*Couple things before you start: 1.) I have come to the realization that this story is a bit violent for the Teen rating, so it has been moved to mature. 2.) At one point in here, it is from Thorn's perspective. I wrote his point of view as Poalini write's a dragon's view in the books. Things are not called by their names, ideas and concepts are put into simple, child-like wording. That is because that's how Paolini did it in the books. That's why this is under Inheritence Cycle in the books section instead of catagorized with the movie. 3.) If you haven't noticed, I put definitions and translations of the ancient language at the bottom of the chapter. Except the obvious ones like Weise Heill. I figured you guys would know that one. Enjoy!*


Part 9

Murtagh stood, looking down at Carrogan's lifeless body with pity. And yet, he respected him. With the highest of honors. Carrogan had known this would be a futile fight, Murtagh had seen it in his eyes when he stood ready before the king's men. But he had still fought, even though he knew it was hopeless. That took true courage.

Murtagh turned to face the rest of the village, and realized with a sickening twist of his stomach that with the death of Carrogan had come the end of the battle altogether. The king's soldiers stood, talking nonchalantly with each other as the bodies of the fifteen villagers scattered the ground.

Murtagh sighed as he knelt and picked up Zar'roc, sheathing it as he walked solemnly to the entrance of the village, where Thorn was watching him with intense, sad eyes. He was intending to mount Thorn and fly away from all of this immediately, but movement caught his eye.

To his right was a group of the king's soldiers, and lying on the ground in the middle of their quasi-circle was the lifeless body of a young man, presumably one of the villagers. There was no way he was even over eighteen. Murtagh's heart nearly jumped into his throat.

It nearly did back flips when he saw the king's soldiers kicking, hitting, and spitting on the body. Anger boiled up inside him so ferociously that his sight went red.

"You filthy sacks of shit!" he yelled, running over and grabbing one of the soldiers and throwing him to the ground. All of them laughed, even the man he had thrown down.

"Show some respect!" he spat at them, looking at the others with rage in his eyes.

"To rebels? Are you kidding me?" one of the soldiers sneered back.

"These are not rebels!" he nearly screamed, getting right up into the man's face. "They weren't even harboring rebels. You think rebels would be so poorly trained in combat? The king did this to torture me!"

"It obviously worked, didn't it fella's?" the soldier joked, looking around at the other men.

Murtagh's rage boiled up again, and he lost control of it. He hardly ever lost control, and when he did, bad things happened. Although this time, he was willing to let it unfold.

Without warning, he pulled Zar'roc from his sheath and beheaded the man before anyone even had a chance to move.

He panted as he watched the headless body collapse to the ground, blood seeping into the dirt.

"Anyone else have a comment they would like to share with me?" he snarled at them, gritting his teeth in his anger.

The men were silent, shocked that the king's gofer was such a loaded canon.

"That's what I thought," Murtagh murmured, and sheathed Zar'roc and walked back over to Thorn, where the crimson dragon was watching him closely.

"Filthy bastards," Murtagh muttered, and raised his right hand to lay it on Thorn's shoulder.

A blazing pain ran up his right side, so intense that his vision blacked out and his extremities failed. He cried out, falling clumsily to his knees and grasping at the stab wound below his lowest rib on his right side. His own blood immediately soaked his hand, and he realized that it had saturated his shirt and his whole right pant leg. He hadn't realized how much he had been bleeding.

Murtagh! Thorn exclaimed, nuzzling him nervously.

Help me, Murtagh said, barely able to piece his sentence together through the pain. I need strength to heal it. Strength that I do not have.

Thorn poured energy into Murtagh, and his sight finally ceased the tunnel vision. His limbs still tingled, but the chill that had weakened them dissipated.

Murtagh pulled the shirt up, exposing the wound. It looked far worse than he had thought it was. And the amount of blood was staggering. He blinked off the nausea that welled up, and held a hand over the wound.

"Weíse heill," he said weakly, running his hand the length of the gash. He winced and moaned as the muscle repaired itself and the skin mended, first with a burning sensation, quickly followed by relief. His skin tingled, but the wound was mended.

Murtagh groaned and fell back off of his knees to rest against Thorn's right foreleg.

Are you alright? Thorn asked hurriedly, looking at him through worried eyes.

Will be, Murtagh replied, merely trying to catch his breath. I must have been running on adrenaline. I will desperately need to eat something upon our return to Uru'baen.

Thorn studied him for a long while, then let him be. Murtagh watched the king's soldiers return to their horses. Some of the horses had been slain by the villagers, but there were enough to take the sixteen soldiers that had survived back to Uru'baen. Murtagh watched them go, then clumsily pushed himself to his feet, his legs shaking from the blood loss.

