CONTENT WARNING: Self-harm/attempted s-cide; graphic depictions of torture. Please use discretion.
Chapter Four: The Brink
They dragged him through the city with his hands bound, parading him past the rows of houses like a prize buck caught on a hunt. He felt eyes on him–city dwellers glancing his way, looking with pity or disgust. They knew where he was headed–some dangerous criminal, no doubt–and the king's dungeons were not a place many people returned from.
If any of them recognized him–once-high-ranking son of the great Morzan–they didn't indicate it. A few smirked, a few looked sad for him, some coldly indifferent; he tried not to notice either way. He focused on not tripping over the cobblestone, as the streets grew wider and the houses finer.
His heart was pounding and his hands felt hot. Despite his determination not to quaver in the face of his imminent death, the closer they got to the citadel the more panic threatened to overwhelm him. This was it. He would face the king and receive his sentence. Then he would die. And that would be it.
He couldn't lift his gaze from the ground to see the city he'd grown up in. He couldn't bear to walk past the houses he'd visited and the merchants he'd frequented. Couldn't listen to the sound of horse hooves clopping along the cobblestone. This city had been a prison to him, but it had also been his only home.
His wrists screamed as the Twins urged their mules up to the doors of the citadel and finally pulled to a stop.
He stood panting, no hope of escape crossing his mind. Even if he could get free from his bonds and disappear into the crowds of the city, the king already knew he was here, and he would be found.
The guards at the gate looked the Twins up and down skeptically when they approached, and Murtagh kept his eyes down, not wanting to risk the three men recognizing him.
After a bit of arguing, they allowed the Twins to lead Murtagh into the first courtyard, and were met by one of the castle administrators–a thin man with squinting eyes and a sharp jawline. The man bowed when he saw the Twins, and Murtagh recognized him–one of the lackeys who was always lingering around the King, seeking his master's attention.
"My Lords, his majesty was expecting you several days past," The administrator said with a paper thin smile.
"We were delayed," Freckle Twin scowled, yanking on the rope and causing Murtagh to lurch forward and stumble to the ground, hitting his knee hard on the courtyard stone. The administrator looked down at Murtagh like he was something that had crawled out of a sewer.
"I see. Well. If you'll follow me."
Murtagh moved in a daze, flanked on either side by castle guards, who held his thin arms with iron grips and hauled him through the narrow corridors of the citadel.
The last time he'd been here, he was an invited guest of the king. Now he was a prisoner sentenced to death.
He controlled his shaking as they followed the familiar route towards the throne room, but when they stood in front of the great doors, Murtagh fought the urge to be sick.
Die with pride. Die like a man, He reminded himself, feeling every beat of his heart like it was his last.
The doors opened and they entered the massive, echoing room, and Murtagh's ears were ringing with anticipation as they passed four guards on either side of the door. But he saw immediately that the throne was empty, and his heart did a little flip. Perhaps the king was away, perhaps he could not meet them today. Perhaps Murtagh would live to see another dawn.
"His Majesty shall be with you in due time," The castle administrator said with a short bow, and Murtagh's hopes fell.
The man's sharp footsteps echoed in the large room while the Twins looked around admiringly, as though imagining themselves sitting on the right and left of the great throne.
Murtagh fought an eyeroll. Fools that they were, they actually thought delivering him to Galbatorix would win them anymore than a congratulations and a pat on the head. The King did not dole out favors to just anyone. He would take his prize and send them on their way without a second thought, and there was nothing they could do about it.
Sure, they were skilled in mental combat, but they weren't any better than the magicians already in Galbatorix's service, so far as Murtagh could tell, and if the King didn't find them particularly useful, they would either be dismissed or they would end up dead.
Murtagh waited as the seconds crawled by, the two guards still holding him upright by his arms. It got to the point where he wanted to hurry up and be done with it, despite the fear pulsing through his veins.
When Murtagh finally heard the great doors they had entered through swing open again, he straightened himself and squared his shoulders, ready for what would come.
"So you managed it after all," A voice said, and Murtagh felt a chill down his back. He recognized the voice–soothing and deep and somehow hollow at the same time, full of coldness but so vast that it was hard to listen to the individual words.
