from the furthest reaches of the empire—had many pecuniary gains to offer. So, His Majesty was assigned about half of his taxes, and the rest were abused by the lord and the fewer of his company, the necessary persons for his transgression.

Not to mention the priesthood! The temple and its High Priest were Lord Tábor's main allies in his embezzlement, claiming the lion's share of the taxes, and conveying to His Majesty the lesser part. The lord even added to his own pockets from the flourishing slave market. Meanwhile, the hour of the financial inspection was coming closer, and Lord Tábor felt as if ants were crawling onto his spine. However, he was keeping hope that a magnificent royal reception to welcome His Majesty would smooth over the situation in the best way possible.

The lord intended to present to the King the nobles of the city, and the richest of the merchants. However, a large city – big as Dras-Leona was – had its poverty too; all those who lived inside the city walls, and dwelled in the hovels built out of mud. Lord Tábor had never cared about the wretched poor, the beggars, and the miserable conditions of their lives. Nevertheless, all these lost souls could be a great asset to his cause.

He would use their misery as an excuse to the King. If His Majesty decided to visit them using his royal coach, the first impression he would obtain from the city would be the mud-hovels of the poor living around the walls. Lord Tábor assumed that the King's first impression would be in his favor. "Your Majesty," he intended to say at the appropriate time, when the conversation would turn against him, "have you seen the pauperization of the city? I'm having trouble even collecting the few taxes I send you." Tábor could not be sure if this trick would work, especially if the King decided to visit the city flying on his dark beast.

There was a side door in the great hall, hidden behind a heavy, purple-colored velvet curtain. Unoiled hinges protesting loudly, the door opened to reveal a dark-haired man dressed in servant's clothing, though he'd been denied the luxury of a livery. Though the man had a slight limp, he approached the lord's table quickly. His unshaven face was half-hidden among the shadows; wry-mouthed and squint-eyed, he always gave the impression of looking at his conversant lopsidedly. The abnormal curve of his left shoulder – a deformity since his birth that the man tried to hide in vain – indicated a hunchback rather than a swordsman. Nevertheless, the man carried a long hand and a half sword by his side and, whomever was lucky or unlucky enough to know him well, would assure that the man knew how to use it in the most deadly way.

"Ah, Ralfgnar, you came!" Lord Marcus Tábor sat up straight in his chair, his interest completely renewed.

The man stood in front of his lord's seat, and he bowed humbly. He remained thus bowed, even when his master nodded that he could speak. He had strolled around the city for hours on end, and now he was bringing back the news he had heard.

"The two men our king has sent… they're very suspicious stinkers, my lord. They have strolled around downtown searching, examining… They looked through every inn and lodge in the city, especially in the poorest places. A strange thing, master, a very strange thing, I would say… They've looked high and low for who knows who or what." The man called Ralfgnar gave Lord Tábor a sly smile. "I've also heard them speaking to each other in a way no one could comprehend. Something like hissing and clicking, and so on… I don't know what they said."

Lord Tábor stood and he walked with great effort towards the one wide fireplace, the draft of his robes making the charred wood glow. After so many hours spent seated and motionless, he felt his legs numb and incapable of carrying his overweight body; he was so heavy, he wouldn't say for sure that when King Galbatorix came, he would be able to bend his knee in front of his sovereign. Perhaps he had better start exercising already.

"A strange thing, very strange indeed…" The lord repeated the words of his informant, leaning his heavy body against the mantel of the fireplace.

The two Ra'zac had suddenly appeared in the city, perhaps searching for the King's hidden enemies. Maybe not… Whatever they were looking for, it would be on Galbatorix's behalf, for certain. Marcus Tábor used his silken handkerchief to wipe his sweaty forehead, grimacing in pain. During this evening, he had consumed an enormous amount of wine on an empty stomach. His anguish had deprived him the pleasure of satisfying his palate with the well roasted goose swimming in its sauce; he had to pass the skewered wild boar served with apples that waited onto its silver disc filled with its fat; he had paid no attention to the delicious raisin cakes with dripping syrup. Now, Lord Tábor felt a terrible pain in his stomach.

