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Chapter 35
For days, they flew with minimal interruption. Murtagh went against Eragon's persistent commands and did not take medicine during their flight, and he remained in a feverish haze. Every now and again, he would wake with a start to find his forehead digging into Eragon's spine, and once he woke with his arm pinned under Eragon's elbow. Murtagh never remembered falling asleep, and perhaps on more than one occasion he almost toppled off Saphira without realizing. At least his legs were secure.
The warm sunlight near Mount Arngor vanished behind clouds as they passed over the Hadarac Desert. Rain fell for a while and then turned to thick and heavy snow that poured in a dizzying and blinding frenzy. The dry desert had become a frozen tundra. Fierce wind buffeted Saphira and chilled them to the bone until Eragon used magic to shield them from it.
Halfway across the desert, the storm ceased, but the clouds darkened and the temperature continued to fall.
During one of his few moments of clarity, Murtagh scanned their surroundings with his mind. Threads appeared everywhere, some in vast and tangled knots, and others thin and sparse. Some shone brilliantly in all the colors of the rainbow, and others were lackluster, pale, or completely translucent. Strings stretched across the sky from one end of Alagaësia to the other and wormed across the ground. Yet there was nothing in the desert, not a single one.
What are these exactly? he asked the spirit.
It is a physical manifestation of my world, said the spirit of balance. You cannot yet perceive my world as I do, but in some manner this is it. Magic, as you call it, is a manipulation of my world.
But you don't see the world as threads like I do? Murtagh frowned. Far south, the strings pulsed erratically.
No. Even you who have become like me cannot see the world as I see it. It would destroy your feeble mind.
Yet the spirit let him try. Images like memories of the world from the dawn of time until the present flashed through his head and made him shudder. He fumbled and clasped the back of Eragon's tunic as lights and colors erupted all around him. In the first second, his head throbbed, and by the fifth second, he swallowed to keep from throwing up.
"Are you all right?" Eragon glanced back at him.
"Great," Murtagh muttered. Stop please!
The spirit ceased and settled again in Murtagh's mind. It was not amused, not satisfied, not upset or concerned. It was simply sharing a fact that if any living creatures, great or small, tried to step into their world, they would cease to exist. It was impossible.
But we touch your world all the time, Murtagh said. When we use magic, we are manipulating those threads.
Creatures of flesh have long since tried to gain access to our world, agreed the spirit. However, your capabilities have and always will be limited by your frailty. What you call dragons are the most capable of interacting with our world, and in effect those who are united with them, but even then it is slight. The spirit's energy rippled within him, sending little jolts through his limbs. It is why creatures of flesh that control my kind—or are controlled by them—are so powerful. They are able to touch what normally cannot be reached.
Like using magic without words, Murtagh said, and the spirit fluttered in agreement.
What he was capable of doing by his pact with the spirit enabled him to reach far deeper in the world of magic than any others. It was fascinating, but of course it came with a cost. Magic with words destroyed humans and elves alike at the slightest error. It was far more costly to dip directly into the world of spirits.
Murtagh stared at the barren wasteland below. Why are there no threads here in the desert?
Because everything is dead.
Everything?
When you scattered my kind, they came here. It was the first place to succumb to their power, said the spirit.
Murtagh did not doubt it. When he fell through a rift and awoke in the desert, it was particularly barren then as well. Sighing, he turned his gaze ahead. The world of white sprawled on for as far as the eye could see and eventually merged with the clouds on the horizon. Everything was so bleak.
Another few days passed, and snow went on forever. Trees had withered into gray husks that reached with knobby fingers out of the barren ground. Everywhere, it was quiet. When they rested, no birds sang and no bugs chirped. Only the wind made any noise at all, howling into the nights and roaring during the days. Soon, Alagaësia would be uninhabitable.
When they reached Ilirea, the sun setting through the clouds created an ominous fiery orange glow.
Be on your guard, said Saphira, and she growled. Something is ahead of us.
"Take your medicine," Eragon demanded, and he turned in the saddle and presented Murtagh with a vial.
"Wh—" Murtagh accepted it with furrowed brow. "I am not a child, you know."
"Then stop acting like one."
