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Chapter 24
Murtagh reached across the surface of the minds of the dwarven army until the darkness that made up who they were became part of him as well. Black crawled over his thoughts and shook his concentration, but he shoved it aside and pressed forward. From one head to the next he hopped. It was not into the minds of the dwarves that he delved but instead into the all-consuming darkness. It was like swimming through sand.
Yet as he pushed deeper into the void, an intricate web of string that glowed faint violet shone through the black. Hundreds upon thousands of threads stretched out over him, under him, behind him, and before him until he was trapped within its net. Murtagh prodded at one of the strands with his mind. A flood of memories and feelings crashed into him, halting him where he was, and his heart stirred until tears came to his eyes. He understood nothing yet understood everything, and from the dawn of time until present the world was laid bare to him. It was something too great for him to comprehend.
Fortifying his mind, he pressed on into the web and let nothing hinder him. Even when he wanted to scream, to cry, to celebrate, he moved forward, and the threads brushed up against him and drowned him in a sea of memories.
Deeper. He had to go deeper.
Then suddenly he came back into himself and his eyes opened, yet his mind lingered far away, as if he existed in two places at once. Perhaps he did. The dwarven army marched closer, and their hammering footsteps made the earth shudder. Their metal armor and chainmail clanged and scraped together. Arrows whizzed towards Murtagh, but he crafted a simple barrier that dropped harmlessly into the grass at his feet.
Around the dwarven army and throughout the entire plain existed a violet web of glowing string, visible only to his mind, and Murtagh took hold of it and pulled at it. A powerful force pulsed through it like blood through veins, rushing in a singular direction, and Murtagh followed it towards its final destination.
As the pulse grew faster and stronger, the dwarves sprinted, throwing their torches and waving their swords high. They were close now, their eyes wild and their faces contorted in agony and rage. In a matter of seconds, they would reach him and the elves behind him, and all of them would perish.
Murtagh dove with his mind into the center of the army, following the raw and coursing energy along the strings, and then he struck a wall of nothing. His mind curled around the threads bound to the void, and he yanked on the pulsing strand with all his strength. The glowing string snapped and fizzled away.
All of the dwarves dropped their weapons and crumbled mid-run, falling over each other into lifeless heaps of small bodies. The threads dissolved over them and swirled together into a massive, whirling pool of black energy, and then it shaped itself into a monstrous creature larger than Shruikan, its familiar form the twisted union of man, Lethrblaka, and serpent.
Murtagh retreated to his own head as the creature lurched forward, its gaping mouth hanging over the collapsed dwarves. It growled from deep in the void that was its throat, and then dark flecks of dust lifted off the dwarves, the grass, and the trees as their physical forms were undone at the seams.
"I don't think so," Murtagh said, and he plunged into the creature's mind with his own, digging mercilessly into the empty space. Before long he discovered the same violet strings, and he severed them as he went, cutting off the flow of energy and ceasing the monster's attack.
All the while, the dark spirit roared and thrashed. It crawled forward and barked with loud and piercing cries, its claws ripping into the dirt. Dwarves sank beneath its paws and then reappeared as it stepped past, their skin drained of color and muscles wasted away. Murtagh pieced the dwarves back together while maintaining his assault on the monster.
Behind him, elves muttered and whispered.
Murtagh sifted through the dark spirit's blank mind, following chords of violet as far as they went, until he reached a gnarled ball of twisted thread that pulsed like a beating heart. Whenever it throbbed, bright white light shone through gaps in the string. He grappled it with invisible hands and yanked the ball apart until violet threads scattered everywhere and the light began to burn through. A weight crashed upon Murtagh's mind with enough force to throw him into his head and break his connection to the corrupt spirit.
Suddenly he was standing in the throne room of Urû'baen, and Galbatorix frowned at him for letting Eragon escape. The king did not so much as raise a finger before Murtagh crumbled to the ground, every muscle in his body twisting and contorting from pain. When the attack relented, Thorn was next, and his dragon's pain hurt him far worse than his own, and he screamed.
