This is a non-profit work of fiction. All concepts from Eragon, Eldest, Brisingr, Inheritance, and the Inheritance universe belong to Christopher Paolini.
This was mostly written before Book 4 came out, I just had a hard time deciding how to end it.
The attack had been sudden and fierce, coming in the hour before dawn with out warning. Not even Elva saw it coming. In following years there would be heated debates as to the method Galbatorix employed to move his army so close to the Varden's encampment without being detected by either physical or magical means. No answer would ever come forth, for the Mad King kept his secrets close. It didn't matter at the time of the battle though. All that mattered to those who fought was to keep living, keep breathing for one more moment. Kill or be killed. That was the only reality in war.
So it was for Eragon and Saphira. They fought on foot to begin with, and left piles of bodies in their wake. Humans really weren't much of a match for either of them anymore, not even the laughing dead with their inability to feel pain.
Then, as he had feared, as he had expected, Thorn's wine-red wings made a bloody blaze on the horizon. Eragon had hoped Murtagh would come, and at the same time dreaded it. The desperate need to save his half-brother from his miserable fate gnawed at Eragon every waking hour. Yet he feared he was not strong enough, not after what he had witnessed through Glaedr's eyes as Murtagh and Oromir battled above Gil'ead. If Galbatorix took over Murtagh's body again, there was no way Eragon would be able to defeat him.
Fate wasn't kind though, and Eragon had no choice but to mount Saphira's great shoulders. Unless he engaged Murtagh and Thorn the ground troops would be massacred.
Fear not little one, Saphira said into his head. I will keep you safe, even if I must flee with you away from the battle and leave the others to their fates.
Thats not right, Saphira! protested Eragon. The very thought of leaving the people whom he had sworn to protect to die without doing everything possible to prevent it repelled him to the core of his being.
I know, little one, she murmured. I hate the idea too. But you are more precious to the world and more vital to our cause than ten thousand foot soldiers. Eragon could find no argument so he subsided, albeit sullenly.
"Blödhgarm!" he called as he strapped his legs to the saddle. It took a moment, but the blue-furred elvan spellcaster emerged from the fray and sidled to Saphira's side. His sword dripped crimson and he was liberally spattered with blood. Eragon doubted that much, if any, belonged to the elf. "We're going up. We'll need your support."
"Understood, Argetlam," replied the exotic wizard. "I shall gather the others and withdraw to a place where we will be able to concentrate on your battle." As he slipped away he whistled like a lark and twelve other elves including Arya melted from the chaos and closed ranks with him. Ayra gave Eragon a heartening nod before joining them.
"Up we go, my love!" cried Eragon aloud and Saphira responded by leaping for the sky, her powerful haunches snapping and propelling them into the air. One heavy wingbeat, two, then they were aloft and quickly gaining altitude. Thorn was approaching rapidly. They would have to hurry if they were to gain the height advantage. Saphira redoubled her efforts, striving for the thinner, colder air high above. Even as she did though, Thorn's trajectory changed to compensate. Their opponents wouldn't let them get an upper hand so easily as that.
Saphira penetrated the clouds and for a while the world was reduced to chill moisture on his skin, and the resounding thud of each wing beat, amplified by the smothering gray mist. For several long moments Eragon imagined that there was no world below, that they had no obligations and that they could drift freely in the void, undisturbed forever.
Then Saphira broke into eye-piercing white and blue. Eragon squinted against the brightness, searching. He didn't have to do so for long. Less than a league away Thorn erupted from a towering cloud top like a gout of blood from a wound. Eragon could see Murtagh astride the crimson dragon's enormous shoulders, his long black hair whipping behind him like a flag, his polished steel armor glittering crazily in the brilliant sunlight. No helm again. How arrogant. On the other hand, that arrogance was well deserved. Eragon knew first hand how handy with a blade his half-brother was. If they were going to have any chance of winning this confrontation it would be through Saphira's skill in flight. It was clear that Thorn's unnatural growth had continued for he was a great deal larger than Saphira now. But size and experience were two different matters, and Thorn was still an infant compared to Saphira.
