A/N: A special thanks to Dragnerz for his great review (and for being the first reviewer)! But sorry I haven't read The Sixth Sense (: And I took out the spoiler alerts per request. But don't worry; you're still in for a lot of surprises, of that I can assure you! I think this story has possessed me – I stay up at night thinking about how to make everything better. Haha, whatever. Please read and enjoy this! And review, definitely don't forget that; I need reviews to feed my muse.
Chapter Two: Convergence
"One meets his destiny often in the road he takes to avoid it."
– Jean de La Fontaine
Murtagh felt the crisp, cold air bighting against his skin as he soared with his scarlet dragon higher and higher into the heavens. The overwhelming sense of freedom the pair felt when at such high altitudes wasn't parallel to anything in the lands of Alagaësia. For once Murtagh felt like he could be whatever he wanted to. He felt as if nothing held a claim to him – not Galbatorix, not his responsibility as a Rider, not his brother Eragon, not even the God in the heavens above. He felt his power vibrating deep within, and up there, he could feel as though he owed nothing to anyone but Thorn. He owed allegiance to no one and could do as he saw fit with the power given him. As the landscape beneath them flew by in a streak of colors that had no name, he knew that up here no one could reach him.
We are only ever free in the skies, Thorn voice boomed into his Rider's thoughts as the red dragon flew in intricate circles, relishing the power of his newly restored tail.
Then the skies shall beware! Murtagh spread his arms wide, laughing freely up to the heavens. It was a clear challenge to whatever beings may be, to prove him wrong. Murtagh felt Thorn's humming agreement as he warned Murtagh to hold on as he wove in and out of the currents in the sky that they so cherished, many of the maneuvers Thorn had picked up from Eragon's dragon Saphira, or the ancient gold dragon they had bested in Gil'ead.
Murtagh felt a twinge of regret from Thorn as he recounted how the crippled dragon had roared in agony as he felt the life of his Rider slip.
The pain of losing our Rider is unbearable, Thorn reminded him, while many Riders may live out their dragon, the dragon rarely outlives the Rider.
Why do you think that is? Murtagh questioned as Thorn performed a joyous, twisting somersault in the frigid air about them.
Perhaps it is in that the Rider experiences a life without his dragon, before it hatches for him…while us dragons are born to our Riders. We grow up from a hatchling to an ancient being such as The Gold One with the ever-present company of our Rider. Life without them is unimaginable for we have never had life without our Riders.
Murtagh shuddered internally; life without Thorn was inconceivable for him. Thorn was the only one who knew Murtagh inside and out, and loved him all the more. Murtagh opened up to no one else that way. The only person who had ever come close had been Eragon – Eragon, his brother. Eragon whose life Murtagh had saved twice – first when he rescued him from the Ra'zac, and then again when he risked his freedom to break Eragon out of Gil'ead. But no, that wasn't enough Murtagh had also passed up the opportunity to take Eragon and Saphira captive when they were at his mercy on the battle of the Burning Plains. This was the same Eragon who asked Murtagh to give up his and Thorn's lives for the greater good; by allowing Eragon to kill them.
Murtagh snorted. His brother was quite the ungrateful one. How would Eragon Shadeslayer have managed if he were brought up in the castle of Urû'baen, under the constant watch of Galbatorix? How would he have fared if it was Thorn's egg and not Saphira's which had escaped the King's treasury? Would he feel guilty that a dragon had hatched for him? Unlikely. How would he have managed being tortured time and again for allowing his brother and dragon escape? How would he have done writhing on the floor in agony as Galbatorix discovered his true name?
Murtagh had never asked for this. He hadn't asked to be the bastard child of one of the most hated men in Alagaësia, second only to Galbatorix himself. All his life the only thing he had asked for was freedom, to breathe the air around him and know that it was his and his alone to do with as he pleased. What had Eragon done to deserve such freedom? Murtagh had been the one to risk himself repeatedly for his younger brother. He had been the one abandoned by Selena to experience an acute form of torture from an evil – and more likely than not, intoxicated – father. He suffered daily with the scar on his back as a reminder.
He had been wounded, and that wound wouldn't just go away. It had buried itself deep inside of Murtagh's psyche – it was more than just a scar by now. It was so far embedded in his conscience that he had grown to nurture the thing, and it could never be torn from him. The scar was just as much a part of Murtagh as his legs were. He had allowed it to grow, feeding off of his every thought. He relished in the power the hatred inside brought, and let it fester over the years. There was nothing that could make the odium relinquish the grip it held over the young Rider's heart.
Do you know how many are left now? Thorn's question permeated the raging stupor of Murtagh's swiftly darkening thoughts.
What?
Three. Now there's only three.
Murtagh didn't answer Thorn immediately. He had no wish to dwell on matters that they had no control over.
We did what we had to.
I know we did, Murtagh. That doesn't mean I have to relish in it. In our race it is a disgrace punishable by death, to kill an Elder. The Gold One was an Elder.
Murtagh sighed – he had heard this all before. He fully understood Thorn's predicament: he was of a dying race, forced to watch as the dragons dwindled into exctinction.