The corner of Murtagh's lip twitched, as did one eyebrow. In one swift motion, he flicked Eragon's ear. Eragon let out a muffled cry and grabbed his head, whipping around to glare at him. Murtagh downed his medicine and tucked the empty vial into his belt.
Hatchlings, Saphira growled, and now her frustration was definitely directed at them. Bicker later. Look!
Against the blood red sky loomed the dark forms of several dozen Lethrblaka, small but numerous. They zipped across the glimmering barrier Murtagh had placed over Ilirea, and whenever they touched it, the barrier rippled like water. One Lethrblaka came from a distance and plunged directly into the wall of magic, crumpling with a shriek on impact, and it slid down the wall until it hit the ground, lifeless. The Lethrblaka barked at each other, circled the capital city, and then they filled the air with their high-pitched screams.
"At least we can be certain these barriers are strong," murmured Eragon without taking his eyes off the small army ahead of them.
Murtagh flinched. He had known Ilirea would be attacked in his absence, but Morzan certainly wasted no time. He undid the straps around his legs and climbed up on the saddle. With one hand he gripped Eragon for stability and drew Zar'roc with the other.
"What are you doing?" Eragon shouted and spun, grabbing at him and trying to force him back down.
"I'm going to put some of these things back in the ground." With that, Murtagh jumped.
Eragon yelled his name, and it was the last thing Murtagh heard before the wind snapped him away from Saphira in its frigid grasp. It hit so hard and fast that it took the air out of his lungs, and he spun through the air for a while trying to regain his senses. Then he tugged at the invisible strings of the world. Zar'roc transformed into a glowing white blade and a rift opened beneath Murtagh that he spun into with his feet straight down.
It was something akin to fainting, falling through empty space. Then suddenly, Murtagh dipped out of a different fissure and landed directly on a Lethrblaka's back. He thrust the shining sword straight through it. The Lethrblaka let out a strangled squeal and then exploded into a mist. Murtagh flipped through the air, ripped a hole in space, and reappeared over another Lethrblaka to do the very same thing. High above him, Saphira tackled one of the black creatures and snapped its neck.
Murtagh hopped from Lethrblaka to Lethrblaka, cutting them down in a single blow. It was taxing, though, and every jump through a rift sapped a significant amount of his strength. Sweat stung his eyes and made it increasingly difficult to keep his grip on Zar'roc. Colors blurred together.
Murtagh! Eragon called to him as they soared just over his head. His sibling pointed, and Murtagh followed with his eyes.
A slim Lethrblaka whirled past all the others, and atop it rode a man with rippling scarlet hair and glaring crimson eyes. Tornac—or the Shade that he had become. In one hand he held a sword and in the other he held the burning flames of magic. The Shade launched the spell at nothing, and the flames exploded and shot in every direction. If not for the wards protecting them, the fire would have reached all of them and the city below.
Grinding his teeth, Murtagh fell into a fissure and jumped out over the Shade's head. He swung the glowing blade of Zar'roc to hit both rider and mount in one fell swoop. The Shade turned and caught Zar'roc with his bare hand, and the magic around the blade fizzled out. Murtagh's eyes went wide as his former mentor's mouth curled in a feral smile.
"I am stronger than you," said the Shade, and then he blew Murtagh off the Lethrblaka's back with a burst of red magic.
Zar'roc went flying, and Murtagh caught the metal with his mind and drew it back to him. His hand fumbled in the air for it, and he haphazardly tied it to his belt. Then he drew the bow, wrapped an arrow in blazing white, and shot it at the Lethrblaka. It flew straight and fast despite the wind, but the arrow bounced off an invisible ward and fell away.
Spinning, Murtagh shot magic-imbued arrows at any Lethrblaka within his range. The arrows whistled through the air on a straight trajectory and always hit their marks, and the dark creatures exploded at their touch and turned to dust.
Murtagh turned into another rift and reappeared over the Shade, arrow at the ready. He shot at his head, though it bounced away without effect by magic, and then he drew Zar'roc again and swung. The Shade answered with his own sword, and their blades clashed in a burst of sparks. Murtagh planted his feet on the Lethrblaka and pressed his weight forward, but the creature jerked out from beneath him and sent him tumbling through the air.
