Thorn and Misery - Chapter 7

"We begin with testing your skill with a blade," said Galbatorix as he removed his tunic, waiting for Murtagh to do the same. Though Galbatorix was over a century old, his body was that of a man no older than his forties. H his muscles stood out, lean and corded, beneath his tanned skin. He appeared to be the picture of health, though Murtagh knew he barely ventured outside his castle at all.

In fact, the gossip was that Galbatorix had left the city only once in the last ten years: Marcus Tabor, the lord of Dras-Leona and a newly ennobled commoner, had been getting a bit too comfortable with his new position. He had grown lax with the people of his city, and Murtagh had seen and heard the man giving himself airs. The situation steadily worsened, until Galbatorix himself had travelled to Dras-Leona to teach the uppity lord his place.

Murtagh had been in Dras-Leona at the time, tracking the Ra'zac, the king's monstrous personal assassins. As soon as he learned that the king was coming, Murtagh had left the city, in the company of Eragon and Saphira. He hadn't wanted to be within ten leagues of Galbatorix.

Not that that mattered now.

A sharp pinch in his mind reminded Murtagh that Galbatorix still waited. "That wasn't the only reason I journeyed to Dras-Leona, Murtagh," the king said quietly. "Tabor needed dealing with, of course, but it was you I was really hoping to find." He smirked. "It was so very rude of you to leave without saying goodbye. I was quite looking forward to a little chat, but you and your brother managed to slip through my grasp yet again…and now here we are. Fate has a sense of humour, does it not?" the king shook his head, chuckling darkly. "But I digress. We have work to do. "

The king drew his sword, an uncommonly long blade as white as bone. The gemstone set into the pommel may as well been hewn from ice. The sword sent sudden chill through Murtagh's body. If death had a colour, that was certainly it.

Galbatorix swung the sword in a few smooth, practiced motions before settling into a ready stance. He had used no spell to dull their swords, as Eragon had done when they had sparred together. If Murtagh were not careful, he would be sliced to ribbons in a heartbeat.

Galbatorix's face was completely emotionless as he prepared himself. "I will attack; you will attempt to defend yourself. I will not use magic, and I will not enter your mind. Defend!"

Murtagh barely had time to raise his hand-and-a-half sword as Galbatorix's blade came whistling through the air towards his unprotected face. Murtagh caught the blade just moments before it connected with its target, on the flat edge of his own sword. The two deadly weapons grated together with a shrill, metallic hiss that ran a shiver up Murtagh's spine.

Galbatorix was a spinning blur in the air. Again and again he struck, making Murtagh's sword arm go numb with each successive pass. Once, the swords met on their edges, and a few small chips of steel were cut loose from Murtagh's sword and fluttered to the ground. The king's sword, practically indestructible thanks to the spells it was imbibed with, remained unharmed.

Try as he might, Murtagh could venture no attack of his own. He could only parry each slash and dance just beyond the reach of Galbatorix's sword. Once, when Galbatorix was drawing his weapon back for another blow, Murtagh saw an opening. He lunged, his sword-point whistling upwards to kiss the hollow of the king's pale throat, but in the next instant the chance was gone, for Galbatorix had jumped aside with inhuman speed and charged once again at Murtagh, resuming their seemingly endless duel.

They continued this for what seemed like hours before Galbatorix, in a fit of sudden swiftness, swung his sword around in a complex overhand pass that brought him face-to-face with Murtagh. In a graceful, deadly gesture, Galbatorix snaked his sword past Murtagh's outstretched arm and pressed the tip just above his heart. A drop of blood welled there and trickled down Murtagh's bare chest.

"Dead," said Galbatorix coldly. They disengaged, Galbatorix panting slightly, Murtagh drenched in sweat. "Though I must admit, you are a formidable duellist. You must remember, however, that you will never win a fight with defence. All you can do is hold your opponent off for a while."

Gasping as he tried to catch his breath, Murtagh said nothing.

"Rest some, then we will move on." Galbatorix took two water flasks from the table, keeping one for himself and passing the other to Murtagh. "Drink only a small sip of this. It is very strong."

Murtagh took a drink, and was surprised to find that the flasks contained not water, but a pungent, sweet liquid that tasted of raspberries.