Eragon had expected Murtagh to circle and banter, plead or threaten. Instead he went straight for the attack, saying not a word and catching Eragon by surprise. His attack slammed viciously into Eragon's mental barriers. Only reflex born of Oromis's intense training as well as a large measure of luck saved him from an immediate mental take-over. As Murtagh drove in for the kill, Eragon threw up the only image that he could think of in his panicked state, an image of Murtagh himself, back when they had traveled together in blissful ignorance. He was laughing at something, his normally sullen mouth stretched in a rare smile, dark blue eyes shining with pleasure. He looked happy. It was Eragon's favorite memory of his half-brother, and he often used it as a bastion against the despair that threatened to engulf him at the mere though of Murtagh's plight. He had to believe that he could make his brother look that way again…
Confronted with this image, Murtagh recoiled so violently that even Thorn shied away from them, allowing Saphira to reclaim the height advantage. A heartbeat later Saphira and his thirteen elvan supporters bolstered Eragon's strength against Murtagh's renewed attack. Eragon wasn't entirely sure why his mental picture had so disturbed the other man, but what worked once could work again. He began throwing all his memories of times they had enjoyed together in Murtagh's face, and for a short while it did indeed break his opponent's concentration. Unfortunately his pleasant memories of Murtagh were confined to the time before they rescued Arya from Gil'ead, a short few months indeed. Eragon soon had to begin repeating memories, and once he did, Murtagh stopped flinching so hard.
Eragon adapted his tactics. Instead of memories, instead he drew forth fantasies, fabricated situations he hoped would happen in the future.
Eragon showed Murtagh around Ellesméra, pointing out all the subtle beauties of the elvan realm. They sat together on the immense roots of the Menoa tree as Eragon told stories of his adventures. They walked through the halls of Celbedeil in Tarnag admiring the exquisite murals as Eragon explained the legends behind the dwarven gods. They sat with Saphira and Thorn on the Crags of Tel'naeír and watched peacefully as a new generation of dragons and riders played in the sky.
"Enough, Eragon!" screamed Murtagh suddenly. For a moment he hoped his half-brother was about to give up and flee again, but then the other rider's rage slammed into his mind. So intense was his anger it bled into Thorn and the red dragon abandoned the tactical maneuvers he and Saphira had been playing at and crashed into her with a deafening roar. The two dragons locked claws and fell like a pair of stones, snarling and snapping in fury.
"You bastard!" Murtagh continued aloud. "None of that will ever happen, so stop thinking about it! This is my reality, little brother!" And now Eragon's strategy was turned against him. He found himself experiencing all the horrors Galbatorix had inflicted upon Murtagh during his captivity.
He was on his knees screaming and tearing at his hair as Galbatorix stood over him, with a hand extended. The Mad King delved into his mind, easily brushing away defenses he had thought were iron. Mental claws hooked into his memories and ripped them forth. Galbatorix took his time perusing them, and he could feel his twisted satisfaction in the pain he caused in the process.
And all the while an insidious voice ran a cold commentary.
"Oh, look, it's my old friend Morzan," the voice whispered as he again was forced to feel the terror as his father drew back his arm and the agony as Zar'roc sliced into his back, the horrible certainty that he was about to die and the feeling of abandonment when he realized his mother wasn't there to help him. "You were such and inconvenience to him. It was just bad taste on Selena's part to become pregnant. She didn't love you either. She left you when you needed her most didn't she? No one cares about you, boy. No one loves you, and no one ever will."
Not true, not true! his soul cried. Eragon! Eragon is my friend. He cares for me! He tried so hard to keep those betraying thoughts under cover, but Galbatorix seized on them with wicked glee.
"Oh yes, little Eragon…are you so sure he's your friend?"
Memories of their flight together from Gil'ead with Arya's unconscious body. Murtagh's insistence that he could not go to the Varden. Eragon's refusal to listen.
"See how selfish he is? When it came to a decision between his 'friend' and some elf whore, who did he choose?"
No! It wasn't like that! He wanted desperately to cry that, but the truth was he resented Eragon's behavior. But that's just the way he is, he tried to reason, more to himself than for Galbatorix's benefit. Eragon is pure of heart. It was sense of duty to do the right thing, not selfishness.
"Does it really matter?" murmured Galbatorix, almost coaxingly. "You will always play second best to his duty. Duty to the Varden, duty to the elves and dwarves and men. Where do you fit in his life with all those other responsibilities?"
His misery mounted as he realized he could not deny his own jealousy and bitterness.
"And, would you like to know something else about your precious 'friend'? He is the reason you mother left you." What? He felt only confusion for he could see no connection. "Seventeen years ago, Selena appeared back in her home town of Carvahall. She stayed with her brother just long enough to give birth to her second son, then she left again. Too bad the journey back to Dras-Leona, so hard on her after the trauma of childbirth, killed her in the end. Still she did right by little Eragon. She could have taken you along too, but she didn't. She chose Eragon over you in the end." It was too much. Even as his tired mind howled its denial he sank into unconsciousness.
Eragon was vaguely aware that he was bent over Saphira's neck, screaming Murtagh's fear and pain from a raw throat.
Two burly guards had him by the biceps, dragging him kicking and shouting through the dark halls of Galbatorix's castle. He knew what was coming. He refused to let it happen. He would not be used this way! But his strength was waning from mistreatment and short rations. He was no match for his captors and they propelled him relentlessly onward until they reached the throne room, where he was tossed on his face. He struggled to his feet, rubbing his bruised arms and looked for a clear path to bolt for.
