Chapter Eight: Of Predators and Prey
"Solitary trees, if they grow at all, grow strong." -Winston Churchill
There was a soft wind playfully tugging at Murtagh's hair as he stopped atop a low hillock and frowned up at the shrouded sun, the fiery light it normally shed was blocked by relentless and monotonous grey clouds, making it barely discernible from the rest of the sky.
Everything around him was still and quiet, not even the distant chirping of birds could be heard to ease the silence. There was no sound but the wind, cool and weightless as it teased its way about him.
At a first glance, or even under the study of an unpracticed set of eyes, it would seem as though he'd stopped at an empty landscape, with naught but dry flattened grass at his feet. But further on, Murtagh's own adept eyes could pick out the familiar greyish-brown smudge on the horizon; the telltale sign of a forest's edge. They were in a meadow of sorts – lacking the picturesque green grass, bright flowers, and shining sun.
This late in the year the soft, once vibrant grass had dried up to a crisp, dull yellow. Not even the fallen leaves could alleviate the unattractive, dismal scene before him; they'd all fallen, rotted, and deteriorated into the brown earth some weeks previous. The squelching of mud beneath his shoe was evidence enough to that fact. Murtagh grimaced, angrily ripping his boot up from the clinging earth, grey eyes searching for a dry spot to put them down in.
"Damn rain," he muttered bitterly, slamming his dirt encrusted boot back into the filth after having found no suitable place to stand on. The motion sent mud flying up onto his leather pants, smattering their black hue with an unwelcome brown one.
So much for autumn, he thought bitterly, it had lasted for what – a month?
"It's not so bad."
Murtagh's breath caught in his throat as a cool voice sounded from behind him, sending his heart pounding. Luckily he managed to catch himself before jumping out of his skin. A trained warrior should never have been taken off guard so easily. But he had. Worse, her presence had slipped his mind entirely, and he'd allowed his body to slip into the relaxation it only would when he was alone.
"You like dead things, don't you?" he asked coolly, staring on ahead at that faint smudge in the distance, the clouds, the dead ground – whatever, as long as it wasn't her.
"I appreciate life in all stages. Life; it isn't dead," she said strangely, quietly, "it's just sleeping." His eyes flicked over to his strange companion. She'd dropped to her knees, fingers running through the dry, dead grass. He sighed. This wasn't an argument worth having, no doubt that would come soon enough.
"Fine. Whatever suits you, it matters not to me," he replied dismissively.
"I think it does," she shot back in that eerie, musical voice of hers. He froze her gaze with a cold, silencing glance of his own.
"It doesn't." She chose to ignore him.
It was early in the morning, or at least it had been when they'd left, but now it was closer to mid-afternoon. Had it been spring there would have been a light smattering of dew upon the grass, but autumn found its only embellishment that of dirt and rot.
For training that day, he had decided against the usual, readily growing monotonous, routine of dueling in favor of physical training – the sort where she would train and he would assess her, conveniently escaping any physical exertion of his own. Unfortunately, the good mood that had put him in had evaporated ten minutes in due to her unending barrage of questions and his short patience. In a desperate attempt to be rid of her, he'd informed her they were to run the rest of the way there and since she didn't know the way she would have to follow at the safe, and inaudible, distance of fifteen feet. He had meant to lose her on the way through the winding path he'd chosen and the thick forestry that stubbornly prevented unobstructed vision.
"What's the plan?"
"Plan? It's nothing more than simple training." Murtagh frowned, once more finding himself perplexed by her strange way of speaking. This girl, if she was that even, was a mystery in a mystery, wrapped in a perplexing enigma. And he had every intention of figuring it out.
She sighed, rolling her eyes before answering. "I was simply wondering what you had in store for me today."
He looked at her chillingly, an expression she must have mistaken for confusion.
"No? Alright…" she frowned, feigning deep thought, "I didst have a wondering what thou would havest me do on this finest day in the hour of morn which nearest midday."
Murtagh sighed, agitation coloring his confusion. "I feel as though you are mocking me."
