Ugh. Finals. What else do I need to say?
Anyway, a few of you noticed the times I slipped up last chapter and said 'I' or something like that- I first wrote that chapter in the first person point of view, but for the sake of consistency, I changed it back. Sorry about the mistakes.
Hey, so I'm sorry about not posting earlier- I did a major editing of the next three chapters. It took forever, but its so much better than before! I really hope everyone likes it, and reviews! :) Hey, if I get 15 reviews, I'll post before I leave for Mexico on Saturday... :) (And by the way, I'll be gone for a week. So... yeah. You should definitely review.)
Chapter 25: Into the Fire
Murtagh woke with a jolt- a searing pain in his mind. It drove nails through his memories and a dagger through his senses; overwhelming his entire being, possessing him.
It was the King.
Get up. The King began; his tone was mildly cheerful, but annoyed. You're going to repay me for last night. Up!
Murtagh staggered out of bed, half dead, stumbling towards the door. The King moved his legs, forced his feet out of his chambers.
"My Lord?" Halia asked, standing in the library doorway, "Are you well?"
Galbatorix chuckled; the sound echoed in Murtagh's mind.
"Good morning, Galby." Kidasku greeted the King. He knew the signs. "Where are you taking Murtagh?"
The King's good mood vanished. "I told you to leave Uru'baen, you filthy half-breed."
"Oh, don't worry." Kidasku smiled. "I am making arrangements for my exit. I don't want to stay in this hole any longer than you want me too." He smiled that fanged, foxy smile.
The King/Murtagh headed down the hallway, strapping on Zar'roc. Murtagh wasn't sure where he was going, but he didn't want to ask, either. Less was always more, with the King.
But the answer was readily apparent. The King shoved Murtagh into the armory outside the Arena, where nine other magicians were suiting up. All were silent, eying each other suspiciously.
Thorn? Murtagh asked, but Thorn was not there. At all- not sleeping, not half-there in his typical morning grogginess, just... gone.
Thorn? He repeated, anxiety wrapping itself around his heart. It angered him that the King knew it; he was so deep in Murtagh's mind, the Red Rider could hardly think for himself.
The King pulled himself from Murtagh's mind; the pain was like extracting a splinter.
Murtagh gritted his teeth, glad the Kinghad finally left him. He glanced at the various weapons and armor and grabbed a dagger, strapping it around his arm. There weren't any eldunari; that was both a good and a bad thing. It meant he would not have any other energy, but neither would the other magicians.
A gong echoed though the place, and the first magician stepped into the Arena as his name was called. And another. And another. And another.
And Murtagh waited.
His title was called, and the crowd roared, cheering him. But Murtagh knew it was only because most of them had put their bets on him- he was, after all, the strongest magician there.
He stepped into the Arena and immediately charged a pocket of three, fighting magicians. Only the third noticed him, but it only meant he saw his failure, because all fell.
Blood splattered the ground, dripping down Zar'roc, staining Murtagh's shirt. Violent, red blood. And suddenly Murtagh was furious- angry that Thorn was missing, angry that the King had such power, angry that the magicians were such bastards, angry that the Varden was so weak. The freed emotion boiled in his blood, and instinctively, his eyes turned Thorn's red rather than his own stormy gray. Zar'roc felt perfect in his hand, the embodiment of precision and Death, and the blood that spilled over the rich earth of the Arena only fueled his lust for revenge.
Three down, six to go.
Following the sound of fighting, Murtagh crept through the underbrush, his senses on edge from not having Thorn watching his back. He leaned against a tree, watching two of the magicians go at it with as much control as a churning river- none. Sloppy magic, as Murtagh thought of it. He remembered Eragon used it far too often, when they were friends- like the time he dropped boulders on the Urgals chasing them. He had nearly fainted from loss of energy.
And just as Murtagh predicted, one of the magicians flopped over, limp as a dead fish. Crowing his victory, the other raised an arm to end his life-
Murtagh chained that arm in tendrils of red magic, prying the sword from his gasp. Fear washed over the magician's face, but also relief- he knew Murtagh wouldn't kill him.
The temptation to just rid the earth of that magician tore at Murtagh's heart- he did nothing but harm the people there, anyway. He was a threat, a rival-
"Don't!" Eragon cried, but too late.
The slave trader's head hit the ground with a sickening thud, his eyes rolling into the back of his head as blood pooled around the disembodied part.
"What did you do that for?" Eragon roared, his blue eyes blazing, his fists trembling with anger. "You murdered him!"