We are doomed, Thorn concluded miserably, I wonder if my sires knew that their hatchling would be forced to watch, helpless, as the last of our race vanishes from the face of Alagaësia.
It isn't helpless, Thorn. There's still one egg left to hatch.
It's a male, Murtagh. The only female dragon in existence is Saphira. We are doomed, Thorn repeated.
Murtagh felt a sinking feeling deep within the pit of his stomach that Thorn was right, that the dragons would vanish to memory – and that too would fade, given time.
Suddenly the once-friendly skies around them seemed menacing. Those were the skies of a world which would sit and watch while the race of dragons faded, until they were but a forgotten myth. What world was that this be? The dragons were as much a part of Alagaësia as the unmoving Spine.
I will not let that happen, Murtagh growled, there cannot be but four dragons left in existence. What happened to all the free, wild ones of your kind? Galbatorix couldn't have wiped all of them out. Or what if there are more ancient riders who still hide in seclusion, like that elf and his crippled dragon? He thought the last with disgust. One of the last free Riders had been around the entire time – he had witnessed The Fall and done nothing. He had hidden with his handicapped dragon in the confines of that bloody elf-infested forest: Du Weldenvarden.
Perhaps, Thorn's mind whispered, slightly mollified as they drew into a steady quiet. Murtagh vaguely felt the familiar dread creep into the pit of his stomach – the selfsame dread he only felt when the evil castle of Urû'baen was near. They were returning back to imprisonment; not even the skies could hold them forever. They would ever be compelled to return, and he felt the understanding of his true name whisper slightly over his skin. He shuddered.
Will Galbatorix allow us to search for my kin? Will he allow us to search for wild dragons?
Murtagh guarded his mind from his dragon. Thorn may have been given the body of an experienced dragon, but his mind was still that of a new-born. Thorn didn't realize that Galbatorix would not allow his most prized possessions to go darting off on a whisper of a hope, to lands that Alagaësia itself would not claim.
I don't know, Thorn, Murtagh replied honestly, maybe when this war is all over.
If we survive you mean, Thorn hinted at dryly.
We will survive Thorn. That's what we are – survivors. You and I, we are the same. We are of one being, we will fight until the bitter end. We will destroy anyone who wishes to tear life from us.
We fight against good people, Murtagh. We fight for an evil which has been allowed to fester unchallenged, for too long.
The simple naivety of the young dragon's mind still at times astounded Murtagh; of course the fought for the wrong side. But what could they do? Galbatorix knew their true names; their souls belonged to him. Not even if they ran to the ends of the world, could they hide them from the truth: they were forever the slaves of the Black King. They were to lead a life wrought with evil, nourished by hate.
Castle Ilirea drew ever closer, a knife in the dark. Murtagh felt his scalp prickle as he sensed the great amassing evil that resided in the castle. This was the place he had been tortured, over and over without respite – until Galbatorix was satisfied with Murtagh's suffering.
The castle itself had once been a beautiful structure, built by the elves when all of Urû'baen was known as Ilirea – before The Fall. After Galbatorix had conquered the city, he set about building upon the castle, tainting it with his evil. The castle had more than doubled from its original size, ominous spires loomed high above the onyx-hued stone walls that encased it. Upon closer inspection one would see that the spires reflected the lights of the sky with indifference, glinting off the many sharp edges which surrounded the pointed tip of each spire. What should have been a smooth texture surrounding the one spike, was as rough as the roiling waves of an ocean.
Castle Ilirea was uniformly black to the view of an outsider. In a terrible, bewitching way it was beautiful. The walls were no less than thirty feet thick and were virtually impenetrable. Castle turrets loomed upwards thirty feet above the walls, and every alternating turret had atop it one of the deadly glass spires. Although he couldn't see it at the moment, he knew that a thick door made of the matching enchanted melanoid glass reached halfway to the top of the towering walls.
Inside of the walls stretched a monstrous structure which reached up nearly twice as high as the height of the walls. This building tapered out to into what seemed to begin as a spire, but instead of a tip at the top, a flat smooth area occupied which was to allow easy landing and taking off for a dragon. Surrounding and reaching high above the landing area were more spires to top off the many towers which soared above the rest of the castle.
All about Castle Ilirea were the homes of the citizens, placed in uniformly designated areas and in the opposite side of Urû'baen were the barracks and training grounds for common foot-soldiers. What lay scattered in-between the two worlds – that of civilian and military – were the markets, inns and common stables. Another wall, just as thick as the one about the castle itself surrounded the entirety of Urû'baen. Of the inhabitants of the capital, most were soldiers. Not many wished to reside in the capital of the mad man himself, despite the substantially lower taxes, unless they were nobility or families of the said nobles – or, one of the fair few who supported King Galbatorix's reign of terror.
Thorn glided high above the castle, circling it a few times as he decreased in altitude. Instead of landing on the designated area, Thorn flew straight into the tower reserved especially for the two. The window was large enough to permit Thorn access without discomfort, and he leveled off on the stone floor with a dull thud. Murtagh patted Thorn affectionately on the shoulder.
Good landing. I think you're finally getting the hang of it.