"Blöthr."
He froze. He didn't have a choice. His muscles simply stopped moving. He could only roll his eyes to the side as Galbatorix's footsteps approached from the left.
"We have a guest, Murtagh," said the Mad King as he strode into his field of vision. "I'm sure you two will get along beautifully." He raised his right hand.
No…
Perched in his palm was a tiny crimson dragonet.
No!
After having seen Saphira, and especially Shruikan's colossal bulk, the minute lizard looked ridiculously small. Its skinny tail was wrapped around the old rider's thick, armored wrist for support, for it looked all head and wings and seemed as though it would over-balance and topple without that anchorage. Enormous ruby eyes gazed around with heartbreaking innocence. The little scrap had no idea it had been born into the hands of a sadistic mad man, nor that it's life would be spent in slavery to that man.
Not me, not me…
Galbatorix reached out and grasped his wrist, drawing his stiff arm outward until his hand was exposed. He tried desperately to clench it into a fist but his muscles where still beyond his command.
Not me. You don't want me…
The mad king raised the dragonling to where it could sniff his fingers.
I'm no good, you don't want me!
The wee scarlet snout touched his palm…
Don't do it! Please, please don't!
What felt like a shock of electricity jolted through him, leaving his palm burning.
NO!
"Welcome to the ranks, Rider!" crowed Galbatorix in wicked delight.
Eragon could hear Arya shouting in the back of his mind, but he couldn't tell what she said. He was vaguely aware that she and the other elves were holding Murtagh at bay for him, for the moment. Before he could refocus on the battle he was swept up again.
He was being held to his knees by his ruthless guards. Beside him was his dragon, who was now the size of a large dog.
Yes, my dragon. And as you are a Thorn in my heart, so shall be your name. The thought was bitter. While he had felt awe and jealousy over what he had seen Eragon share with Saphira, and had craved a dragon of his own, he hadn't wanted it like this. Not only were they both prisoners, if Galbatorix succeeded in forcing them to fight for him, he would be pitted against Eragon in battle.
My brother… that was an odd thought. He still wasn't sure how he felt about that revelation. He hadn't time to dwell on it though, for Galbatorix was rising from his black throne.
"Now that you have gotten to know each other it is time to settle the question of loyalties," said the Mad King as he stopped in front of the two of them. "You will both swear to follow and obey me in the ancient language."
"I don't know the ancient language," he muttered sullenly, the only means of rebellion left to him.
"Not to worry, my boy," replied Galbatorix. "I shall be glad to coach you." He wasn't fooled by the old rider's pleasant, even friendly tone. The man switched from sweet to sadistic with a speed that made ones head spin.
"No." There, he said it. It had taken all his courage to force the word through his lips, for he was truly terrified of this man.
"Excuse me?" asked Galbatorix mildly.
"I said no!" he asserted more forcefully, his voice escalating to a shout near the end, and to his embarrassment, cracking like a pubescent boy's. Galbatorix looked at him as though he were an interesting problem, pursing his lips as if in thought. A moment later his mailed hand shot out and closed around Thorn's slender neck just below the jaw. The dragon's squeal of alarm was cut short as he squeezed.
"You will swear to me or I will kill your dragon. Don't think you aren't expendable. The only one I need alive is Saphira, for she is the last female dragon in existence. Just one more way you are inferior to you brother," he finished with a sneer. Thorn struggled against the iron grip. He scrabbled at the Mad King's arms and chest, but his young claws were still too soft to penetrate metal. They shredded and splintered against Galbatorix's tempered steel chastplate. He couldn't communicate with Murtagh in words yet, but he could still hear the tiny dragon's wordless pleas for help in his head. It broke his heart to deny those cries, but he knew the alternative was worse for them both by far.
"I won't do it," he snarled, letting his anger show through. "Kill him! Kill us both! Torture us if you like, we will never swear to you, whatever you do to us!"
With a roar of rage Galbatorix threw Thorn across the room. He hit the ground in an awkward tumble of oversized wings. There was a crack and a squeak and he felt Thorn's agony as a wing bone snapped in two. That pain was eclipsed by his own when Galbatorix's steel-clad fist slammed into his temple. Multicolored bursts of light peppered his vision and he felt himself hit the floor. A foot impacted against his ribs and his breath whuffed out of his lungs. He curled into a ball, protected his head with his arms and braced himself. After a few moments when no more blows had fallen and he dared peek from beneath his elbow, wondering if he was really going to get off that easily. Blood trickled into his eye from a gash in his scalp, but it did not hide the image of Galbatorix standing over him, nor the smug expression that twisted his unnaturally handsome face.