"The Ra'zac!" The Lord of Dras-Leona licked his fat lips with a special meaning. Ultimately, this unexpected financial inspection, the official justification for the royal visit, might be nothing more than an excuse. More likely than not, the old Dragon-King had a more important reason to visit the city than a few missing golden coins; coins he could send anyone to collect. For Galbatorix to abandon his magically protected walls and come hither, he might urgently need something, or somebody else. At this thought, Lord Tábor licked his lips once again. Perhaps… there was still hope for him. It might not be necessary for him to incur the King's disfavor. He liked his position of authority very much. Wouldn't it be possible if he would find what might the King wanted, so as to provide it himself?

"Ralfgnar…"

"Command, my master!" The informer bowed even more deeply in front of his lord, always ready to serve him no matter what his need or demand was.

"I presume you have your own out there…"

The lame servant understood, another sly smile blooming on his thin lips.

"I have my trusted people, my master, at your service!"

Lord Tábor scratched his balding head for a while.

"Well then, send them all around the city; in the market place, in the slave market, the temple… even among the mud-huts of the poor. Nothing must escape our attention, Ralfgnar. What is the reason that you cost me so much gold, when I am unable to know what happens in my own city?"

The servant humbled himself deeper than before.

"My lord, everyone knows how generous you are!" The subtle irony in the servant's voice left no doubt that the man was more than aware about his master's embezzlement. But Lord Tábor, as preoccupied as he could be in the thought of currying favor with the King, failed to understand the ambiguous meaning.

The break of dawn was coming when the informer left his lord's palace through the same small door he had entered. He looked around him hastily, and disappeared towards the main market street. The city was about to wake up. He had work to do.

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Murtagh was traveling fast towards the city of Dras-Leona, his grey war-steed galloping steadily along the public road. The silver rays of the waning moon were allowed, for an instant, through the dark clouds in the sky, lightening up the empty thoroughfare. For many days, the traveler had completely avoided the daylight, traveling only during the dark hours of the night. At the crack of every dawn, he would abandon the road, and the possible encounters with other people, fearing he might be recognized. He would either seek the loneliness of the wastelands, or the cover of the woods. When he needed some rest, he would hide his horse behind a deserted wooden hut – probably used by the villagers as a storehouse for their tools during the plow and harvest time – or among the shrubs that grew abundantly in the heathlands; he would wait there for the dark that usually fell early at this time of the year.

Other times he would prefer the cover of trees; he would climb onto a branch, allowing his horse to graze unrestricted. The fear was not the only reason Murtagh avoided the other travelers. More than that, his wounded heart yearned for solitude after his great loss. Tornac, his only friend, was dead. He had been killed by the Imperial soldiers, and Murtagh could do nothing to avenge his unfair killing.

The fugitive urged his gray warhorse forward faster. The steed responded to its rider, its speedy hooves biting into the ground. Murtagh felt the muscles and fibers of his horse's flank tense, and he leaned over the saddle, hiding his face in the thick mane. From now on, this horse – his precious only companion – would be named Tornac, after Murtagh's brave friend and swordmaster, who was the most honourable man Murtagh had ever known in his entire life.

"Tornac!"

As Murtagh settled firmly in the saddle, he allowed himself to drift into some happy memories. The remembrance of the first lessons with his swordmaster entered his mind. He was but a child when the servant brought him into the training yard, carrying the King's orders to be trained as one of the finest warriors Urû'baen had ever seen. And the swordmaster Tornac had fervently responded to the King's orders.

Murtagh pursed his lips in anger and distress. The disturbing thought of the King crossed his mind, spoiling his mood. He was too young and inexperienced when he had first heard Galbatorix's lies. At his last birthday, when he had turned eighteen, the king had summoned him to his quarters for a private dinner. After eating in silence, the King had finally spoken. His words had been entrancing, like a snake whispering gilded lies into the young man's ears. The King had woven a vision, like the Empire as he imagined it. There would be beautiful cities built across the country, filled with the greatest warriors, artisans, musicians and philosophers. All his enemies would finally be eradicated, and the Empire would expand in every direction until it reached the four corners of Alagaësia. Peace and prosperity would flourish, but more wondrous yet, the Dragon Riders would be brought back to gently govern over Galbatorix's fiefdoms.

Enchanted, Murtagh had listened to him, and when the King had stopped, he had fervently pledged himself to his cause, admiring him for his aspiring vision, his knowledge, and his fluent speech. For months the young man awaited the call of His Majesty, when the need would arise. Except that when the summons came, it was an order to kill innocent people.

