I'll be traveling starting tomorrow, so here's an early update for you. Next chapter will be on Friday as usual. Thanks for reading and commenting, all! I appreciate you!
Chapter 48
A couple more days passed, and Murtagh needed to get moving. His fever was unrelenting and his strength was not coming back. Despite knowing this, despite knowing that he had to accomplish his task soon or he would perish before he could, Murtagh struggled to leave his bed. Pain, weakness, and lethargy were a dangerous combination. The haze in his mind refused to lift, as though he spent every day in a drunken stupor.
Murtagh bundled himself in a blanket and meandered the halls of the castle in an attempt to clear his head and build his strength. It did not help. The few times anyone caught him, particularly Eragon, Selena, or Brom, he was sent back to bed. They did not know the truth, and so he did not blame them. His illness was not from overuse of magic but rather a general breaking down of his very being, and no amount of rest would recover what had been lost.
It was during several of these trips of wandering the halls that he tried foraging through Eragon's and Brom's rooms to find his missing garments and weapons. Eragon found him once and scolded him. Brom found him another time and simply laughed at him. Both times he was ushered back to bed. He was either going to have to get creative or forceful if he wanted to leave the castle, and Murtagh did not particularly have the energy to do either.
Then, late one night, a hand shook his shoulder and woke him from sleep. As it always did, it took a long while for the fog to unravel from his mind enough for him to see and comprehend. The room was dark, but pale moonlight filtered in through the window. Zar'roc sat upon his bedside table and glowed in the scarce light.
Murtagh sat up immediately.
Angela stood near the bed with a bundle in her hands, and she set it on the table beside Zar'roc. Meeting eyes with Murtagh only briefly, she said, "Follow me. Quickly." Then she left the room.
Murtagh sifted through the bundle she had left and found his clothing, belt, and even the dagger he had received from Horst. Slipping out of bed, he dressed, fixed his weapons to his belt, and then stepped into the boots set by the door. Angela waited in the hallway for him, and then she walked down the corridor without ever looking back. No one else was around. Murtagh glanced left and right and then followed.
Angela moved with intention, her footsteps quick and quiet. Her cloak fluttered behind her. Never once did she offer him a glance, nor did she hesitate in her direction. The deeper into the heart of the castle they went, the quicker Murtagh's heart beat. When she opened the heavy door at the end of a long corridor, he almost did not follow her inside.
It was the room in which Nasuada had been held captive, where Galbatorix—and Murtagh—had tortured her.
Angela slipped through the door, and Murtagh followed with slight steps. Inside, Elva stood on one side of the door, and on the other side was a shaggy black cat with brilliant gold eyes.
Beyond them, the room had been dismantled. The stone slab, the chains, everything was gone. Walls had crumbled and pieces of rock littered the floor. An eerie violet glow lit the dank room. Murtagh stepped past the others and kicked at the rubble on the floor, revealing shards of violet crystals scattered beneath. Crouching, he picked one up.
"They are dead," said Angela. Her face had fallen to shadows, and for the first time, she was perfectly somber. A peculiar white glow swirled in her eyes. "Your father is killing them."
Murtagh rose with the stone still in his hand and shifted it upon his palm. It tingled.
"When our world is in chaos, the world of spirits suffers. If life in Alagaësia ceases to exist, equal amounts of spirits also perish." Angela folded her arms around herself, and her chin sank a hint. "Yet the opposite also holds true. When a spirit dies, life within our world also vanishes. Thus is the true nature of balance."
"These stones are what remain when spirits die," Murtagh murmured.
A physical manifestation of balance forever lost, a rock that was always consuming and always devouring yet never becoming whole again. It devoured magic because it truly was a void, a place in time and space where once had been life and now there was nothing.
Murtagh folded his fingers over the stone and brought it to his chest. Brushing his mind over it, he fell into a strange sort of emptiness unlike anything he had experienced even among the spirits. It held fast to him and drew him in like something drowning in a deep ocean and clawing at him in a vain effort to save itself. No emotion, no memories, only a gaping hole that filled Murtagh with a desire to live. He shuddered and withdrew.
Tugging into the world of spirits, he pulled upon the vast realm of nothing that touched back against his mind and drew several dozen spirits out into the open. Their light had nearly been snuffed out, and they were nothing more than blinking fog.
Murtagh reached out a hand and allowed a spirit to settle on his fingertips. Crushing pain in his chest stole the air from his lungs. "What has he done to you…?"
Somewhere high above them, a bell rang in the night. Spirits fled into the shadows once more. Murtagh's head snapped up, and then he dropped the small stone off his hand and sifted the rocks on the ground until he found a long, pointed gem like a glowing dagger. It would make a suitable weapon against his spirit-consumed father. Tucking it in the back of his belt, he spun and tore a gap of swirling darkness in the air.
"You must save them." Angela did not move, did not lift her head. "Or soon all spirits will fall, and our world with them."
