Zar'roc:
A companion to the Inheritance Cycle
Chapter 1
The dark spires of Uru'baen faded into the distance as Thorn flew north along the silver path of the Ramr River. Neither dragon nor rider spoke, for both were beyond what could be expressed in words. But later on, as the miles flew by beneath Thorn's blood red wings, made even more luminous by the setting sun, Murtagh said aloud, "What will become of us?" The end of the war does not matter, he thought. We will never be accepted in Alagaesia, no matter what Eragon says. I will always be the murderer of Hrothgar and Oromis and Glaedr, defiler of Nasuada and son of the murderer Morzan. I will always be the killer of Alagaesia's hope. It is better that we're leaving this land.
But even as he thought this, the thought of Nasuada tugged at his mind. He could not bear to think of what would happen to her now that she was no longer a prisoner. She was a good leader, and would be the probable choice for monarch if Orrin was not chosen in her stead. If that occurred, and it seemed likely, the obvious decision on Nasuada's part was to marry the Surdan king. Murtagh felt something twist inside of him. But she could not have ever loved me.
Gently prodding Murtagh's bitter, grief-stricken thoughts, Thorn said, No matter what we have done, it cannot be changed. We don't know what the future may hold. Murtagh caught glimpses in Thorn's consciousness of dragon eggs, and his hopes to find a mate of his own once they were hatched, once the bloodlust that ruled his mind was snuffed out.
Murtagh nodded to himself. Perhaps time would allow him to return, for his dragon's sake if not his own, but the anger and pain that languished in their shared consciousness said otherwise. He felt tears prick the corners of his eyes only to be stolen away by the rushing wind as they flew onward, onward, till night began to paint the wide sky with the purples and deep blues of ascending darkness, and Thorn slowly wheeled to the ground, gliding on the thermals, and they landed on the shores of Isenstar Lake, a few leagues hence from the border of Du Weldenvarden.
They set up camp in a small copse of trees further from the lake, and Murtagh was too exhausted to do more than drink a few mouthfuls from his water skin and unroll his pallet next to Thorn's warm side, which thrummed rhythmically with each breath the dragon took. As he lay beneath the arching trees, sleep soon took him, but it was a fitful slumber, plagued by too-vivid dreams of yawning abysses and formless specters that threatened to destroy him, of the horrible eyes of Shruikan, and Galbatorix's laughing face. Once, he awoke in the night bathed in a cold sweat, and the words of Umaroth resounded through his mind: Beware the deeps, and tread not where the ground grows black and brittle and the air smells of brimstone, for in those places evil lurks.
Pain throbbed from the scar on his back as he violently tore off the wool blanket and forced himself to stand, to breathe in the cool, pure breeze that blew in from the lake. It plastered his nearly black hair to his damp forehead and made him shiver.
As his mind began to clear, he realized that Zar'roc was still strapped to his belt. He went to unbuckle it, but on a whim, he pulled it from its sheath and held it before him in the predawn dimness. With his vision enhanced by magic, the rich ruby of the blade seemed to pulse with a soul of its own as he flowed through the forms of battle with his father's sword, fighting an invisible opponent. But what was there to fight? The only battle which remained existed within Murtagh's own heart, and would take much more than the edge of a weapon to resolve. Zar'roc swung faster and faster, flourishing like a flame until the pain in his back drove him to the ground, side by side with his sword in the dirt. Murtagh reached with a shaking hand to the jewel at the hilt, stroking it with an outstretched finger. "Are you, too, still thirsty for blood?" he whispered to it.
He received no answer. Then again, he didn't need one.
*oOo*
The following morning, Murtagh rose with the sun and prepared for another day of flight. The saddle still remained atop Thorn's sleeping form, as he had been too tired to remove it the night before, so as the dragon slept, he made adjustments to the straps that had loosened the day before, and repacked his own supplies. Afterwards, he took his travel sack and made his way back to the rock-strewn lake shore, deserted save for the seagulls that cried overhead.
He sat on a boulder and looked to the north. Today he and Thorn would journey over a narrow strip of the Elves' woodland before leaving Alagaesia behind forever. It left him feeling strangely empty, knowing that the entire known world existed in the map carefully folded in his pocket. The map was useless now, but he couldn't bring himself to part with it. Not yet.
Sighing, he returned to the clearing. Thorn was gone, but he wasn't worried: the sharp, startled cry of an animal some ways off and a few, brief mental images of blood and fur and sunlight on leaves from the dragon told him that he was away hunting. Realizing that he himself hadn't eaten in nearly a day, Murtagh found a hard biscuit to break his fast and tentatively took a bite; it was tasteless and felt like sand in his mouth. He forced himself to swallow. He did not want to eat; the thought disgusted him. But he would need the strength if he and Thorn were to leave Alagaesia by nightfall. There was a brisk wind coming from the west that threatened to blow them off course, and he wished to depart as soon as possible, despite his lack of sleep.
