Disclaimer: I don't own anything, only my imagination.
A/N: While I've read many wonderful stories concerning Murtagh, I don't feel like anyone had given him the time he deserves. At the end of "Eldest" he is described as having a "hint of madness" in him. With this story I hope to explore Murtagh's captivity and what drove him to the man we see on the Burning Plains.
Murtagh glimpsed Sahpira and Eragon flying desperately towards them and knew it would be too late.
The Urgals attacked.
Murtagh swung his blade ferociously, steel slicing through flesh like butter and ending in the satisfied crunch of sinew and bone giving way. At once, three Urgals descended upon him. Out of the corner of his eye, Murtagh saw Aizhead stumble from a blow to his chest but he could do nothing to assist the Varden leader. With a furious yell Murtagh drove his sword in a wild circle, catching two Urgals in their throats. He third he missed by a mere fraction of an inch. Their blood splattered across his face, he managed to fell two more in a matter of seconds.
Suddenly a harsh blow, seemingly out of nowhere, struck his head in the same spot as his previous injury, sending him reeling to his knees, vision swimming horribly. Murtagh attempted to rise but a second blow left him on his back unable to move or gather his thoughts. As blood filled his mouth, he hazily felt a pair of thick arms grab under his shoulders and yank him roughly backwards. The last thing he saw before his vision failed completely was the heroic leader of the Varden, the man who'd given Murtagh a glimpse of a new life, fall to the merciless blows of his enemies.
The next few hours passed by sluggishly. Unable to focus, Murtagh recalled being dragged roughly across stone floors. His body soon sported a colorful multitude of bruises and scrapes and cuts where sharp rocks tried to hold him back. At one point they stopped moving and Murtagh's mind cleared enough for him to realize that something was wrong about the situation. Urgals didn't take captives, he knew that. But something further was wrong as well. His head throbbed terribly at the absence of movement, each heartbeat sending a painful jolt through his nerves.
Rough hands, but noticeably different than before, suddenly gripped the edges of his tunic and wrestled it off. His leather gauntlets and sword were removed as well. He was left with naught but a thin gray shirt on his upper body to fight off the cold. The sudden chill of the air coupled with his head-wound forced him to his side. He vomited twice. With dismay he realized he did not possess the strength to move away from it so he merely rolled back to his former position, squeezing his teary eyes shut.
He didn't know how long it was before they moved again. Only that this time the jolting movements proved too much. At last the darkness enveloped him completely.
Murtagh awoke to the sound of two people arguing. At first he thought it was one person, the voices were so incredibly similar. Only once his mind had cleared enough did he realize what, and more importantly, who, he was hearing.
"We can more than avoid Petrovya and go no where near that blasted desert."
Another, or perhaps the same voice, responded calmly. "We will not risk being so close to Surda's borders. Not with him. Surda may claim independence but they will run straight to the Varden if they discover any of us. Our success depends upon their belief in our deaths."
"Fine," growled the other.
Attempting to raise his head resulted in another unpleasant bout of nausea in the dust. This time however Murtagh managed to force himself halfway up, though his now bound arms made than all the more difficult.
"Ah, look who's finally awake."
Murtagh looked up into the faces of the Twins. His eyes widened slightly but he did not allow any other signs of his shock be revealed in his features.
"Who are you?" he asked in a low but steady voice. His mouth and throat felt like cotton had been stuffed in them. He absently wondered how long it had been since the attack.
"Oh, we're but simple messengers," one replied silkily. "And you're the message." The other added, "Sent by a very loving yet somewhat disappointed fan of yours to return you home."
The awful feeling Murtagh felt in his gut more than outweighed any current physical pain he experienced. He did not attempt to hide his anger.
"Filthy spies," he spat in disgust. "Perhaps you allow yourself to be his pawns but I will not!"
They both raised their eyebrows in unison. "You seem to be mistaken, son of Morzan. It is you who is the pawn." The second Twin continued, "We may be unable to break your mind but the King will toss aside those silly barriers with a flick of his hand. Then you will pass to him everything you know of the Varden and, of course, that pathetic excuse for a rider, Eragon, and his dragon."
Unable to deny with words, Murtagh fixed his gaze on the flickering flames of the fire, grinding his jaw in frustration to his helplessness.
A sudden pull on his mind alarmed him but it was not the Twins' doing. He realized that around his neck lay a strange necklace and it was glowing slightly. Someone was trying to scry him.
Eragon…
The sensation ended and he realized the Twins were staring at him with peculiar expressions.
"What?" he snapped.
"Ready for another go?" one said. Then the other, "And this time no one is here to stop us."
Murtagh was unprepared for the storm that suddenly invaded his head. Icy daggers slammed repeatedly into his mental barriers. One nearly broke through but barely managed to stop it. It was as if a sword were being forced to break through stone. Murtagh felt his breathing and heartbeat become erratic and it took every ounce of strength to continue deflecting the attack and not black out. Just as his head felt ready to explode the barrage ended and he collapsed to the ground, coughing and heaving oxygen into his exhausted body. He did not have the strength to even keep his eyelids open.
After several minutes of being left alone he fell easily into a fitful sleep. One he was not sure he ever wished to be awakened from.