Thorn

At first Murtagh thought the foggy haze, that seemed to fill the empty cell, was the result of his exhaustion and lack of nutrition and hydration, as he hung by his wrists from a chain mounted on the ceiling in a bare stone cell. It was sparsely lit by a few torches that hung on the walls in between other, empty sets of chains. He was currently the only prisoner in this chamber, but, given the number of shackles that ornamented it, Murtagh knew that it had seen a good number of victims broken. I wonder how long this will last, Murtagh thought wearily. Until I agree to give in, I suppose. He tried to fight the wave of despair that threatened to pull him under. I said I wouldn't give in, he reminded himself, and so I won't.

He couldn't have been asleep for more than a couple of hours when the soldiers came back to the cell he and the hatchling had been held. Murtagh had heard their heavy boots in the hall outside, through the haze of half-sleep. The door had opened and he had been harshly pulled to full awareness by a blow to the ribs. Three guards had come in along with Lord Tristan who held his whip coiled up in one hand.

"On your feet," he had commanded harshly and Murtagh had complied. There was no arguing with a whip.

Are these the people who hurt you, the dragon had suddenly asked, its eyes narrowing suspiciously.

Yes, they are. Murtagh had stepped back startled as it sprang to its feet and snarled at the soldiers.

Tristan had raised his whip threateningly. "Tell that monster to get back."

Just do what they say, Murtagh told his dragon. They will hurt me if you don't obey them, he had pleaded. Please, don't make this worse. I'll be alright.

With a warning growl the dragon had retreated back into the far corner. Moments later Murtagh had found himself stumbling down the corridors again, with the familiar ropes around his wrists, wondering what awaited him next. I will not to give in, he had told himself then as he told himself now. Sooner or later a chance at escape would have to present itself and in the meantime he would find the strength to withstand the pain, for the people he loved, who would have wanted his freedom. So he clenched his teeth and closed his eyes.

It was then that he noticed that his eyes were starting to sting and that it was getting harder to breath. He realized that the shifting wisps of pale, grey mist were not an illusion. Smoke, he thought with a touch of panic as he recognized the sharp smell of burning wood rising up out of the cracks that ran through the floor.

Time became meaningless as the air grew thicker, warmer and heavier the more smoke poured in. Murtagh kept his eyes tightly shut against the sting, but every breath stabbed in his lungs and hurt his throat; coughing only made it worse.

Exhausted and helpless as he was, he tried to focus on his memories of the people he loved, trying to draw strength and comfort from them. Tornac… he thought desperately, Sabrina … mother… If any of you are watching… I want you to be proud of me … I will not give in … I will not give in…

‡

After a seemingly endless span of time, the air finally seemed to clear up.

Murtagh weakly raised his head as he heard the door being opened. His usual escort of three soldiers entered followed by Lord Tristan, who muttered something too quiet for Murtagh to hear clearly.

Without warning the chains around his wrists opened and he fell to the ground, hitting it hard, since his legs would not support him.

The guards stepped forward and forced him to his knees. One of them jerked Murtagh's head back so he was forced to look up at Lord Tristan who stood above him, whip in hand.

"Are you ready to serve your master," he asked, looking down at the prisoner.

Murtagh took a shuddering breath, trying to muster up his courage. I will not give in. "No," he answered as boldly as his hoarse voice would allow.

The man motioned to the guards and a red haze descended over Murtagh's vision as something hard struck him in the back of his head. A wave of pain swept through his skull and the world tilted as he was pushed to the ground. One of the guards kicked him in the stomach and an involuntary groan escaped him. He curled up and waited for the pain to subside, but it didn't. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Tristan unroll the whip and raise it. Just hold on. He closed his eyes and clenched his teeth.

One, two, three lashes blazed across Murtagh's already striped back.

"Are you ready to give your word?"

"No," Murtagh gasped with difficulty.

Again the whip came down; five times, six times, seven. Through a blur of pain, he heard the relentless voice. "Are you ready to give your word?"

Slowly, weakly, but stubbornly the prisoner shook his head. He tried to brace himself for the next strokes, but the lashes were living fire by now. All he could do was writhe helplessly under the remorseless whip.

The room seemed to be spinning as did the voice, though he couldn't make out the words. It didn't matter; he knew what he was being asked. Murtagh didn't move as the splashes of light around him, slowly swam back into focus and resolved themselves into torches.

Again he heard his torturer's voice, still unclear, and then he felt rough hands pulling him up and dragging him out the door.

He closed his eyes, barely awake as he hung limply in the soldiers grip, not caring where they were taking him. He would find out soon enough.

‡

It wasn't long before the soldiers discarded their nearly unconscious captive closing the door behind him.

As he lay there, absorbing the welcome cool of the stone floor, Murtagh suddenly felt a gentle gust of warm breath on his face. He opened his eyes to find himself held in his red dragon's concerned gaze. Murtagh, are you alright, it asked gently.