Returning to his right mind, Murtagh stumbled backwards. The dark creature pressed ever closer, though now the dark matter that made up its form leapt about like ocean waves in a storm. Bits and pieces of it dissolved into the night air. Murtagh had found its core, the very center of its being, and he dove in again to strip it of its power.
Yet again, as he ripped apart the threads that secured the light inside it, Murtagh was thrown back into his head. His legs gave way beneath him and he dropped to one knee. Once again he was in the presence of Galbatorix, though now in a dungeon of the castle, and he was soaked in sweat and blood. Behind the king were the Twins, their faces cold and hard but their eyes illuminated with sadistic pleasure. Both in unison curled their lips into a feral grin.
"You will submit to me," said Galbatorix, and he clasped a handful of Murtagh's hair and tipped his head back, forcing him to meet eyes with him. Murtagh sputtered on his own blood. "Yet this can go on forever. I will make it so."
The king let go, and Murtagh collapsed into a puddle of blood on the stone floor. His wounds mended by magic and his pain ceased, and only for a second his mind rested. He never let down his guard, though, and he was so tired. Yet if forever this was his fate, so be it. He would never surrender to Galbatorix.
And then the Twins approached, chanting and murmuring spells of the vilest torture, and he writhed in agony again.
Murtagh snapped back to reality and swallowed hard as bile crept into his throat. Everything was spinning. Dwarves and elves murmured, creating a hum all around Murtagh, but he did not understand their words. The dark creature stepped towards him, its head low and its maw twitching. The horizon was painted crimson at the first light of dawn, and it formed an eerie backdrop like blood against the dark spirit's wavering form. Its entire body was crumbling away, little by little.
Determined to defeat it, Murtagh stabbed one last time into its empty mind, hacking away at the ball of thread with a phantom sword. Then he ripped off the last of it, and there within was a shining light with a glittering tail like a shooting star. A spirit.
Another memory took Murtagh away, and he was in the throne room of Urû'baen. His clothes were shredded, his body covered in wounds and drenched in blood, but his own suffering did not bother him. His only concern—his only thought—was the terrible shriek of his infant dragon as Galbatorix ripped through its mind and battered its body with ruthless magic. The king had made a promise to Murtagh. Now he and his dragon would suffer like this together forever, unless he submitted. Torn apart, healed, and then torn apart again.
Every single day for the rest of his life, Murtagh would listen to his dragon scream in pain. His own life did not matter, he could endure physical torture for a hundred years, but he could not accept such a fate for Thorn. When the dragon wailed again, his small body writhing on the floor, Murtagh screamed for Galbatorix to stop.
It happened so suddenly that Murtagh almost did not notice it. He saw himself and Thorn through someone else's eyes. What a mess he was, barely recognizable as human, and it filled him with great pleasure. He lifted his hand, a hand that was not his own, and spoke in a voice deep and cold.
"Swear fealty to me," he said through Galbatorix's lips. "And all of this will end."
Again Murtagh jumped back into his body on the plains near Du Weldenvarden, planting both hands on the ground as he threw up. The dark spirit hovered over him, and the black that made up its form was almost entirely gone. Light shone through it like the rays of light peeking beyond the horizon. Now the spirit turned its head, its shining white eye staring at him.
A wet streak chilled Murtagh's face as a tear rolled down his cheek. He blinked at the spirit, and even though he could have raised his hand and touched it, he did not fear it. Instead he let out a shaky breath and whispered, "That was not my memory… it was yours…" Pain ran through him as he rose, but he stood on trembling legs and met eyes with the spirit as it dissolved. "You were the spirits he enslaved. You…"
No longer did Murtagh want to destroy them. The spirits were as much captive to Galbatorix as he had been and filled with the same rage and sorrow. Rather, he wanted them to be free as much as he wanted himself to be free. Without consciously thinking about it, he raised his hand to the creature to touch it on its dissolving snout, and in response the spirit drew closer. Murtagh extended his mind once again into the spirit, tugging at the unraveling violet threads and approaching the shining white light concealed within.
