When Murtagh awoke, his hands were tied over his head, and his back was against the rough bark of a large tree.
He was at first too surprised to be alive to feel the panic, but after the initial moment of shock and confusion, he felt his chest tighten, and every hair on his body stood up.
He blinked bleariness from his eyes, coughing through a plume of smoke. The smoke was coming from a smoldering campfire that sat a few feet in front of him.
The darkness around the campfire was total, but Murtagh could hear the sound of creaking wood and the occasional hoot of an owl, and the dirt beneath him was sloped and strewn with pine duff.
He was in the woods somewhere… but where? And how? And why hadn't the Urgals killed him?
The ropes cut into his wrists, and he felt the tips of his fingers tingling as the blood drained from them. Murtagh grunted as he tried to work his wrists free of the painful knots. The rope was thick and strong, though, and well-tied; he would need something sharp to cut through it.
As he scanned the dirt for a stone with a thin edge, using his boots to feel around in the dark, he caught a shape in the corner of his eye, and startled.
There, on a tree a few feet to his right, was one of the Twin magicians, himself bound, and half-conscious.
Of all the people who could've survived that fight… Murtagh thought with an inward scowl. But an ally was an ally, and it might be useful to have a magician on board.
Murtagh scanned the darkness around him again, looking for signs of their Urgal captors. But he heard and saw nothing but the soft crackling of the near-dead fire. The Urgals might've been out hunting, or they may have left Murtagh and the magician to be eaten by wolves in the woods.
When he was convinced they were alone, Murtagh stretched out his right leg, prodding the Twin with the point of his boot and saying,
"Hey," In a hushed whisper.
The man groaned.
"Hey, wake up," Murtagh said, prodding again. He didn't have time to wait for the magician to come around. If the Urgals were gone, now was their chance.
"Whatever your name is, we have a problem so you'd better wake up quick," He said again.
The Twin shifted, his eyes fluttering open as he slumped.
"You conscious?" Murtagh asked again as the man tried to sit up.
"What is this? Where…?" He murumured, his voice getting under Murtagh's skin as always.
"Urgals. We were attacked, you remember?"
"In the tunnel," The Twin said blearily, his eyes distanced. Murtagh glanced into the darkness, feeling jumpy. He knew the man was recovering from shock, but he had little patience, and the Urgals could return any time.
"Look, I know this is all a bit much, but we don't have time. Can you… do some magic or something? Get us untied?"
The man winced, blinking and shifting.
"I'm… my mind is… they must have drugged me, I cannot… access the flow of magic."
Murtagh fought an eyeroll, his head falling back against the trunk.
Of course, He cursed, All these magicians and none of them useful.
The all-powerful hundred-year-old elf that Murtagh had helped Eragon drag across half of Alagaesia had been hamstrung by the same old trick.
So much for magic.
"My brother and I combined, we might be able to overcome such an obstacle," The man winced, working at his own bonds.
"Hate to break it to you," Murtagh grunted, pulling down hard on the rope to try and break the branch it was tied to, "But your brother's probably dead."
The Twin gave him a strange look, and Murtagh shrugged.
"Sorry. Just the truth."
The man breathed for a moment, staring at the smoldering fire ahead.
Murtagh gave up pulling on the rope when his hands started to go numb. He let himself back to the floor and took a few breaths of smoky air to clear his head and loosen up the tightness in his chest.
"Those Urgals are gonna come back," Murtagh murmured, "So we've got to come up with something quick."
The Twin blinked, and Murtagh tried to keep down the hammering in his heart. He tried not to think of the blood spattered across his face–Tuarth's blood–or the screams of the dying men around him, or the Urgal driving his blade through Ajihad's side…
"There–there may…" The Twin started heavily, "...there may be a way I could get access to my magic."
"I'm listening."
"My body is the problem, the poisons are dulling my mind. But if I can remove my mind from my body, and move it into someone else's… it might free up my access to the magic."
Murtagh met the man's gaze. He scoffed.