"You will serve me, my boy," he whispered. "I had hoped to draw your fealty from you lips of your own accord, but this shall have to do" Then he murmured something too quietly for Murtagh to hear. It didn't matter. As those words fell from the Mad King's lips, he felt a shiver of dread course through both his body and soul.
"No…" he moaned into his hands. This couldn't be possible!
"Oh, yes," replied the old rider vindictively, and muttered the words again. This time it was worse. Pain screamed through him, and he knew without knowing how that he was feeling it because that had been Galbatorix's intention when he spoke his true name. Thorn, who had been huddled in a corner nursing his wing, responded violently. Perhaps he felt the pain through their link. Regardless, the tiny thing valiantly tried to defend him, leaping at Galbatorix with a shrill screech. The man whirled and spoke two more words sharply. Thorn stiffened and crashed to the floor.
Not Thorn's true name too… They were lost. Utterly and hopelessly lost. The only thing left was black despair.
The earth whirled sickeningly as they spun end over end through the sky. The clouds had passed and Eragon could see the armies below them battling in the diffused morning light. A dragon screamed; he couldn't tell which one. Hot blood spattered his face. He reached blindly for his sword.
He knelt before the black throne, clad in his father's bright steel armor and holding Zar'roc sheathed in his hand. He had just returned to Urû'baen from his first confrontation with Eragon since he had been captured. Eragon had been drastically changed. But then, Murtagh was different too. The only reason Eragon had escaped was because Murtagh had found a loophole in the commands Galbatorix had given him and let his brother go. He could feel Thorn's resentment. The dragon knew that his actions had put them both in the line of fire. They would be punished severely for his rebellion. He had tried to explain to Thorn on the flight black why he had done it, but it was difficult when he wasn't entirely sure himself if it was because he still cared about Eragon, or if it was simply because Galbatorix had left enough of an opening that he could poke the hated old rider in the eye. He savored that tiny victory, even as he knew that there would be no more such chances. Galbatorix would tighten the leash to near choking now that he knew he could not count on Murtagh to obey the spirit of his vows, only the words.
The familiar dread filled him as Galbatorix demanded an account of his mission. He had known exquisitely well what he was letting himself in for when he had let his brother escape. He had accepted it then. He still feared it. There was no way for him to lie and cover his mis-deed. He was compelled to honesty, and so he was forced to explain that he had fought Eragon to his knees and then simply walked away.
The Mad King's rage was terrifying to behold, and Murtagh could offer no defense as that huge, hard fist crunched into his face. He felt his cheekbone shatter and blood spill from his nose and mouth. The beating continued for many long minutes while he prayed that Galbatorix would kill him in his fury.
Eragon's vision cleared for a moment, and he struck out desperately with Brisingr. Murtagh tried to draw Zar'roc to block but wasn't quite quick enough. Brisingr's edge met the steel armor around his thigh and slid through as though it were little more than butter, slashing Murtagh's leg to the bone and continuing in it's arc to embed itself in Thorn's wing muscle. The two howled as one and Murtagh swung Zar'roc just as desperately. The tip of the red sword bit into Eragon's forearm and opened a gash from his elbow to his wrist. It was his turn to howl as Thorn shoved away from Saphira. Brisingr was yanked from his weakened hand, still stuck in Thorn's flesh. The two dragons parted in a spray of mingled draconic and human blood.
Eragon! Arya's voice finally reached the fore of his mind.
I'm a little busy Arya, replied Eragon as he redirected some energy to heal his wounds and then Saphira's. Hers weren't too bad. Thorn must have gotten the worst of their confrontation again. He felt a moment of pity for the dragonling. The poor thing was forever being bullied and beat upon from all sides.
Eragon, you must flee! Arya persisted.
Argetlam, we are failing! cried Blödhgarm at the same time. Sure enough Eragon sensed that in the on-going mental battle the elves were tiring. Murtagh is stronger this time! We cannot hold for much longer! Even as the thought formed an elf dropped from the meld in exhaustion.
Saphira! Fly away, far and fast! Protect yourself and Eragon at all costs! ordered Arya.
Wait - ! thought Eragon, not wishing to leave his companions in the midst of battle.
Yes! I will! replied Saphira, overriding Eragon's protests by virtue of being his transportation. She pumped her wings powerfully and turned for the mountains in the distance. The southern end of the Spine wasn't far away, as the armies were battling between Feinster and Belatona. Eragon thought it was a good tactic, even though running left a sour taste in his mouth. She was smaller and more agile than Thorn, and they would have the advantage among the peaks. The mental attack stopped as they passed out of Murtagh's range. He glanced over his shoulder. Thorn and Murtagh were on their tail but far behind. Due to Thorn's injured wing they had lost a lot of altitude when the quarreling dragons had parted and had lost time while Murtagh removed the sword and healed their grievous wounds.