I wonder how we'll manage when I no longer fit through the window.
Murtagh grinned up at his red dragon, which was a rare occasion in itself, saying aloud, "You'll just have to make a bigger hole."
Thorn snorted a bout of flame in agreement before settling down for a quick nap that always came before he departed for his customary hunt.
Are you sure you'll survive the duel tonight? Thorn questioned sarcastically, and Murtagh felt a flare of pride race through the dragon. Murtagh smirked.
The opponents Galbatorix pits me against get weaker and weaker.
Or perhaps you grow stronger and stronger, Thorn countered. Murtagh liked the alternative that Thorn had supplied him with.
Try not to wipe out entire species when you hunt this time, Murtagh warned fondly before he descended the stairs which led to his floor of the turret.
Well, I won't try too hard, Thorn replied smugly.
Murtagh made his way through the secret passages of the castle – in no mood to chance across the gaping nobles and blushing girls. They all thought he had a wonderful life: he was the great warrior who fought against the rebels, even succeeding in killing the king of the dwarves. They were idiots, the lot of them. They paid no heed to Thorn; the whole reason Murtagh had fame in the first. They thought he led the life others only dreamed of. He was tired of ducking out of the numerous dinner invitations the power-hungry nobles pelted him with. He was sick of declining the betrothal offers the parents of desperate girls flung at him.
The people in the capital city disgusted him.
He ducked in and out of abandoned corridors until he reached one of the familiar hallways. He pushed aside what appeared to be no more than a stone wall and was greeted by streaming light. He stepped outside of the entry, and replaced the tapestry back over its clever illusion of seamless stone, and then continued on to Galbatorix's throne room.
Slight trepidation filled the pit of Murtagh's stomach as he recalled three nights previous, when he had first arrived back in Urû'baen, from his fight in Gil'ead.
The cold moonlight streamed in through the glass windows, the only illumination in the room. Murtagh felt an unreasonable cold sweat break out and an uneasy fear creep into his veins.
A figure in the darkness shifted, removing its black leather gloves. Without another moment's time the room was alighted by a lantern on the king's desk, previously not there, where it gave off a silvery light. He saw Galbatorix sitting upon his extravagant throne, it was embedded with every gem a skilled miner of the dwarves could name, each hidden among the intricate twisting his throne took the shape of. Murtagh refused to look the King in the eyes, studying the floor instead.
"You practically failed." The voice was unforgiving, cold…emotionless.
"I didn't," Murtagh answered just as coolly, still refusing to look the King in the eyes.
"You did. The city of Gil'ead has been conquered by elves," the voice sneered, "but not only that, you practically lost against the ancient Rider and dragon – and likely would have lost your worthless life, if I hadn't…interceded." The voice reminded him, biting and full of menace.
Murtagh bit back a snort. Interceded? He had possessed Murtagh; there was no other word for it. Not only that, but he had possessed Thorn – he was not the monster that tore apart the gold dragon, but Shruikan – the King's black, twisted dragon.
"Am I to be punished for something which didn't even happen?"
"You are to be punished for your weakness. Tell me, loyal servant of mine, son of Morzan…why did you hesitate? Are you not devoted to our vision? Why did you wish to spare this old traitor and his dragon?"
Murtagh made sure there was no breaking into the fortifications of his mind as he chose his next words slowly, weighing each one as though he were choosing the weapon with which he would be killed.
"The race of dragons," Murtagh began, fighting to keep his voice steady, "is few. I did not wish…to destroy any more."
"He wouldn't have helped you, Murtagh. I help you. I gave you power, I gave you Thorn. The Cripple and his dragon gave you nothing. They hid like cowards, and they died as such.
"They did not stand for a peaceful Alagaësia, the one which lets us be free. They are the real reason I must order you about with your name. When we win this war, you will be free. I would never willfully hurt you, Murtagh. You realize this, don't you?"
Murtagh felt his resolve yearning to waiver, to give in and believe the silken words the dark king spoke, but then he remembered…he remembered the torture Galbatorix had ordered. He remembered Thorn's misery that his time would be during the last of the dragons and he knew that Galbatorix was the reason.
"But how have you rewarded my kindness?" The king asked, his voice dripping venom, "You couldn't even manage to bring me his eldunarí."
Murtagh bit back that it was Shruikan who had been the one to fail at finding the gold dragon's heart of hearts.
"Thorn must be –" Murtagh began, only to feel a searing agony rip at his throat, refusing further speech. Galbatorix smiled in response.
"You speak when spoken to, young rider. When will you learn?"
Murtagh gasped, his searing lungs begging for the cool air about him. He needed to tell Galbatorix that he hadn't managed to heal Thorn's tail; he had only managed in keeping the stump from closing up.
"Now," Galbatorix leaned back further into his chair, leaning his elbows against the armrests and touching his fingertips together, "what were you saying, Morzanson?"
Murtagh grinded his teeth – he hated it when Galbatorix called him that.
"Thorn is still missing three feet of his tail. I can't –"
A snarl tore from Galbatorix's mouth, breaking his previously calm demeanor.