"What?" Murtagh asked, surprised by Eragon's outburst and his sudden fury. "He was a threat that had to be eliminated."
"You didn't have to kill him!"
Did I? Murtagh wondered. Did I have to kill him?
Did he have to kill that magician? The pathetic thing was already terrified of Murtagh's mere presence; Murtagh decided pain would settle the score.
With two simple words, Murtagh snapped the man's femur, and walked away as he screamed.
Five down, four to go.
The ground began rumbling- Dammit!- as the King added a few spices to flare up the fights. They were his games, after all; Murtagh supposed he was unsatisfied that he hadn't killed that magician. Clearly, there wasn't enough blood.
"Contenders!" The King's seductive and pleasant voice echoed around the Arena, "Prepare yourselves for a few added enemies!"
Dammit! Murtagh thought, realizing he wouldn't know how many magicians there would be anymore.
But as soon as the King announced it, Murtagh heard it- the clash of arms. He may as well have released a section of the Red Guard, they made so much noise.
Shruikan began roaring- Murtagh blamed it on a bad mood. A massive explosion rocked the Arena, and Murtagh charged towards it, unafraid and confident.
GO! Shruikan began roaring, GO!
But why? Murtagh doubted his question ever made it to the dragon's mental ears, for he began roaring with a fury Murtagh couldn't place. The King regularly made changes to his Game...
Another explosion threw Murtagh to the ground, and a few battered soldiers stumbled through the treeline, running like demons were on their heels. Murtagh put them out immediately- what made them so afraid?
A scream rent the air and was suddenly cut off, like the victim's head had been looped off. Murtagh picked up his pace, partially from morbid curiosity, partially because Shruikan was screaming again. He knocked three more soldiers unconscience- that was seven soldiers already, and the other magicians must have picked off a few others.
He broke through the underbrush and let loose a violent war-cry, his simmering fury breaking through like a volcano at the scene before him.
Halia stood amid a pile of bodies- alive or dead, Murtagh didn't want to know- a sword in her hands, surrounded by twenty-some-odd soldiers. They were the ones yelling and screaming, because her mouth was zipped in a straight line.
Her eyes, though, revealed much more. They burned through anything that met them- soldiers were backing away from her in fear- the intensity of her expression warning everyone who came within her reach. Her flaming hair helped her appearance; it tumbled around her face and shoulders like a waterfall of blood, or lava crashing down a mountainside.
Her clothes were covered in gore and splattered with blood, the red liquid dripping down her deadly blade.
And it was so wrong.
Murtagh charged forward just as another brave soldier- or was he suicidal?- ran up the pile of bodies and attacked her. Her attention on him, another came up from the back, and just as the words began tumbling from Murtagh's lips to pull him away, a third came-
Halia spun around and a third explosion threw everyone within a ten-foot radius on the ground. What happened to her not being able to use magic? Murtagh thought.
Spitting a strand of hair out of her mouth, Halia snarled- the sound was so feline Murtagh glanced around for Kidasku- and darted away, speeding through the foilage of the Arena.
Follow her you dolt! Shruikan roared, the ground trembling like an aftershock. If she gets so much as a scratch on her-!
Murtagh agreed, charging after her vanishing form. Just before he left the clearing, he knocked every single soldier there out- he'd break their legs too, if he saw any of them again.
But Halia had vanished. Murtagh hovered on the edge of her mind, not wanting to enter, not wanting her to get hurt either. But he had a taste of her mentality- her original panic was embodied in adrenaline, and a fierce concentration designated her every move. But how could she use magic? A part of her mind was still shrouded in darkness, the part (as Kidasku had said) that controlled magic.
Another blast echoed around the Arena.
Adrenaline then. If she merely thought of the intended spell, adrenaline did the rest of the work. How strong was she? That was already four explosions.
Five, then.
Follow her, fool! Shruikan bellowed.
But where did she go? Murtagh asked, running circles around the Arena's perimeter.
"There!" Came the echoing cry. "Attack!"
Halia tore out of the woods, nothing but a blur of red, three soldiers on her heels. Murtagh did away with them, only to realize Halia was occupied with two others who had snuck up from the back.
Outrage burst in Murtagh's chest as a trail of scarlet blood ran down Halia's arm- her own blood. It dripped from her fingers, painting her arm and hand, trailing down her blade and mixing with the blood of her- their- enemies.
