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Chapter 37: Dras Leona
When Murtagh awoke, the first thing he realized was how quiet his room was; quieter than usual. He could hear the hum of Uru'baen, and his mind touched the rest of the castle; all was fine.
But the silence disturbed him for some reason; he felt uncomfortable, sitting up in bed and rubbing his face. What was wrong?
She was gone.
He remembered the next moment; she was gone. He had sent her away with Angela.
He also remembered why: because it was the right thing to do. Because she did not deserve to be a captive in Uru'baen. Because she was in danger. Because he was going to become a monster- or at least, more of a monster. Because it would have been selfish of him to keep her there.
All those factors made it the right thing; they didn't make it the easy thing.
He sighed, flopping back into the sheets, trying to ignore the dull ache in his chest. It had been the right thing to do; he was sure of that. Possibly the last good thing he ever did; Zar'roth laughed at his pain, and Murtagh shoved the image away- he didn't need to be worrying about that quite yet. He still had a week to live.
One week, give or take a day. One week of being human, one week left with his own mind.
A shudder raced down his back. Truly, the King's madness knew no bounds, it had no restrains…
But what about Eragon and Saphira? That meant he had a week to rescue them; that would be the last good thing he ever did. He had a week to open the Rock of Kuthain, a week to become the Keeper of the Vault of Souls, and a week to kill Karth and Furdor.
Seven days, nine at the most, five at the least.
It was impossible; his Shade self could kill Karth and Furdor, he figured. But surely the eldunari would not make a Shade their Keeper; that would be hell freezing over.
Murtagh groaned, remembering that he had to leave for Dras Leona before noon. His day was only getting better- at least he and Thorn could leave the city, could fly and hunt together… and possibly for the last time.
He chewed the inside of his cheek again. What would happen to Thorn? He shuddered at the thought. He would go insane, Murtagh was sure. And he was so young… he had never known freedom, never understood true happiness, never even had a decent conversation with Saphira- one where they weren't trying to kill each other.
And it wasn't fair- it was so sick and twisted and wrong, Murtagh wanted to scream. No one deserved that, much less Thorn. He was too innocent, too curious, too naïve to understand how his whole life had been in chains…
And he was going to die too- his mind, at least.
Then if they were going to die, Murtagh decided, they were going to go down with a fight, with blood on their hands and smiles on their faces. They were going to die as happy as they could.
Murtagh's cheek twitched. That required a few things, on Murtagh's part: the King couldn't punish him for leaving a goodbye present, could he?
It would be a present to remember.
Murtagh sprinted through the hallways and burst into the dragonhold; they had to be far, far away before the King realized that Murtagh had made all of the suits of armor and various displayed weapons come to life. He had ordered twenty to specifically hunt Karth and Furdor- he had colored a few axes red, for style points- and the rest were free to roam the castle.
He could imagine how all the maids and noblepeople would be spooked, and the thought prompted a rare, exuberant smile. He found morbid pleasure in hurting the people in Uru'baen, and he had no reason to hide it.
Thorn gave him a crooked, dragon smile; he had helped, of course.
And suddenly they were flying; freed of the stifling city and their fears and hatred of the King, freed of the impending doom of Murtagh's Shadehood, freed from the sick-minded magicians, freed from the threat of marriage- Murtagh figured that the King couldn't use that card when he was a Shade- and freed from the icy throne room and the damned rock inside it.
The cool morning air reinvigorated Murtagh, lightened their spirits; they felt absolutely invincible. Undefeatable. Unconquerable, omnipotent, perfect. Who couldn't, flying at dizzying heights, where whole cities were the size of Murtagh's thumb and people were smaller than ants? The wind roared in Murtagh's ears, pulling at his clothes and hair- he closed his eyes and basked in the warm sunlight, glinting off of Thorn's scales…
And he was happy.
Almost.
Nothing could erase the ache of lonliness, of wondering where Halia was, whether she was safe, whether she was cold and hungry or warm and well-fed. Nothing could erase the shadow of doom, of Zar'roth, tormenting Murtagh's mind as if he couldn't wait for his day of control. Nothing could erase the eldunari's order to open the Vault, and the impossibility of the task. Nothing could erase the worry that creased Murtagh's heart, of Eragon and Saphira and their need…
Nothing could free him of the pain of knowing that his own mother had abandoned him, of knowing that he would die hated by the world, of knowing that Thorn would die as enslaved as he had been born…
Those were chains that not even time could break.