"Can you do anything right?" He hissed, plunging into a stream of unknown words of the ancient language. In a bright red flash Thorn appeared in the massive throne room, not even occupying a fourth of the space.
Galbatorix didn't even seem winded by the summoning.
Murtagh! Thorn cried out to his Rider, troubled by his unruly summoning, what is happening? It was hard for Murtagh to discern what Thorn was thinking over the pain that suddenly overwhelmed him: pain emanating from Thorn's stump of a tail.
Again Galbatorix began chanting words over and over again in some dark, twisted version of the ancient language. His vivid black eyes rolled back into his head as his lips sped up, muttering faster and faster.
Slowly Murtagh felt the pain edging away from Thorn until it was no more. Murtagh hadn't realized he had been squeezing his eyes shut until he opened them, to see Thorn's tail replaced, as if it never had been chewed off in the first.
Galbatorix again was unaffected by the spell. There was, however, a great burst of purple light and a loud cracking, accompanied by an agonized roar that was by no means human.
Murtagh flinched, knowing what it meant; Galbatorix had used up all of the eldunarí to heal Thorn's wounds. Murtagh found slight comfort in that now the unfortunate dragon's soul was free.
The mad king sat back in his throne looking bemusedly towards Murtagh, as if he knew a great riddle that no one could possibly solve.
"You do realize that without a tail you are utterly worthless to me? Without a tail, young dragon, you cannot hope to fly properly. Your balance on even the ground is affected. Without your tail you are useless to your Rider," Galbatorix laid his glittering ebony eyes back on Murtagh, "you are to take care of your dragon better than this. What would you have done if you hadn't managed to fly back to Urû'baen in time? Would you have wasted Thorn's life to save that of the dragon that would kill you both in an instant? Never hesitate again."
Murtagh nodded, surprised that there was no severe punishment forthcoming.
"Now," Galbatorix's smile grew wider, "I expect to find you, Morzanson, here tomorrow at this exact time. I have someone special," His eyes seemed to glow as he said the word, "for you to duel tomorrow. The results of which will be most…intriguing…to me."
Murtagh felt confusion ebb into his bones, confusion and dread.
Someone special?
"Now," The king smiled down at Murtagh, as though he were his own son, but when he spoke his voice had grown colder than ice, "leave."
Murtagh had reached the entrance to Galbatorix's throne room, where all of his previous duels had taken place. He sighed heavily, knowing that while these exercises were necessary – if he were to ensure victory over Eragon in the future – but also dreading the agony he would feel from the his opponent; Galbatorix only called the duel off when the loser was within a fraction of his life, despite that it was clear Murtagh was the victor.
The doors before him seemed to open outward of their own accord, revealing a – strangely – cheerily lit room. Murtagh frowned, never had Galbatorix's throne room been so illuminated. The dark king liked to stick with a single, weak source of light.
"Don't just stand there gaping – come in!" Came Galbatorix's voice. Murtagh felt his blood run cold; the voice was just as cheery as the lights.
His feet moved forward towards the throne, unbidden, as if they fell for his joyful demeanor. Galbatorix was adopting the same voice he had when he was painting the future of Alagaësia to Murtagh, when he had first met the king whose castle he lived in.
Thorn? He called out mentally for his dragon, knowing before he did, that Thorn was far from Murtagh's mental reach.
Murtagh's tumbling thoughts only continued to tumult within the confines of his mind, as he saw another form beside the smiling king. Next to Galbatorix was a distinctly feminine figure clad in tight, black leather armor. Murtagh couldn't see her face, for it was covered by a matching leather helmet.
So this is who I am to fight? He thought to himself.
It would be easy if her slight figure was anything to judge by. Nevertheless he studied her from head to toe; for any weak spots in her armor. As he did so, he realized that it wasn't a helmet that covered her features, but a thick, black leather strip which wound about the upper half of her face, shielding her eyes from him. There were no slits for her to see out of, which only served to confirm his suspicions from the days previous; this was a very powerful pet of Galbatorix.
Her boots blended seamlessly with her black pants, which rigidly clung to her form. Her leggings reached all the way up to her waist which was for the majority, exposed. A dark purple vest-like jerkin began where the black leather had ended, where it adorned her upper half, but only her right and left sides. It appeared to be an over-coat of some sort, but it was entirely sleeveless and clutched to her form as tightly as her pants, and it left the middle of her abdomen completely bare. Its edges gracefully curved around her naked skin as though it were a wave. The purple leather continued curving up, until it reached the crease in her body where her arm met with her chest. There it thinned into a fine point, outlined all the while by a thin lining of silver. Her leather top wrapped about the entirety of her back, and stayed there in what Murtagh could only assume was an unnatural position for it didn't have the sleeves to keep it in the firm place it held about her. Underneath the revealing purple leather top, so as to cover her front, was a black strip of fabric which was likewise adorned with silver about its edges and it held a stark contrast against her pale midriff. The strip arced upwards on her right and left sides, twisting to the side opposite of the tips of its over-shirt, and reached a few inches past the upper layer. In the center of the black strip a silver ornament had been attached, where it lay flat against her skin, defying the natural order of things, and was studded with a dazzling white diamond.