It was a quiet, mutual agreement he and the spirit made. Murtagh pulled the violet threads upon himself, and the spirit's memories poured into him like an avalanche. Murtagh let out a single gasp as the first wave hit him.
Then, in a flash of black, a Lethrblaka tore through what remained of the dark spirit and shattered its body to dust. The Lethrblaka swooped up and circled the plain.
Murtagh was thrown back into himself as the connection was severed. "No!" he screamed, lunging forward. His fingers caught tiny flecks of darkness before they disappeared, and nothing of the spirit remained. Clenching his teeth, he turned on the Lethrblaka and stabbed at it with his mind. He met a wall of fierce resistance.
The Lethrblaka swooped low and settled on the ground, folding its wings. Upon its back sat Morzan, and in his upturned palm sat a quivering ball of white light partially eclipsed by dark matter. Three other spirits swirled around him, shining violet in the night.
"Thank you, my son," Morzan said, his lips in a wide grin, and then he curled his fingers over the spirit until it disappeared. The other spirits touched him and vanished under his skin.
"You…" was all Murtagh could mutter, his voice quivering. His entire body shook, and his fingernails dug into his gloved palms.
"Do not be troubled." Morzan rested his hands on the neck of the Lethrblaka. "When you stand by my side, my power will be yours." Then his eyes gleamed as they traveled from Murtagh to the dwarves and elves. His voice was pleasant as he added, "This power."
Morzan waved his hand, and then the entire plain and everything on it came undone. Elves, dwarves, and humans alike turned into black dust, little by little, from the tips of their limbs moving inward. The elves shot arrows at Morzan, but the arrows dissolved in midair and their bows vanished from their hands. Then they attacked with their minds, their eyes sharp and focused, lips sealed, and Morzan lifted his nose at them. Every last elf fell to their knees or fell prostrate on the ground.
Murtagh launched an attack into Morzan's mind and met the same resistance as before, and then Morzan crawled through Murtagh's own defenses and sent stabbing pain through his head that ran down into every muscle and sent him to his knees. Murtagh grabbed his head and gritted his teeth, biting back a scream.
"I warned you not to do that," Morzan told him.
Everything faded away as though devoured by an enormous shadow. Elves struggled to rise only to fall and dwarves rolled across the ground. Thorn lay sprawled in the grass, Selena beside him, and Brom knelt over them both with a hand on the ground to support himself. Parts of their bodies disappeared into the darkness, entire arms and legs gone in a matter of seconds. All the while, Morzan remained perched on his Lethrblaka without lifting a finger.
Amidst the darkness, rays of sunlight flashed across the sky and lit the wispy clouds bright cherry and gold.
Murtagh stared at the growing light and the colors that whirled together in his hazy vision. Then, he stomped a foot on the ground and pushed himself to his feet. Pain tore through him and every muscle tightened in revolt, but still he lifted his head. He set his eyes on his father, narrowed his attack like the sharp point of a sword, and drilled into Morzan's head with his mind. It was straight and quick and made Morzan flinch. Nevertheless, he met barriers that could not be breached.
It was not Morzan Murtagh intended to cripple. He skirted the walls in his father's mind until he found the outflow of magic that ripped the world to pieces. It was quick now. Murtagh tugged the magic apart at its foundation and rewove it into a spell of healing, like untying a string and then tying it again into a different knot. All of the damage Morzan had done reversed itself, and gradually the world fell back into place.
Morzan raised an eyebrow and then slid off his mount. Wherever his feet touched, the grass in a small radius around him withered and died. He strolled across the plain and stopped at a slight distance from Murtagh, and his voice lowered, keeping his words between them. "Why do you protect those who hate you?" Then his tone softened further, like a father speaking tenderly to his child, and asked, "Why are you killing yourself for people who do not want you to exist?"
Murtagh choked on a breath and took a step back. His concentration failed and the restoration magic he used to heal the others failed along with it. Morzan did not care about him, not in the slightest, but his was a reminder that no one else did, either.