She giggled, clearly pleased with herself. "I wouldn't dream of it. Mocking you? – the famed ranger? I wouldn't have the cojones for it." He raised an eyebrow questioningly,
"Cojones?"
She gave him a quick glance, sighed, and then spoke, "Never mind. Sometimes I forget…"
He watched her unblinkingly, nearly opening his mouth to further question her, but stopped himself just in time. Before he confronted her he'd need to further study her, learn everything there was to know about Mariel, son of Maker knew who. In doing so he would have more evidence with which to challenge her when the time came and would be better able to back her into a corner.
For one, he needed to know how, and why, she could change from a chilling, mysterious, and inhuman being – a being that seemed almost older than the earth itself – to a…girl? A naïve, young girl. How could she laugh and make jokes, however unentertaining as they were, one moment and then make his very blood run cold in the next? He hated her in those moments, hated how she frightened him against his own will, hated how every hair on his body stood up whenever she was near – being the prey was not an experience Murtagh was accustomed to. And in the others, in the moments when she was nothing but a young girl, he couldn't help but resent her presence being forced upon him. She saw life as a happy, funny thing and was too simple-minded to see it was nothing more than a cruel twisted joke. He pitied, hated, and resented her all in equal measure.
"You'll be running," he stated brusquely, at long last giving an answer to her question.
"Running?"
"Running."
"That's it?" she pressed, an almost eager edge coloring her disbelieving tone. Murtagh looked over at her coldly, noting with annoyance the grace with which she walked, almost floating, as her feet barely pressed the wet earth beneath. He noticed with a flare of petty resentment that there was not even the slightest hint of mud on her boots.
"For now."
She quirked her brows, the unsettling eyes beneath settling on him. At first it hadn't taken long to get used to them. After all, eyes are eyes and it didn't much matter what color they were. But now…now that he'd seen the violet of her irises take over even the whites of her eyes – now that he'd seen them glowing as she attacked him, ripping at his flesh…Murtagh repressed a shudder and swiftly smoothed out his features. He had to bite back the order to put her mask back on and hide those awful eyes from sight.
He turned to where that faint dark smudge, which signified the edge of the woods, began and pointed toward them.
"You'll be running from there," he instructed. "And you will run the perimeter of the woods around this clearing. Any time you trip or change pace another lap will be added." He gestured towards his own mud splattered pants, "and trust me…I'll know."
Silence. "Are you waiting for something?" he pressed, eager to be rid of her.
Her voice came silent as the wind, so silent he'd almost missed it.
"How many am I supposed to run?" Something about her tone seemed strange, as if she were suppressing something. Rage, perhaps. She had the worst mood swings he'd ever seen – they came without warning and left just as rapidly.
He shrugged. "As many as I see fit," he informed her in a tone that was nonchalant and yet simultaneously dared her to protest his words. She didn't rise to his bait.
"Anything else?" he asked again, impatient.
"How will you know if my pace changes?" her voice had taken on an almost impudent tone.
He snorted, then paused. "Oh…you were serious?" Silence. Then, "I'll know."
She assessed him blankly, not a word passing through her lips. Swiftly, she undid the silver clasp on her cloak and it slid silently down into a black pile at her feet. Then she was off, before he could say another word, process another thought.
She is going too fast, was Murtagh's first thought. She'll never be able to maintain that pace. It's not…well, it's not human.
He let out a breath of air, eyes still glued on her dark, shrinking figure in the distance. He frowned, for what seemed the hundredth time that day.
I would do well to remember her humanity is still under question. He recalled how his flesh had ripped apart when her claws had dug into him. No, he wasn't like to forget that any time in the near future. But it was more than that, really; more than just physical discrepancies that set her apart from others.
Not only did her limbs respond faster – faster even than Eragon's when last they'd crossed blades – but she was also far too observant for her own good. Seven hells, she seemed able to pinpoint almost exactly what he was feeling without even seeing him and he could barely guess at how she felt with both his eyes. And then of course there was the matter of how she would sometimes break off into a foreign language he had never heard the likes of before.
And let's not forget the double-edged personality she has. Sometimes he would swear there were several different people squeezed into that body, each struggling against the other for control.