"Who are you, really?" Murtagh asked.
Angela smiled, and that same white glow twirled in her eyes as when they first entered the room. Briefly she scanned their surroundings, and then she said, "Long ago, I was here."
A vague answer, but Murtagh did not need to know the truth. Instead, he jumped through the rift, vanishing into a black void, and then he stepped out on the outer defensive wall of Ilirea. Moonlight glared down on him, and in a high watchtower over the castle, a bell continued to ring. Shouting erupted within the capital city. Metal armor clanged on stone as knights ran through the empty streets. Murtagh turned in a half circle and faced out from the city towards the sprawling southern plains.
A dark spirit larger than the entirety of Ilirea approached from the southwest. Another of equal size came from the southeast, and the two massive creatures crawled across the plain on paws larger than Ilirea's castle and met in the middle. Their bodies mashed together like two colliding storms, twisting over each other until only one remained.
A single body arose where once had been two, and it unfurled two pairs of sharp and jagged wings that blotted out the sky. It craned its head high and opened its mangled beak, unleashing a shriek so loud and so fierce that knights crumbled to the ground. An entire wall on the west side of Ilirea fell and the bell bounced off its hook and shattered. All throughout the city, people wailed.
Then, from out of the earth came a vast army. Withered dark hands clawed out of the snow, and Ra'zac rose from the ground by the thousands. Behind them, a wall of Lethrblaka slithered from the ground and took to the sky until the entire southern horizon went black. Shrieks and roars arose from the plains, and a great clamor stirred within the city.
Murtagh straightened and his hair stood on end. Even across the wide gap, the dark spirit's electric eyes landed on him. It beckoned him, challenged him, and pleaded with him all in a single, wordless look. Then the spirit opened wide its empty, gaping mouth and howled in the night. Over Murtagh's head, the barrier around Ilirea flickered until parts of it began to fall away into a dirty fog.
Below, an army of knights, some mounted but most on foot, scrambled through the city gates to meet head on the approaching army. Burning stones were catapulted from the walls and crushed the first several rows of Ra'zac. Flaming arrows followed and decimated many others, and suddenly the plain was alight with fire. Smoke and embers twirled upwards in the still night air.
Murtagh took a deep breath to quiet his pounding heart, and then he extended one hand towards the spirit. If his count was correct, this would equal all twelve that had been taken and controlled by Galbatorix. Save the four consumed by his father, they were finally all accounted for.
Sweat dripped down his face. Two spirits had very nearly killed him the last time, and already he was on the verge of collapse. Fever clouded his vision and his thoughts. If his body and mind failed him, Eragon and the others would have to take Morzan down. Fate remained cruel as ever. After everything this agreement with the spirits would cost him, the only thing he wanted for himself was to finish Morzan with his own hands.
Yet if it could not be, it could not be. Murtagh focused his mind on the enormous swirling mass of dark spirit and tugged at the threads binding it together. Shifting them, tying them, and reworking them into something new. Darkness faded piece by piece. Memories of Galbatorix, of torture and death, flowed into him as the spirit poured out its sorrow. Muscles contracted throughout Murtagh's body, and he gritted his teeth and choked back a cry. A dark glaze covered his vision.
Then a voice arose barely above a whisper, close and kind. "Is it really worth all this?"
Threads dropped from Murtagh's grasp and fluttered on nonexistent wind. Without a thought, he spun on his heels and ripped Zar'roc from his belt, whirling the sword in a streak of glowing red. His blade met resistance, and Murtagh blinked past a crystal white sword to his father on the other side.
Morzan's lips curled into a smile. His words took a tender tone. "My son, you do not look well. Fall under my protection, and I will give you rest."
Manipulation and control. Murtagh snarled and shoved Zar'roc against his father's glowing sword, pushing both weapons aside, and then he swept his blade upwards in a flash. Countered. A swing from the right. Countered. Several successive thrusts. Countered. Morzan took a few slight steps back under the weight of Murtagh's swings, but at all times he kept one hand casually behind his back, and never once did he stop smiling. It was just another game to him.
Murtagh, called out Thorn, and his mental voice was muted by distance.
Beyond the city and to the northeast, two draconic silhouettes stood against the moon. Thorn and Saphira returning from a hunt if Thorn's full belly was any indication. Murtagh had to say nothing else. When the two dragons arrived, they swept over the castle and onto the battlefield, picking off Lethrblaka that reached the city walls. Nevertheless, sharp twinges of concern hit Murtagh from Thorn.
Thorn was not the only one who noticed Murtagh's weakness.
"You are dying, Murtagh," said Morzan, slipping to one side to avoid a thrust of Zar'roc, and then he deflected several quick blows with slight twitches of his wrist. "Only I can save you now. Surrender and live."