Her shoulders were bare, and a few inches below them hung pauldrons of a matching dark purple. They seemed to flow about her arms as though they were water until they reached her elbows, where they curved around and doubled up to where they had begun. At the top of the pauldrons, holding the purple strips in place were several twisting silver bands that encased her arms and were studded with tiny purple diamonds. Underneath her intricate, silver-banded pauldrons, the tight black leather began again, leading all the way down to her hands where the leather stopped to reveal the pale skin of her fingers. As Murtagh studied her arms closer he noticed where the gloves began and the black leather that surrounded most of her upper arms stopped. At the fold of her elbows the gloves extended outwards one or two inches – so as to allow the free movement of her arms. Every inch of the purple leather was embellished around the edges with silver, extenuating the over-all uniqueness of her armor.
As she turned slightly he realized that the back of the purple armor top, which covered her sides did not stop at her waist. But rather split into three ovular curves, several inches apart from each other. The two on either of her sides reached below her knees by a few inches, while the one in the middle – visible from between her legs – reached just above her ankles. No silver embellished the three trailing ends.
Overall he assumed the armor was just for show – it hardly seemed as if it could stand up in a fight. But that didn't lessen the breathtaking appeal it held and he looked away as he realized who the strange girl was. She was his punishment, of that he was sure. A favorite of Galbatorix was never to be trifled with, let alone one Galbatorix was willing to keep an ever-present front for. The girl was dangerous, and would most likely beat him within an inch of his life.
"This is him?" Came her soft her voice, from beneath her strange headgear, she bore a bemused smile about her lips.
"Yes, dear; your final test," Galbatorix offered her a warming smile, which Murtagh had to admit, lightened up the dark king's features considerably. Galbatorix had changed his entire posture around her and seemed friendly…inviting. His jet-black hair was ordered around his pale face in a perfect manner, his coal black eyes seemed to have a warmth in their depths which Murtagh had never noticed before. And never leaving his handsome features was a slight smile…perhaps Murtagh had misjudged him?
"Shall we duel?" Breathed a calming voice. It took Murtagh several moments to realize it was coming from the girl in front of him.
She withdrew a sword which Murtagh quickly assessed was far too bulky to properly serve her. It seemed plain when compared to her elegant armor; a blatant insult. She bowed over slightly, to pick up a shield of matching plainness.
In response, Murtagh drew Zar'roc from its customary place at his waist, the warm flickering light dancing around the scarlet edges of Zar'roc's blade. He held a wary stance, as the two faced each other. He didn't attack first, just as Tornac had taught him: assess your partner, know their style. Never attack first, lest you find yourself facing an opponent far more formidable than you could have guessed.
They circled around each other for several more moments, but Murtagh soon realized he wouldn't be able to judge anything from her masked face. Without warning she lunged at him, a vicious cry tearing from her lips. Murtagh was caught by surprise and barely managed to raise Zar'roc up to defend him from her flurry of quick, sharp attacks. It took several moments for Murtagh to gain back his original ground and even the playing field. He could sense growing satisfaction from the King who sat in his chair, watching their every move. He was pleased that his experiment was doing so well, seeing as on a customary occasion, Murtagh would have already brought his opponent to his knees. But the girl was still holding her ground, never budging an inch in her fierce onslaught.
They whirled around the throne room as misjudged attacks glanced off the surrounding columns, giving a tune to the deadly song they danced to. She managed to nick Murtagh a few times, drawing blood as she feinted from one side to the next. Murtagh kept his face emotionless as he swung at her, hacking her clean across the waist. A sharp cry of pain escaped her lips as the red liquid seeped down her skin; staining everything it touched a gory hue. Satisfied he had dealt the deciding blow, Murtagh's attacks grew cockier as she swung slower and slower at him; weary from the loss of blood. But much to his growing frustration, he could gain no more ground on her. Although her armor was much lighter than his and offered considerably less protection, it also permitted her to whirl about him, almost a blur.
She stabbed at him in the back, causing Murtagh lancing pain, but the blade didn't penetrate his chain armor. He pivoted about just in time to see that in her annoyance, she was about to make a desperate move.
She had dropped her shield many blows before, as the weight had grown too much for her, and now bore the massive sword in both her trembling hands. She raised it above her head, and in one fluid movement she brought it down.
With a cry, Murtagh swung Zar'roc up, in perfect time to block her fatal blow. The force of Zar'roc coming at her with such strength sent the lesser blade flying from her hands. Murtagh flew about her in quick, derisive movements bringing her to the floor in a few moments. He pressed the scarlet blade against her throat, edging it right up to where her jaw began and whispered down to her,
"Dead."
Not waiting a moment longer, Murtagh reached his right hand over her kneeling form and tore the winding leather strip from her head.
Murtagh suppressed a startled gasp as her dark brown hair fell down about her, revealing her stunning face. Her eyes were downcast as he took in her features; never before had he seen anyone as beautiful, not even Arya the elf. She had a certain innocence about her, while simultaneously it seemed that she bore the troubles of an entire race. The tips of her mouth were downcast, forming a grimace of pain, and she flashed her intense eyes up at him.