Everything whirled together, and Murtagh's stomach did flips. It would have been a terrible time to throw up. He fell into a rift and tried to find Saphira, and her scales and spikes tore at his leather jerkin as he rolled over her. Eragon cried out and clawed at him as he fell over them, and he managed to snag Murtagh's belt. Murtagh collapsed over Saphira and gasped for air, and then he forced himself upright. His arms shook.
Are you all right? Eragon asked, and he kept a hold on his belt.
Never better.
Saphira roared and hit another Lethrblaka, clawing at it as they tumbled through the air together, and then she tore its neck.
The Shade ignored them and went for the barrier, power seeping out of him in a glowing red aura. Then he hurled balls of fire upon the wall protecting the city, and the barrier shuddered. Murtagh's hold on it weakened but only slightly. Growling, Murtagh jumped off Saphira even as Eragon tried but failed to hold him.
Murtagh! shouted his brother after him.
Murtagh dipped through a hole and reappeared with flames rolling off his fingertips over the Shade's head. The Shade smirked and turned, and he answered with fire of his own. Flames burst between them and spread across the sky, and the limited wards of protection around Murtagh crumbled. He hit the Lethrblaka with one foot and swung Zar'roc, but the Shade deflected his blow. Both launched another burst of explosive energy, and Murtagh went flying. Zar'roc fell.
Turning in the air, Murtagh shot a gleaming arrow at the Lethrblaka's underbelly. Its wards had failed, too. The glowing arrow struck, and the Lethrblaka exploded. The Shade plummeted and vanished in the darkness below. Spinning, Murtagh shot at several Lethrblaka until only a few arrows remained.
Murtagh! Look out! Eragon yelled from above.
A Lethrblaka had escaped him, and its claws reached him before he even saw it. Its sharp talons only grazed his arm and flicked the bow out of his hand. And then, just as quickly as it appeared, it vanished, swept away by a brilliant streak of red.
Murtagh blinked and stared into the heavens, and tears wet his eyes.
"Thorn!" he screamed, and he had to force out the name when it caught in his throat.
Thorn, in all his glory as a dragon, tore the Lethrblaka in half and threw it to the earth. Then the full weight of Thorn's mind crashed into Murtagh's, and it was as if they had never been apart. Their thoughts and feelings wrapped together in perfect harmony. Murtagh spun and dipped into a rift, reappearing over Thorn, and without a word his dragon caught him with ease.
Murtagh pressed his face to Thorn's sharp scales. You're back, he whispered.
Our reunion must wait, Thorn told him, but it was not without compassion. Murtagh was filled with Thorn's warmth and affection as the dragon lent him his strength. After being without it for so long, it was overwhelming. Let us make quick work of our enemies.
Murtagh nodded and straightened, clinging to one of Thorn's white spikes. He reached to the earth and plucked Zar'roc off the ground, hauling it back into his hand. Igniting it with magic, he swung at Lethrblaka as Thorn zipped past them, and those he missed Thorn defeated with ease. Saphira and Eragon covered their backs.
Flames sprang up around the defensive barrier shielding Ilirea, and Murtagh grimaced as it weakened. He patted Thorn and said, I'm going.
If he harms you, he is mine, Thorn replied.
In such a short period of time, Murtagh had forgotten. Forgotten what it was like to be loved. His chest ached not from his own feelings but from Thorn's. Wetness stung his eyes, but he blinked it away. Inhaling a long, slow breath, he jumped and plummeted to the ground. Over his head, Thorn and Saphira dealt with the remaining Lethrblaka, picking them off one after the other.
Murtagh dropped into a rift and then landed steady on the snowy ground near the barrier's edge. It took a while for his vision to adjust, and everything whirled around him in hazy dark blurs. When he caught his breath, the dizziness ceased. Wood snapped behind him, and he spun on his heels.
The Shade held one half of Murtagh's broken bow in each hand, and then he cast the weapon to the ground. Murtagh attacked the threads around the Shade in order to reach the spirit inside, but the Shade raised a single finger. A powerful pulse of energy thrust Murtagh back. The Shade's eyes gleamed in the faint light of the barrier, and he bared his teeth in a grin.