"What is this?" Murtagh asked. The drink had cooled his dry, burning throat and cleared his senses, leaving him refreshed and energized. It felt as if their exhausting duel had never happened.

"It is faelnirv, an elven liquor that I have taken a fancy to," answered Galbatorix, taking another sip from his own flask.

Glancing over at Thorn, he saw that the dragon had fallen asleep during their duel, his head resting on his front paws. He was even snoring slightly, tiny wisps of smoke rising from his nostrils, eliciting a smile from Murtagh.

The pair sat down on the stairs and Galbatorix continued. "I admit there is little more I can teach you on the subject of swordplay itself. To be able to hold your own against a warrior such as myself is, I'll admit, quite an accomplishment." Taking a sip of faelnirv, he said, "There is, however, the matter of finding you a sword."

"Can I not use this?" demanded Murtagh, holding up his hand-and-a-half sword.

"I think not!" exclaimed Galbatorix, running his hand over the chips in the tempered steel. "That child's plaything barely survived our little duel. It is hardly suitable for a Dragon Rider."

Murtagh felt rather stung at the king's words. The hand-and-a-half sword had been his prime weapon ever since his teacher Tornac had deemed him fit to carry one. He could not think of parting with it.

"Indeed, I shall have to find you a proper Rider's sword," said Galbatorix. "By all rights you should have your own, specially made to suit your preferences, but alas, my smiths have not the tools nor the talent to forge such and important blade. In fact," said Galbatorix, stroking his beard, "I believe the only smith who has the skills to make such a sword is an elf, currently residing in Du Weldenvarden. She is a master, and to use any other would be an insult to the craft.

"No, since I cannot make you your own sword, we shall have to find you another. I am sure I have something in my stores that would be suitable…"Galbatorix trailed off, thinking.

Then Murtagh saw something in his mind's eye. It was a vision of a long, burnished scarlet blade, three and a half feet in length, its single-handed hilt wrapped in silver wire. A teardrop-shaped ruby the size of a small egg was set into the pommel. A strange symbol, two crescent moons superimposed over the twisting blade of a sword, was etched in black just below the golden cross-guards.

"Zar'roc," Murtagh whispered.

"Zar'roc?" asked Galbatorix.

"My father's sword."

"Oh, yes, I had forgotten that Morzan had named his sword 'Misery.' How fitting a name. It was an unsurpassed weapon, and a work of art to be sure. But tell me, how does that relate to my problem?"

"Eragon still has it." Murtagh felt the old bitterness and jealousy slip back into him. Eragon had no right to carry Zar'roc. Whatever Murtagh thought of his father, the sword was his by right of inheritance, and it was the only inheritance Murtagh had ever hoped to receive. He remembered those long nights on their journey to the Varden, while Eragon lay sleeping, he had quietly slid Zar'roc from its sheath and tried a few passes with it. How wonderful it had felt in his hand! Suddenly his old hand-and-a-half sword felt very much like the child's toy Galbatorix had named it.

"Do you suppose you will take it from him?" asked Galbatorix.

"Yes. Zar'roc belongs to me, and I want it back."

"Then you shall have it," said Galbatorix. "Your father's sword would indeed be a perfect match, and I believe it is the same colour as Thorn, am I correct?"

"Yes," said Murtagh. Zar'roc's crimson hue was indeed the exact same shade as Thorn's scales.

"Not particularly necessary, but it keeps with the tradition that Rider's swords match their dragons," said Galbatorix. "However, you must know that it will be some time before you will be able to retrieve what is rightfully yours."

"Why?" asked Murtagh. "Surely I am fiercer a fighter than Eragon."

"That may be true, but Eragon has been training as a Dragon Rider for far longer than you have. His dragon is much older than Thorn, and has had substantial combat experience. Though, in a few months that will hardly be a problem. I am going to give you something that will make you and Thorn far more powerful than they are."

Murtagh pressed, but Galbatorix refused to say anything more on the subject, and the conversation turned to Murtagh's schooling.

"I am assuming that you can read and write," said Galbatorix.

"I am proficient at both in the common speech, yes," replied Murtagh.

"Good, that saves me hours of tedious instruction. What of the other languages?"

"I picked up some of the dwarves' tongue in Tronjheim," answered Murtagh, remembering his days in the cell at the base of the city. He had wiled away the endless hours reading various scrolls that had been brought from the dwarves' immense library at his request. "Though I know precious little of the ancient language."