But after a few minutes it became apparent that Thorn's unnatural size would work in their enemies favor. Thorn's huge wings pumped furiously and though Saphira struggled just as fiercely for speed the younger dragon was still gaining far too rapidly. Soon he felt the nudges against his psychic shields as Murtagh came within mind-speaking range. As they drew nearer the mental assault scaled upward until Eragon and Saphira were both trembling with the effort to hold him off. He didn't know how they were doing it. He could feel the multitude of angry dragon minds behind Murtagh's dark thoughts. They would be overpowered in moments and then it would be all over. They would be captured. Galbatorix would weasel out their true names and force them to serve alongside Murtagh and Thorn. His glorious, precious Saphira would be reduced to a mere thing from which eggs could be produced to further Galbatorix's control and power. He could not bear the thought. Reaching down he began to unbuckle the leather straps around his legs.
What are you doing? Saphira demanded, though he was sure she already knew his intentions.
I'm sorry, my love, I've failed you. The first strap on either leg fell away.
Don't you dare! Put that back on, right now!
I can't let it happen, Saphira. The second set fell loose to flap in the wind.
Eragon! Don't!
"I won't let you be reduced to Galbatorix's brood mare!" he shouted. The third set of straps released and his legs were free. "I'd rather we both died!" With that declaration he stood in the saddle and launched himself backwards from his perch on her shoulders. For a moment he hung upside down between the heaven and the earth. Not five yards above and behind them he saw Thorn and Murtagh. The horrified expression on his half-brother's face would have been funny if it hadn't made him feel so sad.
I'm so sorry, Murtagh, he thought as his opponent's mental attack stopped abruptly. I love you no matter what.
Then gravity took charge of his body and he plunged past Saphira's tail. Murtagh screamed something that was lost in Saphira's roar of terror. She did a wingover and dove after him, and Thorn followed only a moment later, Murtagh lying close to his neck to reduce drag. Eragon stayed on his back looking up at them, even though it was painful to do so. He was too terrified to look at the ground as it rushed to meet him. Besides he knew they would try to catch him with the same certainty with which he knew the sun would rise in the east each morning. If he could see them he could to dodge their attempts. He spread his arms and legs out to catch the wind, for although it slowed him down it gave him greater maneuverability.
Saphira arrowed towards him, her wings tucked tightly against her sides so that she steered only with her tail, her talons extended to grab him. To the right of her Thorn and Murtagh kept pace, waiting to try should she fail the attempt.
ERAGON! DO! NOT! MOVE! she roared in his skull, making him wince at the force of her thought. He smiled at her, gazing into her luminous blue eyes, and when she was only a few feet from him he angled his body and slipped to the right. Paying attention only to him as she was, she followed and blundered into Thorn. He snapped at her and she hissed back, then they banked away from each other and resumed their respective dives. But they had lost precious proximity in the interaction, exactly what Eragon had hoped for.
Surely he was near the ground by now? He would hit any moment. Any moment…
Saphira was drawing nearer again and he knew neither she nor Thorn and Murtagh would be caught in the same trick twice. Where was the ground? He could help himself. He flipped over to look. To his dismay he was still a lofty distance from the earth. He wished for a moment that they had been flying lower when he had taken his dive, but wishing accomplished absolutely nothing. He glanced over his shoulder then frantically rolled to the side. Saphira shot passed him, claws closing where he had been a heartbeat before. She trumpeted her frustration, but Eragon had no time to worry about her for Murtagh had wasted not a second in directing Thorn's claws toward him. As the massive talons reached for him he reached back, grabbing one and using it to propel his body past the red dragon, so that he had the height advantage for a moment. Not that it did him much good. He had no wings, after all.
The advantage was to be short lived. Saphira had already arrested her dive and was drifting closer, though Eragon thought she wasn't doing so nearly aggressively enough if she really wanted to catch him in time. Thorn was still below, opening his wings to catch –
Wait, where is Murtagh?!
The realization hit his mind a split-second before Murtagh slammed into his back with a screech of steel armor on steel armor. His brother had left his own saddle in order to catch him. Tricky.
"You selfish little brat!" he shouted in Eragon's ear. As he wrapped one arm around Eragon's waist and the other around his neck. "How dare you try to leave me to face this alone!"
"We could always die here, together!" replied Eragon, yelling to be heard past the rush of wind. He felt Murtagh hesitate, as if the idea appealed to him. Then…
"Can't," grunted through gritted teeth. "Vows won't let me. Thorn! Catch us!"