"You cannot defeat me," said the Shade with absolute confidence. "For there is only one way to kill a Shade, and you do not have it in you." Then his eyes went wide and wild, and he clasped the withered remains of Tornac's face in one hand. "You love this man too much."
He was not wrong. A cold sweat broke out across Murtagh's skin, and he shivered. He turned Zar'roc in his hand, squeezing the grip. He prodded the air around the Shade in an effort to find something to tear them apart, to separate human from spirit, but a fierce mental slap broke his connection. Wincing, he staggered backwards.
"Tsk tsk," said the Shade, waving his finger back and forth. "You are only a human pretending to be my kind. You will never overpower me."
Murtagh had every intention of proving him wrong and stabbed at him again. The Shade did not even blink, and he deflected the attack and retaliated hard enough to bring Murtagh to one knee.
Standing abruptly, ignoring his pounding headache, Murtagh asked, "What are you called?"
"You may call me Tornac," the Shade answered with a gleefully melodic tone. "Since you treasure the name so much." Violent trembling overtook Murtagh as the Shade stepped closer. It was the body of Tornac but nothing else, not his mannerisms, not his attitude, not even his voice. The Shade's head tipped to one side, his smile diminishing. Gentle words left his lips and hit hard like icy spears in Murtagh's chest. "How dearly this man loved you." Then his smile returned, sharp and glaring. "His last thoughts were of you… before I devoured him."
Murtagh screamed and closed the distance between them, Zar'roc swinging. The Shade did not flinch and kept smiling. The blade of Zar'roc hit his side and bounced back as if striking solid rock, and a jolt of pain shot up Murtagh's arm. The Shade grabbed the sword with his bare hand and yanked it out of Murtagh's grasp. Murtagh retrieved it with magic and swung again, and the Shade simply caught it on his palm.
This one you cannot save, said the keeper of balance in his head. I warned you of this. Already their union is complete, and the flesh is already lost. You must strike the heart.
"No!" Murtagh yelled, and he lit Zar'roc, his body, and the ground with spirit-rending magic. Yet as he swung, as he approached, his energy was snuffed out like a tiny flame in a waterfall. The Shade never stopped smiling with Tornac's face, and Murtagh screamed again. One swing after another, and he never touched him.
Strike the heart! Only then will you be able to reach and free my kind within it, the spirit ordered.
Murtagh dove and hit the Shade in the side with Zar'roc, and his enemy caught the sword and held it. No matter what, he could not raise the blade to Tornac's chest. The Shade released the sword and caught Murtagh's arm, drawing him close with supernatural strength.
"My child," he whispered into Murtagh's ear with Tornac's voice.
Murtagh shook, and suddenly his arm went numb. Where the Shade held him, where Tornac's hand touched, his clothing and skin melted away and turned to dust. Raw flesh and muscle crumbled next.
Quickly! said the keeper.
Screaming again, eyes filling with tears, Murtagh snatched the last of his arrows, flipped them between his fingers, and plunged them into the Shade's head. The Shade recoiled and let out a piercing shriek, eyes bulging, and then it exploded into a fine dust and disappeared. Murtagh dropped the arrows and Zar'roc, staggering backwards. An enormous weight pressed on his chest, and he gasped for air. His arm was covered in blood, and the bone stuck out through half-dissolved muscle. Frozen, he stared at it.
Murtagh! Eragon's voice reached him, and then Saphira hit the ground ahead of him.
A few more Lethrblaka crashed around him, but Murtagh heard nothing but sickening silence. The spirit stirred in him with something akin to disappointment. Blood poured from his arm to the ground, and he could not stop shaking.
Eragon leapt out of the saddle and ran to him. He paused when he saw the blood, and then he caught Murtagh's arm and began to heal it. His voice trembled as he asked, "What happened?"
What happened is that Murtagh had failed. He had not defeated the Shade or freed Tornac from his forced servitude, and now many more people were likely to die. He had failed. Yet he could say none of that, and instead he blinked at the broken pieces of the bow half buried in the snow. Panting between words, he said, "He broke my bow."