"That is of no importance," said Galbatorix. "I wish to teach you the language of spells myself. In time, you will be able to use it without thinking. As well, you should try and learn some of the Urgal language. However crude a tongue it is, it is excellent for certain documents that should not fall into the wrong hands."

Murtagh blanched at this. No matter what Galbatorix thought of Urgals, he could not bring himself to tolerate them. He had killed dozens under Farthen Dur, and more still in their search of the tunnels. It was by their aid that he had been brought, against his will, to Uru'baen, and he still viewed them as monsters.

"I agree, Murtagh, they are monsters."

Murtagh jumped. He had nearly forgotten that his every thought was open to Galbatorix.

"Even so, they are my allies, and you would do well to exhibit some forbearance on their account."

They could say no more as the bell signalling the tenth evening hour sounded in the distance. The low, melodic knell reminded Murtagh of how exhausted he was, and he yawned despite himself.

"That is enough for tonight, I think," said Galbatorix. "You should sleep now; my healing will have made you tired. There a few more things I need to test tomorrow, as well as someone I would like you to meet." They got to their feet as the tenth chime sounded. "To bed now, Murtagh. You have had a long day, and could no doubt do with some real rest. Go to the archery yards at the usual hour tomorrow morning, and bring your bow. I will have breakfast for you there."

Murtagh nodded, too tired to speak, sheathed his sword and made to tuck the dagger back into his boot.

"Do not trouble yourself about those, Murtagh," he said. "I will see them brought up to your chambers."

Nodding again, Murtagh scooped the sleeping Thorn into his arms, and trudged back to his rooms. He could barely keep his eyes open as he removed his boots and placed Thorn at the foot of his bed. He slid between the sheets, asleep before he hit the pillow.

Galbatorix watched Murtagh and Thorn leave, a false, simpering smile still plastered across his face. He had told Murtagh that it was the healing that had exhausted him so, but that was far from the truth. The faelnirv Murtagh drank would have left him completely energized, if not for the wordless spell Galbatorix had cast as the tenth-hour bell tolled. Now they were out of his way, and he could proceed to his business.

Crossing the antechamber to the table that held Murtagh's weapons, Galbatorix picked up the ivory-hilted dagger. Tilting it toward the light, he ran his spindly fingers along the blade until he found what he was looking for: an engraved arrow with a wavy, snakelike tail, pointing upwards towards the hilt.

Drac'ner.

Smiling with satisfaction, Galbatorix lifted the familiar dagger until the gleaming silver blade caught the torchlight and reflected his triumphant face back at him. He was finally reunited with his old friend.

Drac'ner was so much more than a dagger. How Murtagh had managed to use it for so long without discovering its true purpose was a mark of how powerful the blade really was.

Forged long ago by the master elf-smith Rhunön, Drac'ner was a masterpiece to rival any of the Riders' swords. Stabbed into the heart of any enemy, it would kill them as any other dagger would. If the correct words in the ancient language were spoken over the body, the wielder could then ask any questions he desired, to be answered by the reanimated corpse with absolute truthfulness. Everything the victim had known in life was now theirs to divulge in death. Only after Drac'ner had been removed would the victim's soul be free to depart the world of the living.

Instead of selling or keeping Drac'ner, Rhunön had given it as a gift to her son, the Dragon Rider Kialandi.

That was his symbol, just below the hilt. Galbatorix had had the thirteen Forsworn's private symbols engraved on each of their weapons. Drac'ner had been Kialandi's favourite until his master had taken it from him. Of course Galbatorix could never have allowed such a dangerous weapon to remain in the possession of one he so distrusted.

But Kialandi would never know the true strength of his favourite weapon. He was long dead, like all of the Forsworn, and now Drac'ner answered to a new master. Even Rhunön, who had forged the blade by her own hand, had never known the full extent of Drac'ner's formidable power. She had intended to be a much simpler tool.

When Kialandi had first joined Galbatorix's order, he had used Drac'ner to harvest the very last reserves of energy from the bodies of those slain in battle. The spark of life force, too small to be harvested by a spellcaster alone, proved to be unfailingly present in every recently deceased being. The soul lived on for a short time inside its body, and flared bright for a moment, like a candle at the end of its wick, just prior to extinguishing for all time.