Murtagh caught the crystal sword on Zar'roc and slipped his blade along its edge in an effort to catch the guard and rip it from Morzan's hand. His father rammed his weight against him, pressing against him and both swords, until Murtagh stumbled backwards. In a blink, he lost the ground he had gained. To Morzan, it was easy. He moved without pause, without struggle. Murtagh, on the other hand, was already drenched in sweat, and his muscles screamed. His lungs were heavy as if full of water.
With one last ferocious swing, Murtagh struck aside Morzan's sword and at the same time jumped back. Shifting the powers of the spirits in his head, Murtagh turned his mind into a sharp and pointed lance. Rapidly he plunged it into Morzan's head, struck wall after wall, and his father did not even flinch. Morzan retaliated with a weight so oppressive that Murtagh was thrown back and physically recoiled.
"How many spirits do you have now? Seven?" Morzan asked, and then he turned his head aside and raised a hand to showcase the air. Not near him but across the entire plain and all throughout Ilirea, hundreds of tiny spirits eclipsed by shadows appeared for only a second, all under his authority. "You will never defeat me now."
Growling, Murtagh summoned a spell of explosive red energy at his fingertips and launched it at Morzan, and his father responded with one larger and stronger. The explosion between them tore cracks through the wall. Murtagh lunged through the smoke and swung Zar'roc alight with fire. Morzan parried with a thrust and sidestep, and then they clashed blades several more times with neither gaining nor losing ground.
Then the broad wall on which they fought began to fade away.
Murtagh allowed only a glance. Walls, buildings, and people faded to dust and swirled towards the dark spirit as it continued its unhindered approach. Morzan would have to wait. Deflecting his father's blade, Murtagh tore a rift in the air with his mind and jumped backwards into it, and darkness swallowed him only for a second. When he popped out of the void, he stumbled onto the wall behind Morzan, and his father grinned from ear to ear.
"I am not finished with you," said Morzan, and finally he dropped his arm from behind his back.
Huffing for air, his entire body shaking, Murtagh created another tear in the air and jumped in. This one he held more firmly in mind, setting a straight course for the battlefield below and the dark spirit ripping the world apart. Weakness took his limbs as Murtagh stumbled out of the schism right back onto the wall, and pain ran from his head down to his toes. Violent tremors shook him until he nearly lost his grip on Zar'roc, and sweat stung his eyes. A firm arm wrapped around his chest and hauled him backwards until he leaned against Morzan, and his father caught his chin and forced his head straight.
"Stay and watch with me," Morzan whispered into his ear, and Murtagh could not move, could not breathe. "I insist."
Below on the battlefield, two great armies collided. Trained human soldiers, supported in the air by Thorn and Saphira, plowed through Ra'zac with little trouble. With but a single touch the Ra'zac would burst into dust. It was then Murtagh's stomach dropped and he shuddered. All of the human weapons shone with a permanent, violet glow.
Then, as the dark spirit rolled across both armies and sucked the life out of them, enormous balls of glowing violet crystals rippling with flames catapulted through the air and smashed into its head, its body, and its wings. It screamed and toppled forward, and half of its body dissolved. Sorrow cut through Murtagh's heart, and he gasped for air that would not come. Another ball of violet rock immersed in fire flew and smashed into the spirit's head, severing it.
"No!" Murtagh screamed.
Red energy burst between him and Morzan, blasting them apart, and he spun Zar'roc in the air to put distance between them. He tried once more to open a rift, but his magic failed him, and then he reached for the dark spirit in a desperate attempt to free it. Morzan jabbed his mind with such intensity that Murtagh toppled backwards and hit the wall of the adjoining watchtower. Sharp pain ripped through his head and darkness clouded his eyes. He threw up.
"Let me help you." Morzan sauntered towards him, and despite his gentle tone, he grinned like a madman. "Surrender and all of this will end."
Thorn! Murtagh bellowed with his mind only to his partner. A barrage of desperate thoughts went with it.
Another catapult sent boulders flying towards the dark spirit as it thrashed on the ground while humans attacked it with glowing weapons. In answer to Murtagh's cry, Thorn and Saphira crashed into the spirit, lifted it, and carried it back across the plain—away from the people, away from the capital, away from harm.
Then Morzan stepped over Murtagh, looking down his sharp nose at him. Murtagh would not tolerate it. If he was going to die, he would die standing. Using the watchtower's wall as leverage, he forced himself to his feet and met his father face to face. Concealed by his shadow, he slipped his hand from the wall to the shining violet stone in his belt.
"Stop fighting," said Morzan, and he reached for Murtagh's neck. "You lost long before this day."
Before Morzan touched Murtagh, before Murtagh drew the stone that he intended to plunge into his father's heart, Morzan suddenly lurched forward and exhaled a choke. Protruding out of his chest, straight through his heart, was the shining violet blade of a lance. A cloud of darkness erupted from Morzan, and a ring of light swirled out from him across the ground and spread throughout the plain before vanishing. Ever so slightly, Morzan turned, peering over his shoulder.
On the other end of the lance was Brom.