Murtagh barked an order, and the two soldiers fell on the ground, writhing like suffocating serpents. The pain was only in their mind- but that didn't make it any more endurable.
Murtagh looked up, and Halia had vanished again. Dammit! Where had she run off too? Murtagh sprinted in the direction Shruikan told him, tearing through the Arena, overpowering magicians as he went. She was on all of their minds, but only because they had been ordered to find her. So how had she passed them?
A sixth explosion went off, rocking the Arena. Murtagh headed in that general direction, determined to find her, to defeat the rest of the magicians together.
And a scream tore through the forest, a shudder of horror electrocuting Murtagh. The cry was one of agony, of terror, of bitter fury; and it was Halia's scream.
Murtagh couldn't think of anything that would make an elf scream.
He moved stealthily, now, though it was slower. He had to catch whoever was in the Arena, he had to snag them in their own game.
Run, fool! Shruikan bellowed. It's the magicians!
He did not need to say anything more; Murtagh tore through the wood, a spell already pouring from his lips. He broke into the clearing, slinking into a shadow to watch the scene unfold.
Halia and the magicians were in a deathly staring contest; one side smiled, the other glared with such a fury and hate Halia could have set Uru'baen on fire with it. Her chest heaved; her fingers trembled and her sword shook, dripping blood into a puddle around her feet.
Her eyes blazed with such hatred, such fury, that Murtagh didn't doubt that she would kill them.
Furdor moved to the left, and Karth to the right, circling her like vultures around their prey. Halia took a few steps back, then a few more as they encroached on her space. Murtagh, on the other hand, took a few steps forward, so she could see him.
Her burning gaze flickered between each of the bastards as she took a few more steps back, beginning the deadly dance.
Murtagh watched as she lifted her foot to go further back, and she backed up against an invisible wall. Her foot was braced against it, and her lips curled up, a snarl ripping though the clearing.
It was the invisible dome they had used to capture her; the same one, Murtagh guessed, they had used against Eragon and Saphira.
The magicians took another step forward, and Halia charged forward, a blur of red-
And slammed against the other side of the dome.
Murtagh watched as she slid to the ground, her hair covering her face. Her shoulders slumped- was that a tear that fell to the ground?- and Murtagh feared she had given up. But no, she hadn't. When she stood, blood dripping from her nose, the flame in her eyes had exploded into a blaze, hotter than Thorn's fire.
Do something, before I have your head. Shruikan snarled.
And Murtagh smiled.
The spell worked out perfectly; red talons grabbed the magicians like the hands of Death, sliding around their necks and lifting them high in the air. A third hand grappled with the dome, prodding around it for a weakness, for a fault. It didn't have any, so Murtagh began using more creative measures.
He went down.
The hand dove into the ground, slipping into the dome without a problem as the magicians' chokes echoed through the Arena. Murtagh decided choking them wasn't exciting enough- the crowd would want more- and he dropped them, telling the hands to give them pain.
He gave them the pain he knew- the pain he felt during torturing.
Grim satisfaction settled in his heart as they writhed on the ground, screaming their agony. Their backs arched and collapsed as they twitched, tears pouring from their eyes-
Stop. The King said, Murtagh's spells ending.
Murtagh only stopped enough that the King could not see their agony; Murtagh froze their bodies, but plunged into their minds, intoxicated by his power over them. He rifled through their memories as painfully as he could; ripping through their brains, until he found what he wanted.
Eragon, so deformed and torn he was hardly recognizable.
Fury burned hot in his heart; only his vows prevented him from killing them then and there. But he kept moving, so they would not know he knew who that maimed prisoner was.
Stop! The King roared, and Murtagh pulled away from the magicians' minds, emboldened by the sight of Halia.
He ripped the dome off of her, and before he was even finished she tore out of her invisible cage, charging, blade drawn, towards the magicians.
A savage war cry left her lips, and Furdor was not fast enough to avoid her fury. His hand was where his head had been, and the limb was severed from his body. Screaming, he lept to his feet, just in time for her sword to reach his throat-
And suddenly he was gone.
Not gone as in dead, but gone as in, he was not there. Someone had pulled him away from Halia's wrath, and a ferocious echo rang through the Arena as Halia's blade met the King's.
Murtagh, with Zar'roc in hand, recoiled as Halia's burning green eyes met the King's black, amused ones. Their faces were not even seven inches apart. It was a silent dare, Murtagh knew- the King was daring her to fight him. He had done it before to Murtagh.
And just like Murtagh, she accepted the challenge.