Yet there was a more frightening aspect still; what he knew about her paled in comparison to what he didn't. Why, for instance, had Galbatorix kept her hidden away for who knew how many years and only just revealed her to him now? What purpose had Galbatorix set aside for her? Whatever it was he would find out soon enough. The Black King never revealed his pieces until they were ready to strike. The thought sent a chill down Murtagh's spine.
She was powerful, that was true enough – he had seen that just the first time they'd fought – but there had to be something truly dark and terrible for Galbatorix to value her above one of the only remaining dragon Riders.
Still puzzling, are we? Thorn interrupted Murtagh's wonderings. An image of a torn deer carcass flashed through his mind and before it disappeared he managed to glance a red scaly jaw tearing into the raw, dripping flesh.
Done hunting then?
Hardly. This is merely a break from hunting, Thorn replied smugly. An image of a gargantuan boar, nearly half the size of Thorn himself, filtered through their mental link. I've got it cornered already. It left such an obvious trail even the most dull-witted peasant girl could have followed it.
Well one can hardly call you a dull-witted peasant girl. What are you waiting for? Murtagh asked curiously, looking futilely about for any inch of dry ground to sit on. He groaned in frustration when he realized there was none. There wasn't even a tree for him to lean against.
I'm whetting my appetite. And building up its fear; it knows I'm out here, biding my time, and it will put up more of a fight this way. It's working itself into a frenzy.
If I were your prey I'd be worked up into quite a frenzy myself. Murtagh joked lightly, still vaguely casting about for a place to recline.
It's the frenzy that truly kills them, in my experience, at least. They lose all logical thought and turn to madness in their crazed attempt to survive. The carelessness and reckless abandon are what makes them such easy prey – and I'm just the predator to strike in them the right amount of fear.
By the tone in his thoughts it was obvious how much Thorn loved the hunt and it was pointless in trying to discourage him from it – he was a dragon, after all. More to the point, Murtagh knew exactly what it felt like. Being the most powerful creature in the forest, knowing that no matter what you were the champion, that you were the best and no creature's equal. If one had the power then why not use it? There was no victory in going easy on your prey.
We should fly tonight. Thorn suggested hopefully as he suckd the last strips of meat from the deer's ribs.
Giving up his vain search for dry ground, Murtagh pulled a glove off his marked hand and placed it on the muddy earth. Whispering a few words in the ancient language, he felt as the moisture was sucked from the dirt as he allocated it several feet away. Triumphantly, he sat down, wiping the mud from his hands onto his jerkin, feeling mildly pleased with himself.
Once I've met with Galbatorix we shall. Murtagh promised, pushing his hair back out of his eyes. There was a blur in his vision, swiftly approaching. In a flurry of wind and color, Mariel sped by him, beginning her second run of the perimeter.
Damn, Murtagh swore, I forgot to watch her.
You're having her run? Thorn asked curiously. If it was me I'd have her doing a whole manner of exercises. Running is child's play.
A secretive smirk found its way on Murtagh's features. She is a child. But don't worry – this is just the beginning.
There was a long silence from Thorn's end. Then, when can I meet her?
Murtagh almost choked – and would have, had he been eating. Meet her? Why? What would that accomplish?
She intrigues me…perhaps I can puzzle out what you cannot.
It's not that I can't figure her out, Murtagh shot back crossly, suddenly on the defensive. I'm biding my time. Stalking my prey, if you will. That's something you know all about, isn't it?
I will meet her. Thorn answered, resolute.
He was sounding more like a proper dragon as each day passed, and less like a young hatchling. Murtagh was grateful for the great distance between the two as it was easier to shield his thoughts without Thorn noticing.
We would probably have to get Galbatorix's permission first, Murtagh warned, watching as a frigid breeze harshly tossed a clump of dirt about in the wind.
Almost instantly Murtagh felt the excitement drain from Thorn, replaced with trepidation. Thorn slammed his hind leg into the ground with aggravation, sending several traumatized birds up into the air. It's not fair!