Will you be alright for the flight back? Thorn asked, watching Murtagh stumble as he walked toward the saddle.

I must be, Murtagh said back, and even his thoughts sounded jumbled.

Thorn sighed and lied down so Murtagh could get on easily. Murtagh got his left foot into the stirrup, but when he went to hoist himself up, his heart pounded and his sight and limbs began to fail again.

Easy, bjartkala, Thorn warned, and stretched his neck around to give Murtagh a shove from behind as he tried again to pull himself into the saddle. This time, with Thorn's aid, he made it lazily into his saddle.

Alright, let us go, Murtagh said, the effort of even holding up his head seeming too much. The sooner we return, the sooner I can rest.

Thorn didn't waste a second. He stretched his wings out, crouching and launching himself into the air without so much as a running start.

Torch the rest of the village, Murtagh said. It is a far better funeral than what they will receive if we just leave them.

Thorn huffed in agreement and doubled back. He took a deep, rumbling breath as he neared, and unleashed the inferno over the rest of the village, swallowing up the marketplace and the bodies of the brave villagers who died to protect it.

Thorn turned east then, and flew gently, to preserve Murtagh's waning strength. He poured energy into him if ever he felt faint, but he could not give too much due to the fact that he hadn't eaten for a while either. The skies opened up soon after, sending torrents of rain and crashing thunder over Alagaesia. But Murtagh did not bother to shield himself. He was drenched to the bone by the time Uru'baen came into sight.

Murtagh was barely clinging to consciousness when they arrived at the castle at Uru'baen. He even collapsed to the ground upon dismounting Thorn, his body trembling from the cold and exhaustion. His vision spun as he rested on the ground for a moment, then meekly pulled himself to his feet.

Thorn, meet me in our room. I will speak to the king, he said.

They were always required to meet with the king after every mission to report on their success or failure. But Murtagh was sure the king would be angry that he had warned the village, and it was an action whose punishment needed only rest on him.

No. I will not leave you to bare the king's wrath alone, Thorn said defensively.

Please, Thorn, Murtagh begged, his alertness waning in strength. Thorn could hear it even in his thoughts. I do not want to argue with you. He wanted me to kill Moira. That's why he sent us. It was I alone who chose to warn her and send her away. I will not let you be punished for yet another disappointing message to the king.

Thorn grunted and prepared himself to argue, but they were both distracted when a feminine cry of worry met their ears. It was Dara, standing at the entrance of the castle, staring flabbergasted at the blood soaking Murtagh's clothing.

"My lord, what happened?" she gasped, running to him and trying to examine him.

"It's fine, I healed it. There is no need to worry yourself. I just need to rest, that's all," Murtagh said, trying to make himself sound stronger. He began to walk toward the entrance, but unsupported, he staggered a bit and was barely caught by Dara as he fell sideways.

"You must rest. Now. You have lost far too much blood," she said, helping him walk toward the door.

"No. I will meet a worse fate if I do not report to the king," he protested.

Thorn, please meet me in our rooms, Murtagh begged again, and Thorn sighed.

Fine, the dragon replied curtly. But if you are gone more than five minutes, I will come and get you. No matter the consequences that will befall me.

Murtagh agreed, and Thorn took off to fly around the great building. Dara helped Murtagh stumble through the castle, all the way to the king's quarters. However, he would not allow her to assist him past that point. He had to look as presentable as possible to Galbatorix, and being aided to walk was not a great way to do so.

So, still trembling quite badly, he straightened, held his head as high as he could, and entered the king's chamber.

As before, Galbatorix was seated in his throne, looking pensive. His eyes went to Murtagh upon his entry, and his surprise at Murtagh's appearance barely shown on his stoic features.

"Is it done, then?" the king asked, looking Murtagh up and down, judging him. Murtagh was sure he looked of anything but a warrior. His clothes and hair were soaked, his right side was drenched in his own blood, and he was sure his skin was pale as the moon from blood loss.

"Yes, my lord. It is done," he replied, his voice cracking in his attempt to sound resolved.

"Everyone is dead? The village destroyed? Thorta du ilumëo," the last part was an order, and Murtagh cursed to himself.

"The village is destroyed, but the women and children escaped before the infantry could arrive," he said, his voice shaking. The longer he stood, his vision was constantly getting fuzzy at the edges, and it was slowly creeping inward.

"You warned them, didn't you? I told you to destroy the village and kill everyone in it. So you sent them away. Didn't you!" Galbatorix snarled, low and vicious.