So Murtagh imagined locking those pains in a box, putting that box in a cell in Uru'baen's dungeon, and locking that too.
It was a temporary arrangement, but for Murtagh, it sufficed. It muted the wailing throbs enough that he could enjoy the simplicity of the moment- of flying with Thorn, of being together, just the two of them.
By mid-afternoon, Dras-Leona came into view, a black smudge on the horizon, growing, swelling, blossoming until Murtagh could see windows and people and the glint of metal in the sunlight; the blanket of red around it was the army.
His army, in some regards. He was second only to the King, and thus, could order anything…
Thorn flicked his long ear; he heard that thought. The possibility of chaos, if only they could find a way around their vows…
The Varden was miles away, another black smudge. It would be days before they reached the city, another day for war-machines, if they bothered, another day for a battle…
Murtagh knew why they were crawling across Alagaesia, their stampede almost at a standstill. They were waiting for Eragon, looking for him, praying he would come to save them.
Murtagh knew he wouldn't. He couldn't. Even if they had rescued him a week ago- the hypothetical, he knew they hadn't- he wouldn't be fit for a battle; nothing could have restored him physically from Karth and Furdor. Who knew what state his mind was in…
And that's when the sound distracted Murtagh.
It was a roar- not of a dragon, and not of fury, but of overjoyed confidence. It rose from the ground and met Murtagh and Thorn like hot air rising off of the Haradac: the army.
Of course they were glad to see the Red Rider; it meant more of them would live, that the battle would end quickly, that they could eat, drink, and be merry, because they wouldn't die the next day.
Murtagh wondered if they would be so happy to see him when he was a Shade.
But the sea of red was moving like a tidal wave, running all over, shouting, banging swords on shields, hooting, and otherwise, being obnoxious. No one had ever been so excited to see him; Murtagh reached out to see why they were so enthusiastic.
They were all drunk.
Down to the last man, the youngest boy, the oldest fighter, they were all stone-drunk. They couldn't have told a horse from a cow; what had happened to them? There wasn't an alcohol budget, unless they decided to forgo meat for a week… someone had to have given it to them- the Varden? Murtagh knew that at one point Angela had poisoned half the camp's food, at least, he suspected Angela, but beer? Even they couldn't afford that.
The people within the city were sober, and Murtagh couldn't decide who he liked better. The drunk men who cheered for him, or the sober ones, who glared and hustled their families indoors, away from the Red Ones. Thorn circled the city, trying to decide where to land, when Murtagh saw him.
He stood in the courtyard of the tallest tower- presumably his own. His plain features triggered Murtagh's memory, and the Son of None glared down at the general; his hand itched to rid the earth of his filth. And he dared wave! Murtagh shuddered. The Varden would be massacred, with him as the general. He would order every man, woman, and child to be killed.
Drakan, the newest general, was still watching him. Murtagh wondered if he was another of Galbatorix's sons- they all had the glint of insanity in their eyes. And that would explain how he had those five swords of the Riders- but why would the King give those to him? How had he gotten them, otherwise?
Thorn angled towards that courtyard, landing smoothly; in other words, nothing broke. The tower shuddered and a few windowpanes rattled, but that was nothing compared to when Thorn was a hatchling. He had crushed entire buildings on accident.
"Welcome, welcome!" Drakan smiled, his arms outstretched and a crude smile on his face. "Welcome to Dras Leona, Morzansson!"
Murtagh wanted to punch him in the face.
"Explain this." Murtagh snarled. His patience was already wearing thin.
"Explain what, General?" Drakan asked, mock innocence in his eyes.
Murtagh's eyes turned red, and one hand lingered around Zar'roc's hilt. "Are you blind? What – happened- to – the- men?" He enunciated each word, to get his point across. To be honest, each syllable slid through his teeth, dripping with threat.
"Why sir, they merely have drank too much. Anyone can see that."
Oh, so he wanted to challenge Murtagh? Two could play that game. Murtagh almost asked how, but realized the smart answer he would get and revised his question. "Where did they get so much beer?" He snapped. "Not from the army's money, I know that."
Drakan sighed. "The Generals Jerrus and Kennif arrived with their forces, and I paid them their dues. Two hundred fifty thousand crowns, to be specific. We could say… they're drunk on their new wealth. But they've been very generous as well, General. I can say the King's army is the happier, when compared to the Varden."
"Not until the hangover starts and they are in the midst of a battle." Murtagh hissed.