Murtagh would have helped Galbatorix build his empire; he would have taken the detachment of troops he had been charged with, and he would have gone to punish all of his enemies. But he would never kill the innocent! The murder of women and children, of the elderly was something he detested. By giving this order to him, Galbatorix had destroyed all the faith the young man had in him. He had turned his whole world upside down. If he had done that, the terrible burden he bore on his shoulders – as the son of the slaughterer – would become even harder.

In a moment, Murtagh had realized that Galbatorix was nothing but a tyrant; a man who didn't possess the mercy of foresight to gain the people's loyalty, and who ruled only through brute force, guided by his own passions. Murtagh had decided to escape him and Urû'baen forever. Sadly, this escape had cost him too much… Tornac, the man he deeply appreciated, respected and loved so much, had lost his life.

"Oh, Tornac…"

Listening to his new name, the war-steed tossed its head, neighed, and then stood up on its hind legs, kicking the air with its hooves. Murtagh eased the horse with a gentle caress against the animal's neck. Tornac neighed once again, and its gallop slowed to a lighter canter. Murtagh felt as if a rough hand with sharp claws stirred in his chest; the same hand that had tormented his heart for the last few days. Since the swordmaster had been killed—since that fatal moment Murtagh had decided to gallop away leaving him – wouldn't it be more honest and virtuous for him if he had turned back to avenge Tornac's death and claim his body?

He felt like he had started changing deep in his core. The remorse for what he had or had not done; the agony for his responsibility as the son of his father; the fear for his life and future… It had all begun to be covered by a layer of roughness. Murtagh still held the promise in Aldon's memory. He had promised to the friend of his youth that he would defend the lives of the weak, and that he would redeem himself through useful service for Morzan's crimes. Nevertheless, the image of the dead in the destroyed city of Cantos tormented his mind. The agony and urgency to protect himself against Galbatorix's violence was coming first. Several times, the swordmaster Tornac had pointed out that one's life – plus the lives of those one cares for most – is the most valuable and important of their possessions; one had to run to save it. He had also told him that what Tornac cared for most was Murtagh's dear life. So he had run.

The young man would like to talk about all his thoughts and doubts, but Tornac was dead. Murtagh would never meet him again in the training field. He would never have the opportunity to open his heart to him after a hard day's practice, to talk about his concerns or emotions. Tornac was lost forever!

Murtagh was so overcome with grief; he would not remember that Tornac had always been a practical man. But he would offer his advice, for the everyday life in Galbatorix's court. Murtagh's innermost thoughts had mostly remained unsaid. However, following Tornac's practical advice, Murtagh had managed to survive until now. He would do the same from now on! Any weakness had to be covered, staying invisible. He would stand merciless, ruthless, and relentless in front of his enemies. Otherwise, he would not make it.

Upon these thoughts he noticed the colours of the sky changing, the diffused light spreading over the clouds in the east. Daybreak was coming fast, along with the hour he would abandon the main road for the wilderness. According to his calculation, he was fast approaching Dras-Leona. The city wouldn't be further than a day's ride. Soon, he would start meeting other people traveling towards the same destination. Murtagh intended to reach the city at night. The hour to hide in the woods had come, so he did.

Hours later, he noticed the city walls of Dras-Leona at a distance; dark stone walls that shaded the night horizon under a dark clouded sky. At this late hour, no man was approaching the shut gates. All the merchants, pilgrims, and travelers going to Dras-Leona would have either entered the city already, before dusk, or they would wait for the first light of the next morning. The freezing cold would have kept those still traveling in whatever sheltered accommodation they could find on their way.

Murtagh eased his horse's gallop into an easy trot, approaching the one side of the wide road. From the southern part of the city, he discerned the dark mass of Helgrind at a distance. As far as he could see behind him extended empty, vast, and uncultivated fields. From the northern part of the walls, a thick forest almost touched the gray stone. The deep waters of the lake could not be seen, extending far beyond the city. Suddenly, in the darkness of the night, two hunched, bulky forms were raised above the walls of Dras-Leona, flying towards the dark peak of Helgrind; the two Ra'zac, riding their horrid mounts!

"Accursed villains..!"

Murtagh pulled the reins of his horse decisively, leading it towards the shrubs growing in abundance on the forest edge. He would approach the city from the north, taking advantage of the darkness, and using the vegetation as his cover.

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(to be continued)

A/N : Thanks for reading.