Murtagh felt his eyes widen as her fierce eyes fixed furiously upon him; they were a vibrant amethyst and sent chills down his spine. He never let his grip on Zar'roc waver as she glared up at him.
"Enough!" Murtagh heard Galbatorix call from many feet behind them. Sheathing Zar'roc, he offered the strange girl his hand. She seemed to take no notice of him and stalked back to Galbatorix, not even pausing to pick up her blade.
Murtagh arrived by her side, waiting to hear Galbatorix's assessment of the impressive fight that had ensued.
"Ah, my child," The king reached out a comforting hand towards the girl who appeared to be Murtagh's lesser by two years, "you did splendidly."
"I failed," came her soft, confused voice. Her eyes darted dangerously towards Murtagh again, as if seeing him for the first time. A small gasp escaped her now-parted lips, and her eyes fixed at his now-sheathed blade. They then found their way back up to his own grey eyes, and confusion flitted across her face before she turned back to face Galbatorix.
The king sighed, resting his head in his hands, as though he were tired. Murtagh once again felt the need to study the girl before him – why was she so important? His froze as he took in the partially pointed ears. His eyes shot down to her palms, but they were covered by her black gloves.
As if in question to his silent, searching gaze, she removed the article in question and tossed them on the table before her. Murtagh breathed a sigh of relief as he took in her hands; no gedwëy ignasia burned into either of her palms. She raised her right hand to her waist before whispering,
"Waíse heill!" Her waist knitted back together and then she whispered something lower, inaudible and the scarlet blood vanished from her skin.
Murtagh's mind was a jumble of mixed thoughts as he stared shamelessly at her. How has she come to Urû'baen, how can she somewhat bear the ears of an elf if isn't a Rider? Murtagh wished Thorn were there so he could run his suspicions by his bonded partner, and perhaps receive some solutions.
At least she's not an elf. Murtagh hated the elves and their endless arrogance. He hated how they could arrange their bodies to whatever pleased them most. If you weren't born with your beauty, then you don't deserve it. The elves repulsed him more than that, for they hid themselves in seclusion, hiding from Galbatorix all these years, offering little to no help to the Varden.
Until now, he thought bitterly. If the damned fair folk had bothered to offer their assistance in the battle of Farthen Dûr then he might never have been captured by the Twins. But then Thorn never would have hatched for him…
"Wait," Galbatorix's head snapped up and he gave the girl an assessing gaze, "fetch your sword – let me see you practice with it."
The girl nodded once and then rushed off to fulfill his orders. She returned a few seconds later with her sword and shield, turning to face Galbatorix.
"Without the shield," the king commented and Murtagh could sense him struggling to hide his impatience.
She obediently placed the shield on the floor, gripping the hand-and-a-half sword with both of hers. Bowing her head slightly, she began a series of complex forms as she wove between imaginary foes, slashing mercilessly at them. To an ignorant bystander she appeared to be a master of the blade in her hands. But Murtagh's practiced eyes picked up several flaws in her method. The blade didn't hug her every movement, it didn't seem an extension of her arm; the sword wasn't meant for her. Every time she thrust her arm out, the blade would tilt at a slightly awkward angle, but it was just enough to alert Murtagh it wasn't being held by the fingers of a master. Her movements seemed exaggerated to him, almost as if she were preparing for a force that the sword couldn't deliver. But she wasn't oblivious to the trouble the weapon gave her, and he could sense her increasing frustration.
She finished the last of her forms with a flourish as she clearly beheaded the last of the imaginary foes before her.
"Well," Galbatorix turned to face Murtagh, "what do you think?"
Murtagh took a deep breath, "The blade doesn't fit her."
"Clearly. What would you, apprentice of the late Tornac, suggest?"
Murtagh gave the girl an appraising look, studying her build: where her muscles were the thickest, and where they curved. He had of course been studying her during the entire performance and brought back to present her every move. Without much hesitation he replied,
"Daggers."
Galbatorix offered no reply, merely reaching within the depths of his desk to withdraw two ornate daggers. He threw them at her without a word of warning. Much to Murtagh's surprise she purled about and grabbed the flying weapons in her hands with practiced ease. She smiled faintly at her success and initiated her fighting stance without further prompting.
She nodded for Murtagh to draw Zar'roc from its sheath and so begin their second duel.
This duel took considerably longer than the first. Murtagh noticed with approval how her fighting technique had improved, quicker and more accurate, due to the new weapons she bore. She whirled about him, jabbing left and right leaving Murtagh somewhat breathless from the constant offensive she kept up. She thrust her daggers up towards his chest and down towards his legs, but he parried them before they could strike true, and swept Zar'roc left and right, hoping to catch her exposed waist again.
She nicked his armor several times and left him with a collection of deep gashes on his bare face, her daggers now glistened hungrily with his blood. He swung at her, but she stepped aside with barely any effort. Her arrogance was nearly tangible as she jerked her wrists about Murtagh with ease, slicing whatever they came into contact with.