A smile found its way onto Murtagh's lips at Thorn's reaction. I'll work on it. He promised, pushing himself up to his feet. He'd caught a glimpse at the black blur which was Mariel and he fully intended to stop her before she managed to rush into her third lap.
Thorn, having sensed Murtagh's intentions, quickly sent a thought. You'd better. Now I am off to conquer this boar. I shall reach you when I have finished. Do not disturb me before then…unless the value of unburnt skin is meaningless to you.
He smiled at Thorn's idle threat and called out to Mariel, waving her over. She swiftly jogged over to him, her pace slowing.
"You cannot mean to tell me that I have finished." her voice sounded very low and very confused. Murtagh's eyes quickly looked her over, noticing her even breathing and dry, not perspiring skin.
He almost smiled at her naivety. "Far from it. But before we get to that you're going to tell me why you broke pace."
She frowned. "What? I didn't –" Murtagh cut her protestations short,
"You sped up."
"Had I? I –"
"We'll work on it next time. The important thing is you did not slow down." She glared angrily at him, upset at being interrupted twice in a row.
"Next time?"
"Yes. And you're going to need to keep that temper of yours in check. If you ever hope to be a great warrior you cannot let your emotions steer the course of the battle… or you will die."
Something flashed beneath her eyes. "I can control myself perfectly well." Murtagh tossed her a look but shrugged none the less, not caring to pick an argument with her.
"First things first – what did you notice on your run?"
The question was a test; Murtagh knew exactly what she would find on that run considering the countless times his old teacher, Tornac, had made him run it. He asked to test her observational skills. If she wanted to survive she'd need to know what was going on around her at all times. That meant when she thought she was alone, thought she was safe, or didn't see a need in paying attention to her surroundings.
"I saw what one normally would expect in a forest," she began tersely, still upset from his reprimand. "Mud. A stream here or there and perhaps the wayward creature."
Murtagh was about to interrupt her and say that her response was far from adequate but was cut off before even managing to open his mouth.
"Then there was the surprising lack of birds about halfway through the run. At first I was confused but the lightning-struck tree that seems to have brought down half the forest with it seems a reasonable enough conclusion. Not ten feet from here is a small patch of earth with no grass on it whatsoever. Even the ants seem to avoid it. And then of course there is the waterfall about halfway through the forest on the eastern side of this glen."
Murtagh had been following her, mentally nodding along, until that last bit. All of the previous things she had mentioned he had already known himself. There had been a strong storm a few weeks past and the patch of lifeless earth had been there since he could remember – a mystery if there ever was one. But the waterfall…well that had taken him by surprise. He must have run the same course she had more than a hundred times before – and she had noticed it on what, her first or second time around?
"And then there was the rider in the center of the glen conversing secretively with his dragon, not at all paying attention to his mentee." She concluded dryly, wrapping her hands behind her back, almost as an expectant child would when boasting to their parent of some great achievement they'd accomplished.
Murtagh narrowed his eyes suspiciously at her, not even bothering to inspect her clothes for evidence of mud. She was far too smug to have fallen in that slick, foul smelling substance.
"Now," she continued on, not waiting for either approval or rejection, "what am I doing next?"
What Mariel had done was remarkable. She could not have been inside his mind to know he had been talking with Thorn – one of them was sure to have felt the intrusion. And yet the way she had told him left no room for doubt. It had not been a wild guess or some desperate attempt to intimidate him. It was said as a fact, to let Murtagh know that she knew. That he should not be asking her questions when he might not want to know their answer. A warning.
"Are you waiting for something?" Mariel interrogated with a cool flick of her voice, repeating back to him his own words from before.
"You are going to take a break from running." He looked her swiftly up and down, "I trust you brought your sword?"
"Laeranír," she corrected, more out of habit than anything.
"I shall take that as a yes," he answered, an unintentional bite in his tone. He did not see where she could have stored the blade; all she was wearing was light, airy cloth. He resented her seemingly imperviousness to the cold. She seemed to glow in the mountain-like frigidity of the air. Murtagh surpressed a shiver.