Eragon sighed inwardly. Trust Galbatorix to be so controlling he prevented even the escape of suicide. Oh well. Eragon drove his elbow brutally backward into his half-brother's armored chest, simultaneously throwing every mental weapon he had at him. If he could just get him to loosen his grip…it would be hard dodging three opponents in the air, but the ground was getting uncomfortably close uncomfortably fast. He wouldn't have to do so for long.
But Murtagh would not be denied. Instead of releasing his grip he used the strength of his many Eldunarí to overpower Eragon, and when he had control of his mind, forced him to cease his struggles. A second later they crashed into Thorn's back. Eragon wailed in thwarted rage, but Murtagh allowed him no more freedom than that. The older man lay on his back across the saddle, clinging determinedly to the leather straps with his hands, his strong legs wrapped securely around Eragon's waist.
Thorn came out of his stoop barely a meter above the trees and glided down to land next to a tiny lake. He was too tired to land with any grace, and when his feet hit the ground Murtagh's grip on the saddle, based on the fact that they where being dragged backward by the wind, became useless and they both hurtled uncontrollably over the crimson dragon's neck. At least they hit the water, which wasn't nearly as hard as the rocky lakeshore would have been. It still hurt.
Eragon broke the surface with a gasp. The water was only chest high here, so he was able to keep his head up despite his heavy armor. A few feet away Murtagh surged upward in a fountain of cold clear droplets, coughing a sputtering to clear his lungs of unwanted liquid. His ebony hair was plastered across his face and the pauldrons of his armor.
"You are so much trouble," he spat as he grabbed Eragon by the bicep and propelled him to shore.
You are in so much trouble! corrected Saphira furiously as she landed in front of them in a cloud of sand and debris. Her taloned foot shot out and Murtagh leapt backward instinctively. He wasn't her target though. Instead she knocked Eragon to the ground, none too gently, and pinned him there. Curving her long neck until her head was right above his she fixed one huge blue eye on him. If you ever, EVER, pull a stunt like that again…I will…so help me-! Even mentally she was incoherent, though he sensed it was only partly with anger. Relief and terror were mixed in too and he could feel her claws tremble against his chest.
I'm sorry my love, he replied gently. But you know why I did it, and I would do it again. She glared and growled at him low in her throat. He glared and growled right back, his chin thrust forward stubbornly. They might have stayed frozen in that tableau for a long time, neither willing to give ground if reality hadn't intruded.
"Enough of the sweet sentiments. It's time to come home, children." Saphira's head whipped toward the voice, for though it had come from Murtagh's mouth, the voice was not Murtagh's. It was too deep and smooth, the inflections and tones he used were all wrong, and even at his worst Murtagh had never sounded so perfectly cold. So Eragon understood Saphira's quick attack, even though his heart cried out for Murtagh's safety.
Her teeth never reached their mark.
"Blothr." He spoke the word calmly, and Saphira froze. With a casual flick of his wrist he levitated her bulk off of Eragon and settled her carefully next to Thorn, who eyed her warily. "Now Saphira, do behave. I would hate to have to damage the new mother of the dragon race." She snarled in impotent rage.
Eragon rolled to his stomach and pushed himself to his feet, palming a small piece of quartz along the way. He faced Murtagh – no, Galbatorix – squarely, refusing to be intimidated. Seeing that cruel, smug grin twist his half-brother's handsome face filled him with icy anger.
"You let Murtagh go, bastard," he snarled.
"You're in no position to make demands, boy," said Galbatorix dangerously. "I am in a position to make demands. And I demand your fealty. You can give it to me freely, or I can take it from you as I have from your dear brother." He ran a gloved finger along the line of Murtagh's jaw and down his throat. Somehow the gesture struck Eragon as obscene.
"I will never serve you, no matter what you do to me, or Saphira," he said through gritted teeth. Galbatorix lost his confident smile. Instead he looked put out and slightly offended, as though he had actually expected Eragon to give in so easily.
"Just the same, the two of you. He said the same thing. Really, children these days, so sure they know what's best," the Mad King griped. He drew a dagger and placed it against his own neck. "Very well, you will swear to me or I will kill your brother."
Gazing at the bright, sharp edge of the blade dimpling the fragile flesh of Murtagh's neck, Eragon could not bring himself to voice his refusal, but the determined set of his jaw, his icy glare and heavy silence spoke volumes to the old rider.
"You think I won't do it? I don't really need him, you know," said Galbatorix conversationally. He pressed slightly and the tip of the knife broke skin. A single scarlet drop rolled down his half-brother's throat and settled in the hollow between his collarbones. Eragon gritted his teeth to keep from crying out and clenched his fists to keep from reaching out. He mustn't betray weakness. He had to believe Galbatorix would not throw a rider away so casually. "He's convenient I admit, but now that I have you I can have many more like him." The dagger pressed a little harder and a thin rivulet sprang up and leaked downward, collecting the first droplet before disappearing beneath the rim of his chest plate. When Eragon did nothing he drove it even deeper, so that an unhealthy red stream colored the entire side of his throat and ran across the front on his armor. "Better think quickly, Eragon. Your brother hasn't that much blood to loose." His voice was rough from the damage to his vocal chords.