No, he answered truthfully, I haven't been for a long time.

Did you give in?

Murtagh was surprised by the question. No.

Good.

Murtagh managed a ghost of a smile as he closed his eyes again. He curled up a little tighter as he began to shiver, the cool of the tiled floor no longer refreshing but chilling.

The dragon lowered its head and gently brushed the boy's cheek. Murtagh, it said quietly. I want a name.

Murtagh opened his eyes, surprised. A name? What name?

Just a name, like you have.

Alright. Murtagh tried to sit up but gave up when all his injuries throbbed in protest. A name... It took him a while to recall some of the various names of different dragons he had read about during his studies. What do you think of Erindor or Ingothold? They were both mighty dragons.

Murtagh could sense the dragon thinking about it, but he could tell it wasn't satisfied.

There are others, he continued, like Umaroth, he was the dragon of Vrael himself, or …

Murtagh continued listing all the names he thought his dragon might like, but none seemed to strike its fancy. Murtagh personally like Cuaroc best, since that dragon had become known as the Bane of the Urgals. I like that, he thought grimly as he recalled how the Urgals had helped the Twins capture him under Farthen Dûr. I certainly hope we will be the bane of any Urgals we will ever meet.

Finally he ran out of names. Don't you like any of them, he asked his dragon more impatiently than he intended. I don't know any others.

I don't want a name that someone else already had, it answered him.

Again Murtagh was caught off guard. Then he smiled a little. Alright, but you could have said that before.

The dragon laid its head down next to Murtagh's and let out a long, hot breath. Sorry.

Murtagh put his hand on its smooth, warm scales. It was only then that he noticed the iron ring around its neck with a chain attached to it that shackled his dragon to the far wall.

Murtagh's thoughts darkened. I'm so sorry, he said quietly. This is all my fault.

It's not – it pressed its head closer to Murtagh – and I will bare it as long as you do.

Murtagh smiled again and tried to focus on the task at hand. A name… What about Sharpclaws, he suggested, looking down at its talons, or Wildwing?

Neither seemed to suite the dragon.

How about Ember? It would fit your colour.

Maybe… it answered slowly. I think I like it…

Murtagh ran his hand along the dragon's deep red neck, when the long line of sharp, white neck spikes that adorned its entire length, caught his attention. They reminded him of the long, white thorns that grew on the few plants he had seen by the Hadarac Desert during his travels with Eragon. Unfriendly as they were, those needle-like points, for him, were associated with some of his best memories.

He made one more attempt. What do you think of ... Thorn?

Yes! The answer came almost immediately. Murtagh could feel his dragon's satisfaction, accompanied by a fierce joy. Yes, I'm Thorn.

Murtagh smiled then closed his eyes as reality took over again. He couldn't remember ever feeling so exhausted before, but he didn't think he would be able to sleep.

Thorn curled up next to him and put his wing over his rider. Try to rest. You will need your strength. I'll watch over you.

Murtagh relaxed slightly, welcoming in the warmth radiating from his dragon, both physically and mentally. Thank you, Thorn.

Thorn hummed in response.

‡

In the king's council chamber, Galbatorix sat in his carved armchair, chin resting on his closed fist, and only half listened to the two identical magicians sitting across the large table. They were reporting the latest movements of his enemies and any other information their spies had been able to ascertain to him, but only one fact really mattered to the king: the blue dragon and her rider seemed to have vanished into the forests of the elves.

Their informants had seen them leave by raft and reports from the north-east had confirmed their direction, but no one had seen them since and it bothered him. He slammed his hand down on the table, silencing the Twins. "I want the dragoness," he told them coldly. "Soon."

The magicians looked at each other for a moment before one of them nervously began, "My king, the northern forest is beyond our reach. We cannot –"

Galbatorix didn't let him finish. "Then we will draw them out. We will attack the rebels head on, far in the south. They will have no choice but to call on their dragon and her rider to help them and we will have our own rider waiting to bring them back."

"The boy has submitted then," the other Twin asked. "Will he be ready to face his brother when the time comes?"

Galbatorix held his gaze until he shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "Before the sun sets tomorrow he will have sworn himself to me," he promised calmly. He stood and the Twins respectfully did the same. "And I will see to it personally that he is ready." He dismissed them with a wave of his hand and with a bow they hurried to obey.

The king watched them leave with a blank expression to mask his distaste. Vermin, he thought as the doors closed behind them. But they were useful tools at times; hardly equipped to train a rider, but for the basics of magic, they would have to do. For now he would need to break the son of Morzan, though, before he could concern himself with the details of his training. The boy had been braver than he thought. A true warrior. In his experience, those hardest broken usually made for the best assets in the long run, but he wasn't about to waste any more time, tempting though it was.

Before the sun sets tomorrow...