Mariel lightly bounded over to where her cloak had fallen and pulled out her belt from its depths, both sword and dagger dangling from it. Buckling it quickly around her waist she bent over to pick something up and then she seemed to falter slightly, fingering the black strip of cloth.
"Do I have your permission?" she looked up from the item, curious eyes on him. It was her headgear. He was about to respond when she cut through him, assuming his answer would not be to her liking. "I do have to train with it on. It protects my identity and keeps my senses attuned. My teacher – "
"You can wear it," Murtagh interrupted irritably. "I was going to let you, anyway."
She paused, and Murtagh could almost feel the apprehension coming off of her in waves. Maybe he was getting better at figuring her out.
"Why the sudden change? I thought you hated when I wore it."
It wasn't that he hated it so much as it sent a chill down his spine to watch her fight with it on. It wasn't natural. No one should be that good at fighting when completely blind.
"Well…it's up to you. If you fight better with it on then wear it. If not, then don't. It's that simple."
She hesitated, "thank you."
Her uncertain words seemed to echo in the silent glen. Murtagh didn't respond, preferring to watch silently as she wound the leather round and round her face, covering every inch of her pale white skin, save for her lips and chin.
"Why don't you have your sword?" She asked after the wretched thing was properly fastened. He threw her a look, noting the way she always danced around saying its name.
Zar'roc. Misery.
A cool wave of anger shot through him but he suppressed the emotion, squashing it before it could reach his face. I am not my father. Murtagh opened his eyes to glare at her.
"Because we are not dueling." He answered matter-of-factly.
"Scared of me?" She teased lightly, her good humor seeming to have returned. For the time being, anyway. "That would be a tale to tell your children – how the big, scary dragon Rider was afraid of a little girl."
He snorted. "Hardly. I intend to watch your form when you fight someone else, and tell you what improvements need be made."
"No pressure or anything," she muttered so softly under her breath that he almost didn't hear her.
Before Murtagh could tell her to, she already had unsheathed her sword and assumed her stance.
"Good. Now – you're on the battlefield," he informed her, pulling at the magic within himself. Instant darkness greeted his eyes, but then a battlefield shot out beneath them. "You just killed the immediate threat, but you cannot manage to get your daggers out of him."
He motioned for her to comply and she reluctantly dropped the glittering weapons in question from her belt. Yet instead of falling straight to the ground as the rules of gravity demanded, they instead flew into the dead corpse of a faceless man.
Murtagh continued on, "Four men are circling you and there is no clean way out. Also, you're up against a castle wall running along your right," even as he said it four encroaching, iron-clad men appeared, frozen in time and there was suddenly a great wall to her right, towering above the battlegrounds. He continued on, "and atop the wall are two archers with aiming right for you. Show me how you would kill them."
"What?" she asked bitterly. "Nothing's on fire?"
A cruel smile twisted its way onto Murtagh's lips. "But of course – how could I have forgotten? You are lucky enough to be standing in a pitch field which is going to be lit in," he paused in mock thought, "oh, let's make it a surprise, shall we?" He smirked almost expectantly back at her, only to remember her features were all but hidden by the mask.
Instantly the scene before them transformed and the grass Mariel had been standing on was magicked into a black field of slick pitch. Both of them knew that, even though they were nowhere in sight, messenger boys were running out with pitch for the archers' arrows up on the wall. In exactly one minute the field she stood on would be ablaze.
"That's not possible," she protested hotly.
"Are you going to complain or are you going to fight?" Murtagh called back to her, sure she would have sent him a scathing glance given the time.
Without another word the battle commenced and the men who had been frozen mere seconds before were now advancing on Mariel at an alarming pace, deadly weapons in hand. Of course they were not real men. None of it was real and was therefore no more exhausting to conjure than if he had simply pictured the scene in his mind. It was one of the many tricks Galbatorix had taught him.
But it was black magic and as such it had its drawbacks – and the most important of these was that whatever wounds one took here were truly sustained. The illusion was impossible to separate from reality – in their minds, at least. If the brain thought it was hurt then so, too, would the body be. Swords would cut, fires would burn and most of all, death would kill.