She pulled away and swung her blade in a wide arc, dodging the King's black blade. His face was neutral, expressionless; hers was the the same, save her eyes. They burned hotter than ever before, and Murtagh wanted nothing more than to join her, to stand by her side and support her, to fight the King-
But he couldn't.
His feet were cemented to the ground; he couldn't move, couldn't do anything more than watch. The spectators roared louder than ever- truly, they loved this Game. But his fingers trembled with eagerness, and a headache pounded in his mind, like a fissure was running down his head, driven by a hammer and nail.
Halia dodged another blow by the King; Murtagh watched as a lock of her hair drifted to the ground, sliced by the King's black blade.
And out of the corner of his eyes, Murtagh saw Furdor and Karth rise to their feet.
And he smiled once more, a fresh jolt of adrenaline boiling his blood. The King was distracted; perhaps, just maybe...
He turned, that cruel smile still across his face, and slammed the magicians with a wall so powerful, so strong, that they were thrown twenty feet back, and slid along the torn ground. Murtagh's fingers trembled with excitement as he put their own dome over them, save with one improvement: it was a complete sphere, with no means of escape.
They picked themselves up, not knowing that they stood in a trap, and sent Murtagh a blast of their own, orange and brown mixing, gaining speed- and it ricocheted back upon them.
Murtagh's smile grew as the taste of revenge grew in his mind.
He shrank the dome so they could not stand; then forced them to their knees, to their hands, until they were curled up like infants within the womb. Their screams echoed in the dome and encouraged Murtagh's smile; he forced the dome upon them till it was like a straitjacket, clinging to their skin, threatening to implode them.
"Stop, or she dies." Came the cold, threatening voice of the King. The smile vanished from Murtagh's face, replaced by his stoic mask.
Murtagh slowly turned, dreading what he would see. Halia stood frozen, her blade in the air, her hair fanning around her face, unmoving. And the King had his hand to her throat, staring at Murtagh, daring him to disobey.
The headache started pounding his mind again, harder; it throbbed, stuttering his thoughts, and Murtagh wondered if he was dying, if this was the beginning of a new form of torture. And slowly, ever so slowly, he released the magicians. The King still didn't let go of Halia.
He felt a touch of Thorn's conscience, but it was distant, and Murtagh could hardly understand him.
The spectators were quiet, hushed, waiting for the outcome of the stand off.
Murtagh left the tendrils of red magic in the Arena, swirling around him.
The King's gaze narrowed.
Murtagh released two of the hands, leaving the third at his side.
The King's hand tightened around Halia's throat, and the pain in Murtagh's mind pounded as he lept forward, hands open, gedwey ignasia glowing with magic to pull her away-
And another explosion rocked the Arena, throwing the fighters every other direction. Murtagh landed on his feet and pounced forward, looking for Halia in the smoke of the burning trees-
They collided and Murtagh immediately pulled her behind him, his eyes running across Halia's battered form. The blaze in her eyes had doubled in size, though it was sputtering, and Murtagh grabbed her hand and started towards the exit.
He didn't need to speak to tell her they needed to leave.
"Stop!" The King roared, and Murtagh slid to a halt (though he did not want too), throwing Halia behind him, shielding her from the King's wrath.
"Run!" He whispered. She paused for just a moment, but he pushed her on, and she gave him one last look before turning and darting into the smoke.
I'll watch her. Shruikan promised. I'll get her out of here. Just stay alive.
And Murtagh turned to face the King, his hands at his side, Zar'roc in its sheath because it would not help him.
The King stepped from the smoke, fury in his eyes.
"Don't you have some spunk?" He laughed, but Murtagh heard the edge in his tone, he saw the signs of the King's barely suppressed fury.
And he felt the pain a moment later.
Murtagh gritted his teeth as agony ripped through his system, crippling him, sending him crashing to the ground. He lost control of his arms and legs as another spike of torture washed through his system, drowning out all other feeling. He could hear Thorn's faint roar, but he wasn't sure if it was in his mind or in reality.
The pain let up for just a moment, and panting, Murtagh forced himself to his knees, determined to get up, to face the King like a man-
And he tasted the King's boot.
The air rushed out of Murtagh's system as the King kicked him in the stomach again and again, and beat him over the head, and slammed the but of his sword into Murtagh's chest, and broke his arms and shoulders...
Murtagh's conscience flickered as the pain pounded again and again upon his mind, spiking through his system, and flashes of white danced across his vision.
And then there was nothing.