Murtagh could not lie. He had been ordered to tell the truth.

"Yes," he said in reply, his hands shaking as he tried to keep upright. His limbs had gone cold again, and his vision was tunneled, blackness swallowing him slowly.

Galbatorix cursed in his anger, slamming an angry fist down on the armrest. But Murtagh had no energy left to fear the king's rage. His vision spun, and he staggered slightly. The king watched curiously for a moment, until the chill that was eating up Murtagh's limbs finally crawled inward to engulf his mind and core. He stumbled again, this time hitting the ground. His vision had gone completely black, and he could no longer hear what was going on around him. There was a high-pitched ringing in his ears, constantly getting louder. He felt someone kneel beside him, but could not judge who it was before the darkness swallowed him whole.

* * *

Thorn waited anxiously in the room, pacing its length, careful not to knock any of Murtagh's earthly-belongings with his tail. He was counting the seconds until he could go to Murtagh. He hated having to wait on the two-legs. They were always bickering or arguing over something, and Thorn did not like it. His kind fought for what they wanted, and that was the end of it. Well, they would have, if he had ever spent time with his kind, which had only ever happened in his sessions with Shruikan. Cursed-soul-black-scales was a strange being to encounter. It was hard to tell if he enjoyed what he was doing or not, due to the dark magic demon-king Galbatorix had on him, binding him in servitude.

Thorn wished he could call out to Bjartkala, just to make sure he was all right. But alas, whenever Murtagh went to the king alone, he closed off his mind, just to guard his private thoughts from the king. Thorn saw the necessity in it, but despised it nonetheless.

Thorn sighed, still pacing the room, his white claws clicking and scratching at the stone floors. He was about to leap from the balcony and fly to the king's open chamber, but he began to hear pounding footsteps approaching down the hall. He stopped, listening intently as they neared.

The door banged open, and Dara entered, supporting a questionably conscious Murtagh under her left arm. Murtagh was leaning against her, attempting to walk, but was more stumbling than walking. Thorn snorted in anger, and watched Dara lead Murtagh over to his stone slab of a bed, where he collapsed onto it, his whole body convulsing. Thorn did not usually communicate with two-legs other than Murtagh and the king, but he decided to make an exception.

What is wrong? he asked hurriedly of Dara. The woman jumped, turning to look around, trying to find a two-legged to place the voice with.

Hey. Up here, Thorn said, not in the mood to be gentle. Dara realized that it was Thorn speaking, and the shock gave her pause.

She recovered quickly, however. "He has lost far too much blood," Dara said, pulling Murtagh into a sitting position, his head rolling dangerously, and pulling his shirt off over his head. She spoke aloud, and Thorn figured that not many two-leg non-riders knew exactly how the connection worked. He was fine with it, for now.

How can that be mended? Thorn pleaded, looking from Dara to Murtagh.

"Well he needed to rest long before he even arrived here, much less stand at attention while the king drills him," Dara said, a slight anger in her voice as well. Thorn was glad that other king-servants were as miserable as he and Murtagh were. It helped him feel less alone.

Well what can we do now? Thorn asked, watching Dara examine Murtagh for any injuries. Thorn knew she would find none, none that had been inflicted recently, anyway. Murtagh had healed it, but not before he had lost the blood.

"I don't know. Healers, perhaps," she said nervously, opening one of Murtagh's eyes and examining his pupils.

"Stand aside," Thorn heard from behind him, and he sidestepped to the side of the room to reveal the king himself, walking nonchalantly and removing his leather gloves. "I shall mend it."

Thorn watched, shocked, as the king approached the bed, Dara stepping aside obediently and lowering her head in submission. The king held his hands out over Murtagh's violently shivering form, and began speaking words in the ancient language that Thorn had not yet heard.

Murtagh's body reacted immediately, his back arching and his face setting into a hard grimace. A small pained moan escaped his lips, and he began to breath heavily. Thorn whimpered in empathy, but didn't dare tell the king to stop. Murtagh began to shiver worse, and kick and thrash as the king, supposedly, created blood in his very veins. Thorn tried to enter Murtagh's mind to support him, but the poor boy was confused and disoriented, not allowing anyone in. Thorn decided it was best to leave him be.

The king worked on him for a long while, Thorn pacing as he watched Murtagh thrash and eventually, scream. Dara stood silently, watching with obedient and yet sympathetic eyes. Thorn hoped it was over soon. He could not bear to hear Murtagh's pained cries much longer.


* Thorta du ilumëo: Speak the truth