"I would rather he died than let you control him for a moment longer," said Eragon quietly. It was true. At least Murtagh wouldn't suffer anymore. "Besides," he continued, raising his head defiantly in a flash of inspiration. "You can't kill Murtagh now, for if you do who will drag me back to Urû'baen for you?" Galbatorix scolwed mightily, but the dagger returned to it's sheath and the wound closed without the man having uttered a word, the only evidence of it being the blood still glistening on his skin and mail.
"Too clever for your own good," muttered Galbatorix. Then his smug smile returned. "Very well, I shall kill Thorn instead."
"What good will that do?" asked Eragon. "I have no special feelings for Thorn."
"Of course not, but Murtagh does. I will keep him alive to continue serving me. He will be unable to suicide as so many riders bereft of their dragons do, and you shall know that his suffering is all due to your refusal to be reasonable." Eragon felt his eyes widen and his skin go bloodless. He swallowed around a hard lump in his throat as he considered the soul deep anguish that accompanied the thought of Saphira's death. He turned his face away, unable to look into Murtagh's eyes while he was considering abandoning him to that fate.
Hold strong, little one, whispered Saphira in his head and he felt her strength and love bolster his courage.
"Come now, Eragon," coaxed the smooth voice. "It doesn't have to be so hard. Join me and help me build a new world. You and your brother can someday stand proudly, side by side, and look over a land full of peace and prosperity with the knowledge that you helped create it, and continue to nurture it. All people will praise you as men of justice and honor, and shall listen to your words with the respect and deference due a rider. All the races will live in harmony and none shall lack for the most basic essentials of life. The people shall flourish, and Alagaësia will grow rich in both goods and culture. Is this not a future worth sacrificing for?"
"Yes, that is a beautiful vision of the future," replied Eragon quietly. "It very much matches my hopes and dreams. However," and now his eyes snapped back to the Mad King's cold gaze. "I do not, nor will I ever agree with your methods, nor will I ever forgive you the wrongs you have already inflicted upon my family, my friends, and most of all the innocent people of this land!" As he ended the shout he threw the stone he had been cupping in his hand these long minutes. Eragon had not been idly bantering with Galbatorix, he had been using the time to pack the tiny piece of quartz with as much energy as he and Saphira could dredge up after their prolonged battle. He willed it forward without words and it shot towards Murtagh's head. There was an ear-splitting shriek as the stone met the wards surrounding his half-brother.
"Utterly useless," snorted Galbatorix, then his eyes widened with shock and he jerked his head to the side as his shields buckled and gave beneath the pressure of the magic stored in the stone. The sharp piece of clouded crystal grazed his cheek and took a thin wedge of flesh from the rim of his ear. A strand of dark hair drifted toward the rocky lakeshore.
This was far more than Eragon had expected the stone to achieve. He had really only hoped to distract Galbatorix long enough to get close, and maybe damage the wards enough he could break through with his true attack. The long slender knife he kept stashed in his boot was in his hand as he sprinted across the scant yards separating them. He thrust it towards Murtagh's left eye, knowing that it was the only fatally exposed spot on his person. Galbatorix saw him coming a moment too soon. He threw his weight onto one leg and lashed out powerfully with the other. The sole of his boot connected solidly with the dead center of Eragon's chest.
The impact stunned him, blasted away his breath and sent him sailing more than a dozen feet before he hit the ground and tumbled another few yards, fetching up against the trunk of tree at the edge of the woods that surrounded the little lake. He clutched at the rough bark, trying to shake off the pain and scramble to his feet. He couldn't breath through the agony in his chest. Looking down Eragon realized that his dwarven chest plate had been caved in by the force of the blow and was restricting the movement of his ribs. He clawed at the buckles along the left side of the damaged armor, wrenching at them desperately as he gasped tiny shallow breaths. They were barely enough to keep him from passing out before he divested himself of the twisted metal. Even once the discarded heap of steel clanged against the roots of the tree he couldn't seem to catch his breath and the pain continued to throb. He felt his chest beneath his chain shirt and realized his breastbone had cracked. As he struggled to dredge up enough energy to heal the crippling wound, Galbatorix/Murtagh strode angrily toward him, ranting madly.