"No," He said, turning his gaze back to the ties on his wrists. The creep wanted to insert himself into Murtagh's brain and use his body like a magic puppet? No thank you.
"You want to escape before they kill us?" The Twin insisted.
"You often take over people's bodies?" Murtagh deflected, annoyed. He was running through the possibilities in his mind.
Never, never, never had he let someone else get inside his head. He'd learned early on the lengths people would go to accrue power and climb the ladder among the Uru'baen elite–they weren't above using the child of the King's fallen Lieutenant as a stepping stone.
Could he let this slimy git crawl inside his head if it meant survival? Could he trust the man not to hunt around in there? Would he be able to live with himself after?
"I have done it before only in combat," The Twin said, "And only for a brief moment to dismantle my enemy, but the technique is the same."
Dismantle meaning kill, Murtagh thought. The Twins made his skin itch–he knew they were on the Varden's side, but he certainly didn't respect them like he did Ajihad.
"What–what would be your plan?" He asked, to buy time, setting to work on his tied wrists again, starting to feel the latent panic rising in his throat. He didn't want to let the man into his mind, but he also didn't want to end up pummeled to death or eaten by Urgals.
He didn't know if Urgals ate humans, but he couldn't think of any other reason why they would've taken prisoners, and he really didn't want to find out.
"Start off by undoing these bonds. Simple spell," The magician's seedy voice came through the darkness, "Then cast another to clear the poison from my blood, and I can return to myself. We can get out of here and find help in Tarnag."
Murtagh winced, but kept silent, still pulling at the ropes.
"If we're going to do this, we'd better do it now," The nameless Twin said, "No telling when the Urgals will come back, and we won't be able to outrun them on foot if they give chase."
Murtagh sighed, trying to overcome his reluctance.
Survival, He reminded himself, It's for survival. You've got to do it. You've got to get out of here.
He hated thinking how satisfied the Twin would be, getting into his mind after trying so hard to do it back in Farthen Dur. He didn't want to give him the pleasure.
It's not about that anymore. You've got to get help, He told himself, and he lowered his eyes–but just then he thought he saw a flicker of movement over by the fire.
His heart jumped, but when he looked at the space, there was nothing there.
"Murtagh, we've got to go get help," The Twin said as Murtagh's mind raced.
He frowned at the dirt between his boots, something in his brain trying to catch up with itself. His pain and hunger and exhaustion were clouding his mind like the smoke drifting from the embers. Something was wrong. An itch. A suspicion.
"You said we had to get to Tarnag," Murtagh muttered, turning his slow gaze to the Twin, his shoulders aching, and horror creeping up his spine.
"...how did you know where we are?" He said, breathless.
At first the Twin's expression remained blank, like he was thinking through which reaction to choose, or how to explain himself. But just as understanding settled into Murtagh's bones, he saw the man's expression change to a malicious disappointment.
"Ah," He said with a click of his tongue, a wry smile crossing his lips, "Too bad."
Before Murtagh had time to realize fully what had happened, he felt a lance of mental attack strike him and he was forced to slam up his defenses, pain ricocheting around his skull.
In his head he recited the scrap of verse he always used when defending himself.
"Sweet little darling, where have you gone?
Table is ready and supper is on."
He felt two presences trying to force their way around his walls–the cold, stinging touch of the Twins.
"I've asked the butcher, the cook, and the maid.
Where has the boy gone and could he have stayed?"
Their attack was vengeful and harsh, but Murtagh had practiced his concentration for hours, tested himself whenever he could, mentally spared with Tornac every day, and he would not be broken.
"Sweet little darling, where have you gone?
Table is ready and supper is on…"
After an excruciating stretch of hours, he finally felt the two presences retract, but he did not let his concentration waver, suspecting a feint.
When he was finally sure the attack had paused, Murtagh opened his eyes. He was breathing heavily, drenched in sweat and shivering. But his mind was clear.
He glared forward at both Twins, who now stood before him in the firelight, spiteful smirks on their faces.