Given the trick Mariel had pulled last time – robbing the air of oxygen itself – he had decided it best not to weave himself into the illusion. By staying a specter Murtagh could avoid any nasty surprises she might decide to throw his way.
The four men were circling her, swords drawn, steadily closing the distance between them. An arrow whizzed by from the ramparts above which Mariel easily dodged as she dropped to one knee, scimitar drawn and waiting on the other. Her right hand firmly gripped the hilt while her left rested beside her foot in the tar. Her head was bent over as she muttered something to herself – a mantra, a prayer? Who could say – as the men continued to close in around her. Murtagh narrowed his steel grey eyes in contemplation, wondering how she planned to overtake them.
There were at least two possible venues he could see her taking: one, she could fly into the air as he had seen her do so many times before, both avoiding their weapon's reach and simultaneously gaining the element of surprise. The other option was to wait until they were as close as she could safely allow and then blast them with a spell of her choice, perhaps the words she was chanting were for just that purpose.
Another arrow flew from above landing not an inch from her unflinching hand. The men moved closer. What in seven hells is she waiting for?
"Hiyaa!" Her shrill cry took him half by surprise as she flew up from her feet and into the air in no more than a blink of an eye, her left hand whipped about her even as the four men swung out with their blades into the now-empty air.
The man directly to her right dropped his sword as his hands flew up to his face and the sticky black substance that was suddenly oozing down it. Pitch. She'd thrown pitch at him from the hand she'd had rested by her foot, propelling it forward with a well-timed spell. Still, she'd need more than novice trickery to win this fight.
In the next second Mariel swung out with her razor-sharp blade even as her body somersaulted in the air, neatly lopping off the head of the second man with one clean sweep. His body took several seconds more to hit the ground.
Mariel landed neatly on her feet hardly making a sound when she landed, the unguarded back of one of her attacker's open to her. For a split moment she simply stood there doing nothing, almost expectantly, as she made no move to grab the brilliant opportunity that had arisen. Murtagh could've screamed at her right then and there – which is just what he was in the process of doing – when the quick whir of an arrow silenced him. The words of reprimand died in his throat as the man before Mariel fell to the slick, sticky ground, an arrow having burrowed itself deep into his neck.
How had she known that would happen? Murtagh couldn't help but wonder.
She flew about toward the next man who had turned to face her even as his remaining companion continued his losing struggle to scrub the pitch from his eyes.
Good, Murtagh thought to himself, pleased to see she was going for the target who posed the most threat rather than the easier, and completely blind, one. One less thing I'll have to teach her.
Dropping her scimitar to the sludge below Mariel reached her right hand out behind her back, almost as though she were reaching for an arrow from some imaginary quiver. A low noise was emanating from her, almost as though she was humming a melody. The pitch changed, slightly lower, and suddenly the bloodied arrow ripped free of the corpse below her, flying into her waiting hand.
Murtagh's eyes widened, disbelieving. How had she done that? She hadn't said a word and yet the arrow had somehow been magicked into her outstretched palm.
The man was closing in on her, his face nothing more than a blank mask. Mariel took one quick look at him…and fled. Her pursuer wasted no time thrusting his legs into a furious pace – but she was faster. Her legs were a blur as they pumped up and down across the field, out of range of the archers and their deadly arrows.
Murtagh had no sooner imagined himself nearer then he was suddenly beside her, an invisible specter to the scene that unfolded before his very eyes. Her song resumed as her feet suddenly stopped running and she turned about to face her purser. The tune took a lilt upwards even as her arm whipped back down, notching the arrow to what appeared to Murtagh to be no more than thin air. And then he saw it – a strange collection of misty air materialized, shaping into a wispy, ghostly bow.
The melody she hummed took several quick jumps up and down, fading so low that he could barely make it out at all. And then the arrow shot out of the mysteriously conjured bow in a burst of glowing white light even as the bow itself vanished just as readily as it had appeared.
This time Murtagh's jaw fell open before he could stop it, suddenly making him grateful he was invisible to her eyes. Still, he mused, his thoughts suddenly turning bitter, not being able to see things has never hindered her before.