"Arrogant, deceitful, stubborn, willful brat!" raged the tyrant, and a blast of raw power lashed Eragon on the last word, throwing him back farther into the trees. "I will crush your puny mind like cockroach beneath my boot heal! I will reduce you to a drooling vegetable, and keep you alive only so long as it takes your bitch dragon to hatch a female egg. Then you will die, and I will still have won! Will that satisfy you? All your relentless refusal to see reason for nothing!" Eragon's sight was slowly turning black as his restricted breathing denied him the necessary oxygen to sustain consciousness. He could not find enough leftover power to heal himself, much less defend himself as the Mad King lashed out at him again and again, slamming his already battered body into one pine after another, damaging him even further, snapping bones, tearing muscle and tendon.
Eragon! came Saphira's urgent plea. That technique!
What?
The forbidden one! He realized what she meant with a sickening jolt, but even then it didn't make a difference.
I…can't, murmured Eragon into her frantic mind, even as he bounced off another trunk. Can't…focus… Dimly he realized Galbatorix had stopped tossing him about like a rag doll and was muttering to himself.
"No, of course. Useless whelp that you are, you're right, this time. He is no use to me dead." Some part of Eragon's mind realized Murtagh had just intervened on his behalf, though he couldn't bring himself to feel grateful as he struggled to remain aware. It would have been better if he had kept his silence and let Galbatorix kill Eragon in his insane rage.
Even as these thoughts slid across the darkening surface of his mind, he felt his body begin to mend. The Mad King made no effort to spare him the pain of it, and he heard a ragged, breathless cry tear itself from his numb lips as every broken and fractured bone in his body snapped back into it's rightful position at once. As full awareness returned he struggled to hands and knees and painfully craned his neck up to look into Murtagh's face.
"You finally find your proper posture in the presence of your king," sneered the Galbatorix through his brother's lips. "I don't think I will destroy your mind after all. I will find your soul name and make you to serve me as this wretched man does. It is a more fitting punishment that you be forced to do what you fear and despise most, in full awareness."
As the Mad King gloated, Eragon spread his awareness out as far as it would go in every direction. He felt intimately the web of life surrounding him, pulsing with energy, living, breathing, thriving, and perfectly unaware of what he was about to do to it. As soon as his ability reached it's limit, he ripped that life away and into himself. He felt intimately every tiny death, numbering in the billions, as if it where his own, and he channeled that anguish into a terrible blow, striking into the mind behind those cold eyes with every scrap of force he had gained in his grim harvest. Galbatorix/Murtagh clutched his temples and shrieked in mingled fury and agony, then collapsed in an unmoving heap as Thorn's echoing wail filtered through the trees.
Too drained to stand, Eragon crawled to his brother's side and rolled the limp body into his lap. Tears began making slow tracks down his face as he realized that no breath stirred his chest, no pulse beat at his throat.
"Murtagh, Murtagh," he sobbed. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry…"
He wasn't sure how long he sat there, rocking back and forth, the still body clutched to his chest, weeping into his brother's dark hair. Eventually a gust of hot air against the back of his neck roused him from his misery. He looked up to see that Saphira had woven her way through the slender pine trunks and was crouched protectively over him. She whimpered softly and gently nosed his hair, washing him with another blast of heated breath.
"He's dead," Eragon choked out.
I know, little one. I'm sorry.
"I k-killed my brother!" His voice broke into a wail of grief.
He's better off this way, Saphira tried to console him. Eragon was torn in two. Part of him knew she was right, that Murtagh was free now, no longer forced to suffer under Galbatorix's harsh rule. But another part was certain there had to have been a way to save him, that he had failed his brother, whom he loved dearly.
Saphira let him howl his loss and guilt to the sky, pine needle slowly rained down on them from the dead trees, until twilight began to darken the sky and Eragon was drained of emotion so that he felt nothing but emptiness.
We cannot stay here forever, little one, she whispered, nudging him gently. He nodded numbly. He rose stiffly to his feet, and mechanically lifted Murtagh's body to strap it to the back of Saphira's saddle. He would find a good place to build a cairn. Perhaps next to Brom's…
They wound their way out of the trees to the lakeshore, where Thorn was sprawled with wings all askew next to the water. "Is he…?"
Yes. The shock killed him, replied Shaphira sadly. Poor child.
Mechanically, Eragon climbed up the crimson dragon's side and retrieved the bags, Zar'roc, and Brisingr from where they were strapped to the saddle. Inside each leather satchel were a dozen Eldunarí.
"At least these are out of Galbatorix's hands," Eragon sighed. It seemed little consolation. There was nothing left to do there. It was impossible to give Thorn a proper burial. His bones would lie next to this lake for centuries, as the only testament to the dragon's tragic death. Eragon mounted Saphira and bound himself to the saddle. As she heaved her weary way into the sky, he sent out a prayer to whatever gods might be listening, to shelter the unfortunate souls of Murtagh and his dragon.
They never new peace in life. Give them peace in death...