"I'll kill you," He growled, anger rising in his throat. The Twins only smirked, the one who had been tied next to him now unbound. The other, he guessed, had been making himself invisible by magic–his spell wavering for just a moment when Murtagh caught his movement.
"What are you? What is this?" Murtagh demanded, every inch of his body vibrating with pent-up energy. He needed to attack. Now. He needed to squeeze the life out of these traitors and be gone.
"This is what happens when you turn against the King," The Twin on the right said. "He was very interested to learn that his former right hand's defector son wandered into Farthen Dur alongside his greatest enemy, and joined up with the rebels."
Murtagh felt a flush of fear suffuse his skin. The King? He knew? Was he behind this?
"He'll reward us handsomely, for bringing you to justice," The other Twin agreed. Murtagh growled and yanked at the bonds, trying to lunge towards them, heedless of the pain.
"You fought for them! You were on the Varden's side–the Urgals–" He stammered, "You–"
"–were good at our deceptions," The left Twin confirmed, "So good that the fool Ajihad made us his tool for weeding out deceivers."
Murtagh breathed heavily, roiling with fury and fear.
"You killed him? Y–you had him killed? You had them–" Murtagh knew he sounded pathetic, but the image of Tuarth's bludgeoned head was flashing into his mind, the clogging smell of fear as they ran through the tunnels, Ajihad being run through by the Urgal's blade.
"We used the Urgals to… execute a plan. To make sure no one followed us, and yes, to get rid of a few annoyances."
Murtagh gritted his teeth, scowling in fury.
Then he was under attack again; he slammed up his walls and hid behind the nursery rhyme,
"Sweet little darling, where have you gone?
Table is ready and supper is on…"
The attack relented after a few moments, and one of the Twins was now sitting.
"It's futile to resist," The right Twin said. "We will break you before we get to Uru'baen. You'll make a fine prize to deliver to the king."
"You might as well kill me now; I'll strangle you the moment I get free," Murtagh scowled.
The left Twin smiled.
"We shall see."
The attacks were relentless.
When dawn broke the Twins forced Murtagh to rise, shoved a piece of hard biscuit into his hand and poured water down his throat, then made him walk behind them through mountainous forest as they rode on mules.
As they traveled, one or the other of them was constantly waging mental attacks against him, striking when he least expected. Murtagh could get no rest, as one would take a break while the other launched an assault.
His wrists were bound to a rope that was tied to one of the mules saddles, but more than that, he felt a magic binding on his hands, like they were stuck together and to the rope, and no amount of force would loose them.
He stumbled and shuffled and tried not to fall, clinging to the defense of the nursery rhyme as the attacks continued throughout the long days.
At night they bound him to a tree, handed him a scrap of dried meat or a cracker, and attacked him again.
When they'd given up for the night they would tie his hands above his head, but often he would awaken out of a half-sleep to another mental spike in his brain.
He was heavy with exhaustion at all times, his bruises and cuts from the battle with the Urgals ached and smarted, and he only accumulated more bruises as he fell while trying to keep up with the mules' pace.
He knew he had to escape before they reached the capitol; once he was brought before the king, he was a dead man. He tried to convince himself that someone would come after him–that Eragon would hunt him down and come shooting out of the sky like a falling star, obliterating the Twins and taking him back to the Varden.
But the Twins had orchestrated an attack, no doubt to make it appear that they, and Murtagh, had been killed in the tunnels under Farthen Dur. And if Eragon thought he was dead, then no one would be coming for him.
He figured out that they were using some kind of spell to keep him bound to them during the day, but at night they would release this spell–no doubt because of the energy it drained from them. Because of this, the first time he attempted an escape was just after they'd handed him his meager breakfast.
They were turning to load up their supplies and begin the sloping trek down towards the fringes of the Hadarac, when Murtagh bolted for the mule to which his rope was tied. He threw himself into the saddle and kicked as hard as he could, sending the creature lurching forward as he struggled to hold on with his bound hands.