"Enough," he announced in a commanding voice as he shattered the illusion, jolting them back into the reality of the dried up meadow, and its accompanying bitter winds, that they had never truly left.
"Did I do well?" she asked tartly, seemingly oblivious to the unexplainable rage that was steadily building inside Murtagh's chest.
"Where in the name of the Maker did you learn that?" his voice was tight as he struggled to contain the snarl.
She shrugged. "Mayhaps I imagined it. You're not the only one who can conjure things."
Murtagh's cold eyes narrowed. He knew mockery when he heard it – and besides, that wasn't the way the illusion worked; he himself was the only one who was allowed to alter it. Still, if she'd had that trick up her sleeve all along why hadn't she used it in all their innumerous duels? What was different now? And why had she hummed that haunting melody?
"I am in no mood for jokes," Murtagh snapped impatiently, voice tight. "I've never seen magic like that before – it could mean the difference between life and death out there on the field. Wouldn't you want to do everything in your power to further your stupid little cause?" His impatient voice had swiftly grown cruel and biting. The anger in it shocked Murtagh himself, but that didn't mean he'd be apologizing for it anytime soon. What he'd said was true. Keeping that knowledge to herself was a selfish, childish thing to do.
Unless…unless she's supposed to keep it to herself. Unless it's yet more dark sorcery learned straight from the dark king himself. Galbatorix…but why would she only use it now?
"My stupid little cause? You mean to say you're not with us?" her voice had gained a dangerous edge and Murtagh's heart slowed. He shouldn't have said it, not when she was so obviously under Galbatorix's influence.
"What are you on about?" he decided the only way out of it was to pretend he'd meant something else. "I simply meant your futile campaign to become my equal."
"I am not and never will be your equal," she said flatly. Murtagh waited and, sure enough, "I am your better in every way. Or have you not noticed your lost standing in the eyes of the king? Well, I'll make it simple for you; you're incompetent and untrustworthy."
Her words stung. Murtagh felt a cold anger sweep through him as he glared furiously at the girl before him. If he truly were as incompetent as she claimed then why was it Galbatorix had personally assigned him to train her? Why had she not managed to best him a single time in one-on-one combat? She wasn't the dragon Rider here, she was nothing more than a freak of nature. Perhaps an experiment of the Mad King's gone horribly wrong.
Rather than mention any of this to her Murtagh decided to let his actions do the talking. He concentrated on a single image and then swiftly thrust his hand out, palm facing forward as an overpowering wind knocked her over as he pinned her to the ground.
You're not the only one who can work wordless magic, he thought angrily at her fallen form.
The adrenaline was pounding in his veins as she struggled against his grip, kicking and squirming wildly as though she were some trapped beast. But her raw, untrained power was no match for his cold, calculated rage and her attempts to break free were all in vain. Every time she tried to force him off her he responded with swift, brutal retaliation.
Where was all her strength and energy now? Her disturbing skill and strange magic?
She was panting now, thrashing wildly as she still fought against his hold. Her movements reminded him of a hunted creature as it fought against a larger and much more dangerous hunter. She tried to lift her arm to throw him off of her but once more he slammed it down into the foul, muddy earth, as he beat her into submission.
"You're nothing," he growled in a low, cold voice in her ear. She stiffened as he said it.
"Nothing."
A/N: Wow, guys! Sorry it's been so long! I've been having lots of personal issues to deal with and then of course there's always high school and all the wretched work I've got to do for that, too. (And now Driver's Ed and evil AP summer packets too _) I wrote this chapter months and months ago only to realize that hey – I never actually posted it! That turned out to be a good thing, however, because it just went through a major overhaul and hours-long revising process. I like to think my writing skills have improved since I first began this story so I hope you'll get some satisfaction from the awful, inexcusably long wait. I'm sooo sorry! I hope to never take this long in updating again! But given all my AP summer work I can't make any promises, unfortunately. I really hope you enjoyed this chapter and please please PLEASE tell me what you think of it! I'm dying to know (literally! I stayed up till 3 am finishing this :D) and it will encourage me to post updates sooner if I think people are interested. Constructive criticism is always welcome! So please REVIEW!