It was a temporary pause, but Morzan took advantage of it and twirled his finger in the air. Magic grappled at all others present, at the elves, dwarves, and humans, binding them to the ground with imaginary chains—chains that for some reason Murtagh could see. Then his father took a step forward and Murtagh took a step back. Morzan tried once again to initiate his spell that tore apart the land, and Murtagh stabbed at him again before he could even touch a blade of grass.
"Your mental prowess is impressive, perhaps rivaling Galbatorix. It would be a terrible thing to waste by killing you," said Morzan, and now he spoke again with pomp and grandeur, loud and theatrical. His eyes gleamed and his lips curled in a grin, and he unleashed a slight laugh that sounded something akin to glee and an agonized groan. "But like all fools, you allowed yourself a weakness."
Slowly Morzan turned his head, and Murtagh followed his gaze to the crisp azure sky. Faint in the growing light were the silhouettes of what could only be dragons, or something of their shape, one ahead of the other. And as they approached, the first glinted like an emerald. Murtagh's entire body sank from an oppressive weight.
Arya's dragon called Fírnen swirled towards them, fire curling between his teeth, and an enormous Lethrblaka followed right on his tail. Yet before either could do anything, Morzan raised his hand and bent his fingers in. Fírnen's wings twisted and the dragon crumbled to the ground, rolling several yards before coming to a stop, lifeless. The Lethrblaka shrieked and swung back into the sky, circling, watching, and waiting.
Morzan kept his hand lifted and moved it in the air without expression. Eragon was yanked out from underneath Fírnen by invisible hands, hung in the air with his chin up and hands clawing at his neck, and then he was carried the short distance to Morzan's side. Morzan turned his wrist, and Eragon was thrown to the ground between him and Murtagh.
"Behold," scoffed Morzan. "Your weakness."
Mutters arose from those all around them, and Selena called out to Eragon with a voice that wavered in pain and sorrow. No one had the strength to rise. Murtagh blinked down at his sibling, and Eragon looked up at him and gasped for air with one hand clasped at his heaving chest.
"Bend your knee to me, my son" Morzan ordered, and he squared his shoulders and stood tall. Then he drew Zar'roc. "Or I will put a blade through his heart."
Muttering became desperate shouts. Selena wailed and Brom yelled. The dwarves scrambled to their feet only to fall again, and the elves did the same. Morzan's grin stretched wider. It was all intentional—waiting for Eragon, causing their reactions. When Murtagh was in danger, no one raised a voice, but if it was Eragon, everyone lamented. His father was a shrewd and wretched man.
Morzan chuckled, twisting Zar'roc in the air and catching sunlight on the crimson blade.
Yet as a familiar ache gnawed at Murtagh's heart, Eragon shook his head. "Don't do it."
Murtagh met eyes with Eragon. It was one of the first times his younger brother looked at him without pity, hatred, or fear. There was something warm in his eyes, something meaningful, and Murtagh did not know how to properly place it.
His muscles protested as he bent his knee and lowered himself to the ground in front of Eragon. The shouting subsided and Morzan's eyes brightened. But Murtagh kept his focus on his brother, and he reached out and clasped Eragon's shoulder in one hand and squeezed.
"Don't do it," Eragon whispered through gritted teeth. Tears rimmed his eyes. "Not on my account."
"I would," Murtagh assured him, and he smiled. "In a heartbeat, Brother." He gave Eragon's shoulder a shake, allowing the words to settle, and then he promised, "I will always have your back."
Eragon's lips parted, but he did not make a sound. His eyes widened. Murtagh did not let him go as he extended his mind into the heavens, as he grappled with silent magic and the threads that bound the land of Alagaësia together. Then, when he was certain he would not fail, he lifted his eyes beyond Eragon to his father.
"I will never submit to you," he said, his jaw set.
Morzan's mouth twitched down. He twirled Zar'roc one last time and then held the sword steady. "Wrong answer."
Then Morzan thrust the crimson blade forward and aimed it straight for Eragon's heart.