He'd made it only about thirty feet when he felt the cold grip of magic on his limbs, and he was instantly paralyzed, falling from the mule and landing hard on the ground as the creature ran, dragging him helplessly along with it.
When the Twins finally caught up with him he had to deflect another sudden mental attack, before one of them kicked him in the ribs and shouted a curse at him. His whole body throbbed with pain as he lay in the long-grass, gasping for air.
It had been a long shot anyway, but he'd had to try.
For days he walked behind them, dizzy with exhaustion, his nerves frayed from the constant attacks. They passed out of the Beor mountain range and walked along the plains that edged the Hadarac Desert, the moss and woods turning into hard-packed ground and scattered, lonely trees.
Murtagh's body screamed for water, but he was given only pitiful sips. His lips were cracked and his skin scorched, and he felt like his very lungs were rattling with the dryness of the air. But he refused to show weakness to the vile magicians who'd taken him as their prize.
He would not ask for food or water. He would not ask for rest. He would not answer their taunts or tell them anything they asked. He would keep his pride, at least, 'til the end, and he would die before giving up any information about Eragon.
But as the days passed he began to lose hope that Eragon was coming to get him–surely a dragon would've caught up with them by now.
He held onto the hope that perhaps Ajihad had survived the Urgal attack; as long as a healer had reached him before he succumbed to his wounds, he would have had a chance. Maybe Ajihad would send a search party out for him, he thought weakly. The Twins must have left some sort of trace of their devious plan, some sort of path to follow.
If anybody cared enough to follow it, A darker voice in his mind said. After all–who was he to Ajihad? Who was he to Eragon, even? Son of Morzan, first and foremost. If anything, they probably suspected him of treachery against the Twins.
He tried not to let these thoughts have too much weight in his mind. Eragon was a friend, he told himself. They had grown to trust each other. They'd worked well together, and fought by each other's side. He cared enough to at least try to look, right?
After weeks of travel they began to pass by a few small villages along their way, but always one of the Twins would go into the town and get supplies, leaving Murtagh bound by magic and rope with the other Twin, who would assault him relentlessly.
Murtagh tried to escape several more times. Once in the middle of the night, he tried to slip away unseen, but the Twins were not ever asleep at the same time, and he was again stopped by the paralyzing spell.
He got the impression that these magicians did not have such a large variety of magic at their disposal; they were vicious mental warriors, but they seemed to use a basic array of spells in various ways, nothing complex or exceptionally powerful. They were nothing compared to Eragon, certainly, or the elf Arya.
Several times Murtagh attempted to reverse the mental attack and turn it on them, to fight his way inside one of their minds so he could gain control.
He wasn't sure what he would do if that ever happened–he'd only ever trained on defending himself, and couldn't do any magic–but it didn't matter, because he never got past their walls. They were well-rested, and had two minds to fortify against him. He was half-dead, in pain, and desperate. They knew he wouldn't stand a chance.
The closer they got to Uru'baen, the more afraid he became. They passed around Fornost and Murtagh attempted another escape, hoping to disappear in the crowds of the small city. But it was unsuccessful.
He'd managed to cut the binding of his hands on a sharp rock again, but he couldn't run fast enough to get out of range of their magic before they shot him down.
The Freckle Twin–called this in Murtagh's mind because he had a collection of three freckles on his left hand that his brother did not have, one of their only distinguishing marks–whipped him with the switch he used on his mule, shouting curses at Murtagh as he lay curled up in the dirt, defending his face from the furious man's blows.
He comforted himself with the knowledge that he was causing them as much annoyance as he could. If he was going to die because of them, he would make them suffer for it.
They were increasingly frustrated at his ability to keep them out of his mind, and their attacks actually became less potent as Murtagh began to understand the rhythm of them, and the feeling of the two magicians' minds. He could sense when one was about to push harder, or when the other was retreating. He could tell when a retreat was real or pretended; he could feel the energy change when both were going to launch at him in unison.