"Then would you like any, Lord Murtagh?"
The sudden memory of Morzan, drunk, flashed across Murtagh's mind. "Absolutely not. But Thorn will take a barrel."
Drakan raised his eyebrows and glanced at Thorn. "Of course, sir. But I have a request of you, actually; a question has plagued me of late, and I think you could answer it."
Murtagh didn't answer.
Drakan plowed on, undeterred. "I have a sword of a Rider named Tar'xuh, and
I wondered who it's Rider was."
A sword? "What color is it?"
"Brown."
Murtagh wanted to see those five swords that Drakan had boasted of… hadn't he promised one to General Kennif? A waste, in Murtagh's opinion. "I should be able to tell you if I see it."
Drakan studied Murtagh with crafty eyes; he probably suspected that Murtagh would try to steal one. It wasn't entirely false, either… "Very well. Follow me."
Watch your back. Thorn warned Murtagh, and curled up in the middle of the road for a nap.
Drakan's tower was a labyrinth; it was worse than the castle in Uru'baen. There was no order to the hallways, no structure to the layout, and Murtagh promptly became lost. It if weren't for his guide, who chatted about how well the defense of the city was going, he could've wandered in there for years before finding a way out.
The treasure trove was in the perverbial dungeon of the tower; it was dark and muggy the further they clambered down the stairs, the stale air reeking of rotting wood and mothballs. The light from the torches around the walls cast faint, eerie shadows; it was as if even they could not burn any bright in the oppressive darkness.
Drakan led Murtagh into a locked chamber, dimly lit by the lanterns the dwarves used; it was too wide for the light to be very effective, but Drakan found a torch and lit braziers around a cage.
It was a prison cell; that was the first thing Murtagh found strange. Drakan pulled another key out of his pocket and unlocked that door, and Murtagh cringed as the door wailed, screeching worse than a banshee.
There were three bundles in that cage; Draken went to the bulkiest and unraveled the velvet, revealing five genuine swords of Riders- silver, green, gold, brown, and blue.
He picked the brown one out of the mix and presented it to Murtagh.
Tar'xuh. The symbol was engraved on the hilt, like on Zar'roc. It was the color of mud, thick and rich; he could have compared it to the color of hot chocolate. He flipped over the sword, studying the design upon the blade. Zar'roc did not have peculiar pattern, but this one had crosses all upon it, like whip lashes.
Murtagh ran through the list of Riders who had brown dragons- it was short.
Thorn?
Can I smell it? The swordsmith made colors match between blade and dragon; perhaps she imbued smell too. Then the eldunari would match.
Do Zar'roc and I smell anything alike? Murtagh chuckled.
Yes. You're always holding it.
But your eldunari doesn't smell like Zar'roc.
It might. Thorn argued. I wouldn't know. I've only seen it twice.
True.
Murtagh sighed. He drew Tar'xuh like he would Zar'roc, but it was too light, too short.
"Thorn would like to see this." Murtagh told Drakan, his eyes expectant, so the order behind his words was very apparent.
But the general balked. "Your worm wants to see the sword? Why on earth would it interest it?"
The punishment was instantaneous. Murtagh, as fast as an elf, punched Drakan in the nose, the crunch of bone and the gushing blood not satisfying his anger. The man stumbled back and would have fallen had not Murtagh caught him, only to wrestle him into a choke hold.
"A worm?" Murtagh snarled. "What else do you think he is? A lizard? A mere beast of the field?"
Let me have a word with him! Thorn roared, infuriated. And everyone will know that dragons are not mindless, oversized reptiles!
Murtagh kept Drakan in his hold, dragging him up the stairs and through the labyrinth; Murtagh plucked the way from the general's mind. They burst out the door when Murtagh burned them with a wall of fire- a very handy spell, when needing satisfaction for anger- and the people in the courtyard scattered.
Thorn glared at the doorway, his lips revealing razor-sharp teeth as thick as Murtagh's thigh. His hot breath, smelling strongly of meat, slapped the two generals, and after Murtagh dumped Drakan at Thorn's feet, he stepped away to watch the show. He didn't wipe away the smile that was growing across his face.
Drakan moved, pushing his hands underneath him to rise-
Thorn would have none of that. He pounced forward- Murtagh heard several things break when Thorn landed- and pinned Drakan beneath him, so his red eyes met Drakan's terrified ones.