Murtagh decided to keep up the defensive, all the while studying her for a weakness he could exploit, even as he deflected her attacks. As she was pulling one of her fancier maneuvers, Murtagh saw the opening he needed. Stabbing Zar'roc towards her prone back, she spun about, sensing his intentions. But she had been caught off guard and Murtagh swiftly jabbed out with Zar'roc, flicking the dagger from her left hand, where it clattered noisily to the floor. While she recovered from the initial shock of losing her weapon, he knocked the other dagger from her right. He once more his sword up, pressing it to her neck,
"Dead."
"So close," Galbatorix encouraged, his black eyes alight with some passion Murtagh could not name, "But no. The correct weapon was not chosen for you."
Murtagh suppressed a flare of anger at Galbatorix's words, healing the numerous cuts and gashes she had given him. He felt grim satisfaction when he heard her do the same.
"I wonder..." The king pondered aloud, letting a light curiosity seep into his mellifluous tone.
Murtagh turned about to see the king withdraw a scimitar with an overall length an inch or two past three feet. Its blade was covered by a leather sheath, which was ornamented on both ends with intricate designs of silver. Tiny black diamonds were hidden among the embellishment. The hilt attached at the end of the blade blended flawlessly with the rest of the scimitar, bearing nothing on either of its sides as it curved in unison with the overall shape of the blade. Silver ivy seemed to spring from nowhere and wrap around the hilt, embellishing it, and a few inches of the upper part of the blade, with its beauty. In the middle of the sprawling ivory, the hilt was studded with a huge diamond which encased itself with the tiny, seemingly alive silver plant.
Galbatorix walked over to the stunned girl, holding the priceless scimitar out to her.
"I present you –"
"Laeranír," She breathed, a sense of familiarity crossing her face. She ignored Galbatorix's confirmation as she reached her hand out to pull it from its sheath. As she withdrew Laeranír, complete reverence crossed over her face. Her delicate fingers fit perfectly into the handle, and her equally stunning eyes moved up Laeranír's length as she examined it further. Its blade curved gracefully, engraved with the light, spidery writing of a powerful, long-forgotten language. Upon further inspection, Murtagh realized the letters were filled with white diamonds, which had been melted and poured into the blade so it fit into the letters with the subtle ease of perfection.
"He's perfect," She breathed.
"Try it out then," Galbatorix suggested, with a dark glint in his eyes.
She turned about to face Murtagh with her newly acquired blade, and he felt a brief tremor of fear run through him. That sword could cut him to shreds, and magic wasn't allowed during Galbatorix's duels – unless of course he was dueling a magician.
The two reeled about, close enough to feel the breath of their opponent on their skin, and then so far from each other that their blades barely reached the target; the dance had resumed. She faded from one stance to another, with definite grace. Murtagh matched every one of her strikes with the poise one could only have achieved with years of practice.
As the seconds lengthened to minutes and neither had landed a decent hit, Murtagh was surprised that she didn't seem to grow as agitated as she had the times before; she relished every twirl of the blade as it responded instantaneously to her every thought. It was a whirlwind in her hands as she spun it about in a three-sixty. They had already sustained several minor injuries from each other and as the battle wore on, the pair grew desperate to land the deciding blow. Several minutes later found Murtagh with a deep gash in his side – this blade did not seem adverse to his chain armor and eagerly bit deep into his flesh until it hit bone. Blood was pouring from his wound and Murtagh felt the rage of battle grip him, turning his vision red. He no longer saw her as a girl, but as an opponent; he wouldn't be holding back anymore. She was a threat which he would stop at no ends until he had eliminated. He built up to his move with a series of complex blows, and Zar'roc keenly licked at her flesh. After landing a decidedly painful gash along her cheek, he swung Zar'roc to the side and once more sent her blade flying to the ground.
As he lunged out to stab her, she did something he had never seen before. She turned away, so her back was facing him and in a swift movement she was in the air, flying high above his head. She landed behind him, facing the same direction she had before she jumped, and quickly she grabbed her scimitar from where it had landed. Murtagh whirled about to find her crouched on all fours, blade retrieved.
He cursed internally and fought her with ever increasing fury, landing several critical hits. Once more they found each other responding to the other's every thought, they moved as though they were one; in a perfect action reaction scenario. He slashed her through the back of her armor, and felt the satisfaction of Misery ripping through her armor and into her flesh. As they pirouetted about each other, Murtagh sliced her again, this time his blade landed in her side.
Much to his disappointment, she didn't seem to feel the blows; they weren't deep enough to trigger pain in the heat of battle. Her blade shimmered in the light, a blur as she danced around him, jabbing and being deflected again and again. As they whirled closer to each other again, Murtagh swung Zar'roc at anything he could – which happened to be her face. The blade cut into the right side of her face, running several inches down into her neck until it reached the torn flesh of her shoulder, the cut ran deep.
Without hesitation Murtagh held Zar'roc to her heart, panting heavily.
"Dead," he repeated again.
The girl made no response to the proximity of his deadly scarlet blade, and tore a shredded glove from her hand. She made to heal the wound on her neck, but convulsed slightly and ended up using it to shield her mouth as she coughed fiercely into it. When she removed it from her bloody lips Murtagh saw her palm was covered in the dripping red substance.