Though his body was so weak it was hard to walk, and his bound hands were constantly shaking, Murtagh kept his defiance against the Twins just as relentless as their attacks. He would do Tornac proud, he was determined.
As it happened, though, his love for his old swordmaster was his downfall.
Three nights after they'd passed Furnost, and only days from Uru'baen, the Twins were waging their mental battle against him, when both of them retreated–and it felt like a true retreat.
Freckle Twin spat in Murtagh's direction as he still muttered the nursery rhyme, unwilling to believe the attack was over. The weasely man said,
"You will regret your insolence, son of Morzan."
But Murtagh kept his eyes closed and mentally recited:
"I've asked the butcher, the cook and the maid
Where has the boy gone and could he have stayed?"
"No matter," The other Twin said coldly. "We'll be in Uru'baen soon. Then you'll see. Perhaps the king will bring out your old swordmaster from the dungeons; cut his fingers off one by one until you submit–"
Tornac?
The word exploded in Murtagh's mind, a sudden spark of hope; he had survived? How?
In the next instant, he realized his mistake.
The lance of thought that assaulted him was sharp and hot with anger, and his moment of lapsed concentration had allowed a crack in his mental wall that the Twins dismantled with the force of a great wave.
Murtagh shouted in pain and pulled at his bonds as he felt their poisonous presence invade his mind. They were emanating glee as they grabbed at his now-panicked thoughts, tearing down the remainder of his defenses and rifling through his feelings like pages in a book.
Murtagh writhed in agony, the ropes cutting into his skin, the tree bark scraping against his back, their minds stabbing him with every pulse of blood to his brain. Visions flashed before his eyes like sparks of flame.
His mother sat over him as he lay in bed, and she sang to him the very nursery rhyme he'd used as a shield,
"Sweet little darling, where have you gone?
Table is ready and supper is on…"
Then he was hiding from his father while Morzan stormed through the mansion in a whirl of anger, breaking anything in his path.
Then he was sitting astride a horse in front of his mother, enjoying the beauty of a spring day.
"Look at the world, Murtagh," She said of the rolling green hills, her arms safe around him, "So beautiful and so big."
Then Murtagh sat at a fine banquet table, his little legs too small to reach the floor, his head barely above the flat expanse.
"You will be great one day, son," Morzan's voice was saying, a hand reaching out to tousle Murtagh's hair, "You will make me proud."
Then pain. Such pain he had never felt, pain he didn't think he could find a word for. And his mother was screaming, and the healers were doting over him and he felt foggy and unsure. What had he done wrong? Why had he been punished?
"Darling, I want you to meet a friend of mine," His mother was saying now, as they were walking in the gardens one afternoon during their short visits together.
Murtagh held her hand and looked up at the shape of a man–thin but strong, his face lined but his eyes gentle, bending down to Murtagh's level the way Morzan never did.
"This is mummy's friend Neal," Selena murmured, "He can help you. If you're ever in trouble, you go to Neal, alright sweetheart?"
"Alright."
"Selena!" Morzan barked, storming into the room where Murtagh and his mother sat playing with wooden figures.
Suddenly the memories seemed to slow, and the word reverberated in Murtagh's skull…
Selena… A…
Then he heard a voice was not a memory, not his own, but one of the Twins, a spark of recognition in their thought.
Well. Isn't that interesting.
Then someone else said her name,
"My lady Selena!" It was the nursemaid, the old woman who cared for Murtagh, and she was helping Morzan's wife–dripping wet, bedraggled, and half-dead–down the cold stone hallway, while Murtagh watched from a crack in a door.
Then he was standing at the edge of a room while a half-dozen servants fussed over his mother, who lay feverishly on a bed, candles flickering about her.
"Call the chief healer," The nursemaid demanded of her younger counterpart, pulling off the drenched clothes that weighed Selena down.
Then the old woman stopped, her attention grabbed by something she saw.
"Ma'am?" The younger girl asked, holding fresh linens and waiting expectantly.