Murtagh saw his intent just before Thorn opened his maw; he clamped his hands over his ears just before Thorn bellowed his outrage, his fury. His smoky roar rattled windows and shook buildings- it was loud enough that even the camp of drunk men fell silent.
I am no lizard! Thorn roared, his mind choking Drakans, wrapping it in a fiery chain. I am no mere beast! No worm! I am a dragon, and you will fear me!
Thorn asked Murtagh his opinion, and Murtagh only nodded.
Thorn snapped Drakan up in his teeth- only his shirt, he wasn't going to eat him yet- and marched him through the city like that, right down the main road to the city gate. Murtagh ran beside him, not fighting the smile on his face. But Thorn wasn't going to stand in the gate to catch the city and camp's attention: he lept onto the wall, where all could see him.
He set Drakan down, but kept one paw over him, his talons forming an ivory cage around the general. With nothing to lose and no one to fear, Thorn threw his head back and sent a massive tongue of fire into the sky, so that everyone who hadn't already been paying him due attention would notice him.
I am Thorn, son of Eridor! He roared, his mind screaming to each and every living being within a ten-mile radius of him. I AM A DRAGON, AND YOU WILL FEAR ME!
But Thorn was not satisfied- not even with several thousand eyes on him, not even with an entire city and half the army staring at him in awe and terror. He snapped Drakan in his maw once more, flicked his head back, and sent the general screaming through the air.
But humiliating Drakan was still not enough.
When the general was at his peak in his upward fall, gravity and momentum paused in their battle, Thorn took a deep breath, stood on his back legs, stretched his neck as far as he could-
The tongue of flame wrapped Drakan in its folds, red and orange and yellow snapping the general up like any hungry beast.
Not even his ashes fell back down.
A moment of absolute silence passed; then another, and another. Thorn gulped in deep droughts of air, still perched on the wall; glaring at the two-leggeds all around him.
And when the drunken camp started cheering, Thorn turned and roared at them, too. He was to be feared- feared and respected; not supported by a horde of mindless men.
The swords. Thorn snarled. I declare that they are ours. And whatever else Drakan had. I defeated him; I now take his horde and make it our own.
Of course. Murtagh smiled.
Thorn's raging anger had subsided to a simmer; he snorted and started marching back up to the tower, Murtagh following.
Murtagh summoned the bundles from the cell, and when they appeared in the courtyard, he stuffed them in a saddlebag and they took off. The middle of a city was not a place to glory in newfound riches, as Thorn said.
Tar'xuh belonged to Belion, rider of Miremel. Thorn answered, nudging the sword. What about the others?
They had planted themselves in a wide clearing, chizeled out of the side of a remote hill. Dras Leona was not even the size of Murtagh's thumb from that distance.
Neither knew about Varimelde or Eldmir- gold and silver swords- but they both knew Tar-Surion from the stories; the green blade had belonged to Kedric the Bold, Rider of Ithgar.
And the fifth and final, a rich, deep shade of blue, was called Undbitr.
Murtagh knew all too well whose sword it had been; at one point, the King had specifically pointed it out among his treasures.
And Murtagh fingered Brom's sword, unsure of what to feel. Joy, knowing that the sword in his hands had led to Morzan's doom? Anger, that the same sword fueled Brom to seek Morzan, and because of it, he happened upon Selena? That he was holding the sword of his half-brother's father?
Thorn offered no help, because he couldn't sort through Murtagh's turmoil. His mind had drifted to the thought of Saphira, again, and she was another problem that they couldn't solve.
What about the other bundles? Thorn asked, snapping out of his reverie.
Murtagh reached for the second; the crackling of parchment ensued whenever he touched it. The velvet held twenty or so scrolls, ancient- the ink was fading and the paper yellowed; but Thorn was impatient for something for interesting.
Murtagh hoped he'd have a chance to read those tomes before he became Zar'roth.
He mindlessly pulled the velvet around the last, misshapen bundle-
His finger brushed the smooth surface underneath-
And suddenly he was twenty feet across the clearing, the wind knocked out of his system, his entire body aching from the force of the blast. Thorn stared at the glinting orange, peeking out of the velvet. His face betrayed his awe, rather than fury; Murtagh understood a moment later.
Thorn tells me you are not an egg-smasher, an oath-breaker, or a blood traitor. A mellow voice echoed in his head- again, it brushed aside his walls like water cutting through rock. And it appears the opposite, Son of None, Heir of the Vault. I apologize for shocking you.
Remember to check out the trailer, and that 15 reviews and I'll post sooner! You people are awesome!