Eragon glanced at the bow and then returned his attention to Murtagh's arm. After he finished healing him, he clasped his arm in both hands and held fast. Softer this time, he asked, "What happened?"
Something crashed behind him. Murtagh turned, and his arm slipped from Eragon's grasp. Thorn shook himself and then folded his wings, waiting in the snow. His mind touched Murtagh's with strength, compassion, and warmth, but also between them there now existed a wall of anger. Murtagh was to blame for that too.
Even so, Murtagh closed the distance between them, and tears flooded his eyes. When Murtagh was close, Thorn stood on all four legs, and his lips curled in a snarl. Then he stretched out his neck and unleashed a ferocious roar. Murtagh dropped to his knees and covered his head. Thorn roared repeatedly in shorter bursts, stomping his paws on the ground as he approached Murtagh.
Wave after wave of fury rolled from Thorn to Murtagh, but beyond the anger was a familiar ache of insecurity. Thorn stood over him now and leered at him with one eye.
Murtagh arched his shoulders and kept his head down, folding his arms in front of him in a vain effort to stave off the cold. He made a mess of everything. Haphazardly he tucked his thoughts and feelings away so his grief would not reach beyond his own head. Thorn did not need more sorrow on account of him.
I'm sorry, he whispered to Thorn, and with it he tried to express why, tried to show that he wanted Thorn to be safe.
Yet as his thoughts and feelings flowed to Thorn, the dragon stopped him with an abrupt mental wall and roared again. I have always understood your hesitation, but this is too much, growled Thorn, his claws dug deep into the snow. He snorted a cloud of smoke over Murtagh's head. You consistently go where I cannot follow. I will not tolerate this anymore!
Murtagh said nothing and kept his thoughts to himself, and he wept. Of course he had known Thorn would be angry, but the agony he felt from his dragon now was more than he could bear. It was worse than a sword that cut straight through him, worse than a dragon's claws digging into his stomach, worse than all of his torture at Galbatorix's hands.
Again Thorn roared, and then he stepped over Murtagh, setting a leg at his back and building a wall between him and the rest of the world. You are my little human, said Thorn in a fierce voice, and do not forget. We are equals, you and I. As you desire to protect me, so do I desire to protect you.
I'm sorry, was all Murtagh could say. It would never be enough. Nothing would be. Pathetic. He curled over himself into a tight ball and wept quietly, the tears running down his face like droplets of ice.
Thorn leaned down and nudged Murtagh's head up with his snout, and then his defensive walls came down and he invited Murtagh back in. Murtagh wrapped his arms as best he could around Thorn's head and buried his face against cool scarlet scales. Thorn deserved better than him, and certainly Murtagh did not deserve Thorn at all, but what else could he do? Thorn was the only one who knew him intimately and yet did not leave—he was all he had.
Murtagh tried to keep his sorrow in check, he really did, but he failed miserably at that, too. Pathetic. He shielded his memories from Thorn, and those of the spirits as well, but he could not help the outpouring of emotions he dumped on his partner. Anger fizzled out and was replaced by understanding, and Thorn met his anguish with limitless compassion. Every bit of them mingled together until Murtagh had trouble finding himself again. He wept several weeks' worth of tears until there was nothing left in him.
I missed you, Murtagh said, as if Thorn could not already tell.
And I, you, Thorn replied.
Night fell over them, and neither moved until Eragon pulled at Murtagh's arm while saying something about losing blood and having a fever. Murtagh was too exhausted to really hear him, but he allowed himself to be moved. As they separated, Thorn prodded Murtagh with his snout, and then he snorted in Murtagh's hair. Murtagh laughed and nearly started crying again.
"Let's go back," Eragon suggested, glancing between the dragons. All the while, he maintained his grip on Murtagh.
Everything after that was a blur. Thorn and Saphira carried them to the castle, and a host of people met them and attended to them. Murtagh slurred a few things—he had no idea what—to a few people—he had no idea who—and then was hauled away and thrown into bed. Thorn's presence stayed with him the entire time. Cautious of his nightmares, of the horrific dreams he always dreamt, Murtagh put up the few walls that he could muster, and then he fell asleep.