If reaped within the brief moments immediately following death, the tiny spark of energy was powerful enough to restore the vitality of dozens of exhausted soldiers.

The practice was simple enough: the prick of a finger, a drop of blood, and the energy was stored in the jewel on the hilt, which could then be tapped by the wielder.

Useful as this was, Galbatorix had seen in Drac'ner a higher purpose. After many years of intense study and experimentation, he had perfected Drac'ner, altered it to a masterwork of interrogation through the use of necromancy.

The exact art of death magic was thought by the elves to be the very foulest form of sorcery, who remained ignorant of its true potential. Close-minded fools, the lot of them. The cowards were afraid of the power that dark magic offered them.

Drac'ner had been Galbatorix's first project, his initial foray into the near untapped field of necromancy. It had been completed while he was still in his youth. Since then, Galbatorix had used necromancy, and many other branches of dark magic, to discover, manipulate and even invent spells that the elves dared not touch.

Murtagh would learn soon enough that dark magic was an essential part of Galbatorix's rule. And when he did, Drac'ner would be one of the first tools he would learn how to use.

Galbatorix had kept and used the weapon for years before the traitor had stolen it. He had thought Tornac was his faithful servant, only to find out he had been a rebel spy, serving the Varden. Tornac had foolishly tried to escape Uru'baen with Murtagh after stealing Drac'ner from Galbatorix's private stores. He had been killed, but a search of his body revealed that the magic dagger was missing.

Drac'ner had vanished until Murtagh brought it back to Uru'baen. Galbatorix's had thought he recognized the ornate filigree designs on the hilt, but had not been absolutely sure until this moment.

Sliding the dagger back into its sheath, Galbatorix exited the antechamber, carrying the dagger almost with reverence.

Galbatorix approached a servant who was polishing a torch-bracket. The maid sank to her knees immediately, with a terrified, "Your Imperial Majesty."

Without saying a word, Galbatorix pulled Drac'ner once again from its sheath, seized the front of the maid's dress and plunged it directly into her heart.

The maid went limp immediately. Raising a hand over her still body, Galbatorix whispered a long, complex phrase in the ancient language, a spell of his own making.

For a moment there was nothing, and then the dead woman's eyes opened wide, but there was something different about them. There was no iris, no pupil, only two dark, glistening voids. Both her eyes were completely black, as if ink had been spilled into them. And yet, they seemed to be alive somehow, the empty orbs roiling softly, like thunderclouds in the dead of night.

The servant's head snapped to attention, Drac'ner still buried hilt-deep in her chest.

Galbatorix smiled. This was exactly how he remembered it. "What are your children's names, and how old are they?" he asked, staring into her changed eyes.

"Stefan and Luna. They are ten and six years old." The voice was completely devoid of emotion, the maid's body simply stating the facts.

"How old are you?"

"Twenty-seven."

"Have you ever been unfaithful to your husband?"

"Yes."

"With whom?"

"The captain of the guard."

"For how long?"

"Two years."

"I thought as much."

With another grim smile, Galbatorix yanked Drac'ner from the maid's heart. With a final gasp, the black stain cleared from her eyes and she fell lifelessly to the floor of the dining hall.

It was wonderful, this feeling of absolute power. Before it had been stolen, Galbatorix had used Drac'ner to interrogate suspected spies and traitors, enemy soldiers captured in battle, even random servants, as he had done now. He had particularly enjoyed stealing the truth from his fellow Riders. Even magic as strong as theirs was no match for Drac'ner's power.

Wiping the bloody blade on the maid's apron, Galbatorix beckoned to another servant, who rushed to him and sank to his knees, his eyes wide as he gaped at the lifeless corpse.

"Clean this up," the king ordered, motioning to the dead serving-woman. "Then take the sword in the antechamber to my Rider's rooms."

"At once, your Majesty."

With a nod, Galbatorix swept out of the dining hall towards his private wing, cradling Drac'ner in his arms.

Kialandi's prize had returned to its true master at last.


A/N: This was one of the very first scenes I wrote, and it was finished before several of the earlier chapters. Pre-Inheritance, Kialandi was a girl, but it doesn't make much difference - I just had to adjust a few pronouns. I wish all my fixes were that simple.

- Miss Maddie