Then her eyes, too, fell on whatever the nursemaid was seeing–whatever Selena's uncovered body was telling them, and the two women met each other's gaze.
"We must never speak of this," The nursemaid commanded in a whisper, "Do you understand? No one must know."
The younger girl was scared.
"Y–yes milady."
Then the nursemaid noticed Murtagh in the doorway, and her expression grew stern.
"You shouldn't be here, son, go on."
But Murtagh couldn't leave. He sat huddled on the cold floor in the hallway, as healers and servants ran to and fro. Something was wrong with his mother. She was sick. She needed help.
He slipped in when the nursemaid had gone for hot water, and came to Selena's side, holding his tiny hand on top of hers and watching her sweat-drenched face.
"Mummy?" His little voice sounded loud in the room. Selena opened her eyes then, just a crack.
"My darling," She whispered, her fingers touching his, "Don't you worry, love," She said with a weak smile. "I'm coming back for you, alright? I'll be back. It'll all be okay. I promise."
Murtagh nodded, but he was crying. Coming back from where?
Then the nursemaid returned, and shooed him from the room. His mother needed help, he had to get her help.
Murtagh ran down the long stone halls as fast as his little legs would carry, his cheeks wet with tears and his sobs echoing off the walls around him.
He burst into the garden in a torrential rain. It was dark, and the flowers were all shuddering on their stems.
Murtagh ran through the rows of plants, shouting,
"Neal?!"
His mother needed help. She said her friend Neal could help..
"Neal! My mummy needs you!" He shouted, not knowing who the man was or what he could do, only that his mother was in trouble.
"Neal?!"
But Neal was not there.
Murtagh gasped awake, his breath a terrible wheeze, his body shaking.
He hung limply from the bonds that held his arms over his head, and tried to stop his vision spinning. The Twins had retreated, but they had a foothold in his mind and were not done with him.
Murtagh kicked himself for his lapse in concentration, for allowing them to finally break in, only days before they'd reached Uru'baen. He shuddered, and tried to regain his bearings, feeling disoriented from the flood of thought and memory that they'd shuffled through, sweeping in like a great storm and snatching up every scrap of interest.
"Well. What a prize you'll make," Freckle Twin said gleefully, touching Murtagh's cheek with one bony finger. Murtagh flinched away, scowling as he tried to stop his body from shivering.
The other Twin smiled wide.
"Oh, I think the King will be quite pleased to learn this."
Murtagh didn't know what they were speaking of; he only knew that his mind had been torn to shreds, scoured and poked and invaded–the one safe refuge he'd had in all his life, the one part of himself he'd ever had control over, and the Twins had taken it from him.
He vowed revenge in his heart, a black hatred for them settling into his bones. He would see them dead if it was the last thing he did.
But they weren't through with him.
Three days more they dragged him along, and every time they stopped, they inserted themselves into his mind again, forcing through until they'd wormed their way into every crevice, conscious and unconscious. He was shown memories he didn't even know he had, he saw flashes of the most terrible moments of his life.
Every embarrassment, every failure, every sweet moment of friendship, every whisper with some noble's daughter in some corner of the capitol, every smile he'd ever shared, every word he exchanged with Nasuada, everything he'd said to Eragon, the Twins took it all.
And when he saw the looming walls of Uru'baen rise in the distance as he tripped along, his legs weak and his mind frayed, he knew it was over. There was now no chance of escape, and the King would end him for his treason.
I'm sorry, Eragon, He thought, knowing that the Twins would give over all the information they'd found in his mind–that soon he would be dead, and the King would use his thoughts as a weapon against his friend.
A small, bitter part of himself lamented that no one had come looking. That Eragon hadn't cared, that Ajihad hadn't cared, that Arya–whose life he'd helped save–hadn't cared… that Nasuada hadn't cared.
He stopped himself from feeling sorry, and instead focused all his energy on maintaining his hatred. He would get what revenge he could, and if he could not, then he would die proud and defiant, looking the King in the eyes as he delivered the killing blow.
He would die fighting, as Tornac had.
