Disclaimer: Anything that I may write in this fanfic must not be accredited to me, but to Mr. Paolini for the creation of the setting and characters. You may, however, feel free to send reviews comparing and/or contrasting my work to that of the magnificent Paolini's.
Empire
Chapter One
The Last Beginning
Zar'roc glowed the color of blood in the flickering torchlight. Murtagh lay broken and bleeding in the corner, the cold, jagged edges of the stone walls irritating his already torn flesh. Even his old scar, the one his father had bestowed upon him, was throbbing painfully, as it had not done in years.
"Please," he sobbed, choking his words around a throat swollen from weeping and numerous asphyxiations, "please, my liege, no more. No more. I swear my undying loyalty to you, in any language you care to hear. Just please, my lord, end this."
Even as the words left his mouth, he knew it was no use. He had made many such pleas. How many, he could not count. He did not even know how long he had been in this room. Hours, days, months….years. He didn't know, nor did he care. He just wanted it to end, whether with his death or his continued service. It did not matter.
Countless times he had found himself in this state: broken, unable to move, his blood and innards spread out across the floor. Each time he had thought the sweet embrace of death would take him, take him away from this horror.
It never did. Always King Galbatorix had healed him at the last moment, pouring in his seemingly limitless magical energies into Murtagh until all his wounds were healed and his endurance revitalized, all in preparation for another torture session.
Sure enough, Murtagh felt the surprisingly gentle hands on his head. He winced as they pressed against his cracked skull, but soon sighed with relief as he felt tissue and bone knitting together, seemingly of their own accord. Soon, he felt completely healed and revitalized, as if he had just awoken from a good night's sleep after several days of rest.
Steeling himself against what he knew was yet to come; he clambered to his feet to face his lord.
Galbatorix's gaze was terrible to behold. Disappointment and malice flowed from the man like the smell of death wafts off a carcass. In one hand, the one with the gedwëy ignasia, he held a terrible black sword, a Dragon Rider's sword. In his other hand, he held a similar sword, except the blade was red, and the stone fixed upon the hilt was a ruby: Zar'roc.
Galbatorix tossed Zar'roc to the ground before Murtagh's feet. "Pick it up."
Murtagh's knees bent before he could consciously consider whether to obey or not. For the millionth time, he mentally cursed at the oaths in the Ancient Language he had taken. He grasped the sword firmly by the hilt, but did not hold the blade in a defensive position. "My lord," he whispered, "this is not necessary. I have learned my lesson a thousand times over. I shall never fail you again. I shall bring you the Varden's dragon rider and his dragon. If he resists, I shall cut him. I will make him beg to be brought before you."
Galbatorix's face remained impassive, but Murtagh could have sworn a twitch of a maniacal grin had flashed across his face. "Impressive," said Galbatorix in his disconcerting, melodious voice, rolling like the unstoppable wind across the prairie hills, "and yet I am not convinced. You swore to me twice before, once in the Ancient Language, and both times you betrayed me."
"Third time's the charm," said Murtagh, daring to throw in a bit of humor into the utterly humorless situation.
"Yes, but for whom?" mused Galbatorix. "Will you prove yourself to me in this third trial, or will you be a major part in my downfall in your third betrayal?"
"I will not betray you."
"Truly? I wish I could believe you, O son of my friend. However, you have shown yourself to be quite untrustworthy."
Murtagh's final plea could barely be heard above the echoing screams from deeper in the dungeons, "One. More. Chance."
Galbatorix considered, and then shrugged. "Very well, you will have your last chance to prove yourself my loyal subject. A word of caution: You betray me again, and I will consider you a dangerous liability. Your dragon is male. I have an extra. I would ensure that your death will be the most painful one in centuries."
Murtagh fell to his knees before Galbatorix, kissing the hem of his robes. "Thank you, my lord. You are merciful. I will bring Eragon to you, I vow."
Galbatorix nodded, then, with a savage cry, raised his pitch blade high with both hands and struck down across Murtagh's back.
Murtagh's anguished scream reverberated about the stone walls. Blood quickly soaked through his ruined tunic and streamed down his thighs, spreading in a crimson puddle about his shins and kneecaps.
Galbatorix stepped back, having no plans to heal this latest injury. "You are to leave that scar there to match the one Morzan gave you," he commanded, "to remind you of the vow you just made."
Murtagh gritted his teeth against the pain, trying not to twist whatsoever. "My lord," he choked, "Eragon will be brought before you upon his knees, or his head will rest upon a pike for your decorative amusement."