Kneeling next to her, Murtagh pressed his hand against her bloodied neck, feeling the warm sticky substance clinging to his hand. Whispering the healing words, he felt the would-be-fatal gash disappear from her neck, and the pulsing flow of blood ended. He removed his bloodied palm, wiping it on his armor.
"Thank you," She managed, not looking him in the eyes – to which he was grateful. She went about healing her own wounds as Murtagh turned to face the king, whose presence he had practically forgotten.
Galbatorix didn't say a word, but picked up two daggers which had gone unnoticed, from his desk. He walked over to the kneeling, bloodied girl and held them out to her.
"Perhaps you would have fared better with Laeranír's brothers, Nensaie-Thandurl and Esgalval?"
Murtagh noticed the definite resemblance between the breathtaking scimitar and its two curved dagger brethren. They had the same silver filigreed handles and matching white diamond inlaid hilts.
"Only if he has daggers, will I duel him with them," She replied swiftly, "I'll only find solace in my victory if it is won fairly."
Murtagh shrugged down at her, which brought fierce pain to run up his side as he realized he hadn't remembered to heal his own wounds.
He whispered the words in the ancient language, sewing the torn flesh back together, and repairing the cracked bones.
"I have no daggers, nor will I fight with any," Murtagh finally answered, watching her as she attached the daggers to a belt which had previously gone unnoticed. He felt an insatiable curiosity growing within him as he studied her. Who was she? How had she chanced into Galbatorix's clutches – and more importantly, why did he keep up a flawless façade of humanity for her?
"Very well," Galbatorix replied, "go again."
Although it took longer this time, Murtagh continued with his streak, and inevitably he bested the girl, bringing her once more to her knees. This time, however, she managed to keep a hold onto her weapon.
"Again," Galbatorix ordered.
Twice more the two battled, with the same outcome every time; Murtagh was clearly the superior. Murtagh was sure that this was Galbatorix's punishment for the girl – he would never lay a finger on her, but she would be repeatedly cut up by Murtagh's vicious sword. This way, Galbatorix remained innocent and above reproach.
If the girl had felt any kindness towards Murtagh from before, when he healed her, it was gone now. She regarded him with cold indifference as she once more tended to the severe wounds in her leg; it ran from her waist to right above her knee. She hadn't even managed a proper blow in by the time he defeated her.
Murtagh could sense frustration in the room emanating from more than her; Galbatorix had hoped with the punishments he was assigning her, that she would have grown to desperation, and bested him Murtagh. The king planned his actions an age before he acted on them; he didn't just happen to have priceless weapons which were designed to her perfectly. It was as much an act of gaining her unwavering loyalty, as a test he had been sure she would pass. Murtagh felt a sense of pride that he had defeated the king's new prized playing piece.
"You will need to attend less time to your studies, and more to your swordsmanship."
She nodded again, favoring Murtagh with an icy glare.
"You will do so with him," Galbatorix ordered, gaining a note of formality which Murtagh hadn't heard him use the entire time, "he far exceeds the skill of any of your teachers."
Murtagh could sense her reluctance, but she didn't act upon it. Galbatorix however, did.
His expression appeared to soften towards the girl, "I would train you myself, but I have other matters to attend to. You will present to me once a week and until you have bested him at least once, you will practice at least three hours every day."
This time, Murtagh stiffened along with the girl; that regimen was brutal.
"If only you could have trained with Tornac," The king was using his honeyed-voice once more, "sadly he died but a few years back. He was my best trainer."
Murtagh felt his throat tighten as Galbatorix intentionally mentioned his old mentor for the second time. It had been Murtagh's fault Tornac, had died – they were fleeing Urû'baen together, and he gave his life to let Murtagh escape Galbatorix. In honor of his teacher Murtagh had named the horse he escaped on Tornac.
Galbatorix grinned cruelly at Murtagh while the girl's gaze was elsewhere.
"I do not believe you two have been formally introduced," Galbatorix smiled warmly at the girl, and motioned towards Murtagh,
"Caellyn, this is Murtagh: son of the best, most loyal of my vassals, Morzan."
Murtagh felt undeniable rage reach up to his face and bit back several furious remarks which begged to be released by his tongue. He under no uncertain terms had chosen his father, he was forever grateful when he heard that his father had been killed by the infamous Brom. He hated how Galbatorix threw Morzan's name about, as if Murtagh were to somehow become his father.
Never, Murtagh said fiercely to himself, I will never become that monster.
But as he looked back to the mysterious girl now revealed to be Caellyn, he didn't see the horror he expected to in her violet eyes, he saw…respect.
"To have such a father is quite an honor. What I would have done for a father who has done so much for our cause!" Her bitter demeanor towards Murtagh from before seemed to have melted away at learning his parentage; she smiled up at Murtagh in what would have been an innocent expression, if not for the reasoning.
Murtagh leaned closer to her, practically spitting venom,
"Gladly. You can bear that name. I am of no relation to that monster."
He didn't look behind at her, and didn't see her stunned expression as he tore from the room.
A/N: That chapter was awesome for me to write! I hope you all enjoyed it and feel compelled to press that little button that says "review" ;)