When Thorn returned they took flight as soon as Murtagh climbed upon his back, and they set out. Before mid-day the pines of Du Weldenvarden were beneath them. Neither he nor Thorn had travelled to that realm, and both longed to see a glimpse at what lay there, but they flew on; they knew they were not welcomed by the elves. It feels as if they're watching us, he said, filled with a vague sense of unease.
Let them watch, Thorn replied. But if they do anything more, I shall tear them to shreds and set their forests burning.
Murtagh laughed mirthlessly to himself, patting one of Thorn's glassy scales. I'm sure you would, my friend. And they would once again feel the edge of my blade.
At this Thorn roared in agreement, the din reverberating in his rider's chest and frightening the birds that dwelt in that section of forest, causing them to rise up in a great, dark, undulating cloud. He snapped at the ones that flew to close, but did not catch any between his jaws.
The day passed on slowly, and Murtagh grew even wearier, tightening the leg straps holding him in place, lest he fall to sleep and plummet from Thorn's back to the earth so far below. The woods were beginning to thin, and in time they gave way to wide, flat grasslands, with the forest to the east and the barest silhouette of the Spine to the west. When they rested briefly at a small brook, Murtagh noted that the air here was noticeably colder, the wind whipping more violently over the barren landscape. The grass rippled and whispered, but there was no living soul to be seen besides the Red Rider and his dragon.
By the time they set out again, dark, heavy clouds had begun to coalesce over the mountains, and were approaching faster than Murtagh would have liked. Soon, he could see a gray haze of rain. He spat a string of curses. Must the sky hate us, too? He thought irritably.
With your luck, would you expect anything else?
I suppose not. But I hate flying in the rain. If that is the price to pay though, then so be it; we have met worse.
Aye.
After Thorn's word of agreement, Murtagh immediately severed their mental link as he was assaulted anew by his memories. For what was a rainstorm to the damage he had done in his few short years of life? It was less than recompense.
*oOo*
When the rain came, it Murtagh could barely see three feet in front of him. He wore a heavy coat and cowl, and an oilskin cloak over that, but nonetheless, he was drenched and shivering in minutes. Thorn attempted to rise through the cloud cover to the calm air above, but the strong downdraft that the storm brought with it prevented him from doing any more than flying straight ahead. And so they flew on.
By nightfall the worst of the storm had passed, and they slept on the open plain, with Murtagh resting under the protection of Thorn's extended wing. He had changed into his spare clothes, which were only slightly damp, and, being hot-blooded, the dragon was quite warm, but Murtagh found himself shivering. Coupled with his already troubled dreams, it was even worse than the night before. Perhaps because this time, it was Nasuada he dreamt of.
"I'm so sorry," he whispered. As if that would change anything.
"I know," she replied, her voice rough with tears as she struggled to compose herself. "It is not you who has done this to me." But her hands involuntarily twitched to the partially healed over welts across her forearms where he had touched the scalding iron to her skin. She shook her head and reached up, taking his face in her hands so that his eyes could not leave hers. "It was never your fault."
After a time, Nasuada allowed her hands to move down to his shoulders, and brought her face close to him, her lips barely brushing his own. "I need you to distract me, Murtagh," she whispered almost desperately. "I need a distraction, or soon Galbatorix will break me."
But suddenly he was alone, and it was not Nasuada strapped to the stone slab, but him. He cried out for help, but instead of echoing off of the stone walls, his voice was swallowed up by the darkness that pressed down on him. And then Morzan was beside him, his pale face impassive as he lifted Zar'roc high above his head…. and stabbed Murtagh through the heart. The room began to spin, and suddenly he had become his father, holding the familiar, bloody sword that was sheathed deep within Nasuada's ribcage.
A thin trail of dark red slid from the corner of her perfect mouth. "You know why," she said.
Murtagh bolted awake sometime after sunrise to find that he had torn thin, red scratches across his chest in his sleep. He briefly considered healing them, but decided to let himself bleed, another small penance.
Emerging from under Thorn's wing, he surveyed the bleak landscape, which had widened so that Du Weldenvarden was rendered invisible. He felt a strange sense of sadness to be leaving behind the familiar landmark. Now, the only piece of recognizable scenery was the Spine, and even the vast mountain range appeared smaller than when he had observed it the day before.
*oOo*
The next day of flight tired them more than the previous days had; the dragon could not keep up his pace much longer, and his rider, too, was quickly wearying. But by the time evening had begun to fall, all evidence of Alagaesia was behind them. Only the vast, unending plane lay ahead.
Could this be all there is? Murtagh thought.
Thorn's consciousness melded with his own: There is something else, but it lies many days from here. I can see it in the distance.
Is it the Spine? Could we have gone off course?
From this far, I cannot tell.
Murtagh grimaced at the possibility of more bad luck, and cut his mind from the dragon's.
They flew on long after the sun had disappeared in a bleeding haze on the western horizon, for the moon shone full and bright, and there were countless stars woven into the sky's black tapestry, many more than what could be seen further south. The stars brought him a measure of solitude and comfort, and their crystalline brilliance seemed to ease the ache in his heart, though they did little for his and Thorn's aching bodies. They were finally driven back to earth by exhaustion, taking shelter on the leeward side of a rocky bluff.