"Your Majesty," Both the Twins murmured, but Murtagh kept his eyes angled down as he felt a figure walk past with slow steps, and circle around to face him.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw the figure wave a hand, and the two guards holding him released their grasp, and marched back towards the door. It took a moment for Murtagh to steady himself, but he kept upright.
"I thought you'd lost your way in the Hadarac," The heavy voice crooned again, "But I suppose not."
"No, your majesty."
"And the Varden leader?"
"Dead, your majesty."
Murtagh felt his heart clench.
No.
He'd been holding onto the hope that Ajihad might have made it, might have been healed. But unless the Twins were lying…
"Well done. You will both be rewarded," The King said coldly, and Murtagh felt the Twins bow next to him. But they weren't content to be silent.
"We do have news that may be of interest to you, your majesty," Freckle Twin said quickly, bowing again.
"We've broken the boy, and retrieved valuable information from his mind."
There was a moment's silence and Murtagh sensed a slight coldness coming from the man who stood in front of him. The King seemed displeased by this news; perhaps he had wanted to break Murtagh himself.
Murtagh wondered if he would get the pleasure of seeing Galbatorix kill the Twins in anger, but then the moment passed and the King spoke in a soft but dangerous voice.
"Very well. I will consult with you shortly."
The Twins wisely kept silent and bowed.
Then Murtagh felt the king's attention turn to him. He still did not look up, his eyes fixed on a spot between the King's booted feet. He did not want to see the man's cold eyes when he spoke the killing words, or swung his deadly blade.
"Well," The voice said calmly, and Murtagh felt a finality in the word. He fought to keep his legs from shaking.
Die like a man.
"I don't think it need be stated that I am… disappointed, Murtagh," The King continued, and Murtagh fought a shudder, hearing his name out of this man's mouth. He kept his eyes down and clenched his fists together to keep them from shaking.
"I offer you a position that men have, quite literally, killed for… but when the time comes that I call on you to fulfill your duties… you flee. And you join the very enemies who are trying to tear this kingdom apart."
Murtagh felt the air charged with energy. He was expecting a blow any moment, a snap from calm to fury, a sudden pain.
"I'd like you to look at me when I'm speaking, Murtagh," The King chided. Murtagh was trembling, but he kept his eyes down.
Die like a man.
But then the King spoke a word in the magic tongue, and Murtagh felt his head forced up against his will, his chin high and quivering. His eyes landed on King Galbatorix, dressed in fine gray layers, a cold crown on his head, black hair framing his chiseled face, deep set eyes that bespoke a hidden madness. Murtagh fought not to be sick.
"That's better," The King murmured softly. Then he began to pace calmly in front of Murtagh, as though taking a stroll in a summer garden.
"You take the coward's route, and run from your duties to me, but yet you would throw in your lot with the doomed force of rebels hiding out in the mountains." The King tutted. "I confess myself confused, Murtagh, and that does not happen easily."
Murtagh remained silent. He felt the Twins amusement next to him, they were certainly enjoying the suspense, waiting for the killing blow.
"Still… your little rebellion has proved useful, in some ways. I now know the location and identity of the new rider; the Varden are weakened, and their leader dead. I have you, in part, to thank for all that."
"You should just kill me now," Murtagh spat, before he could lose his nerve, "I'm not telling you anything."
The King's eyebrow rose.
"Indeed?" He said coolly.
Then silence stretched. Murtagh took in shallow, shaking breaths, but he refused to look away.
Die like a man.
"No, I think not," The King said. Then he took a deep breath.
"I am going to give you a second chance, Murtagh. For your father's sake."
Murtagh's shoulders hunched.
"You will swear fealty to me," The King determined, "and serve as a soldier in my army. If you demonstrate loyalty, as your father did, I will even allow you to work your way up the ranks, in time, and possibly achieve the same position you might've held before your foolish escapade."
Murtagh struggled to keep still, and the king turned to him, expecting a response. He took a few breaths to steady himself, his eyes fixed in the distance. He couldn't look the man in the eyes and get the words out.
"I won't swear anything to you," Murtagh managed, "So you can just kill me now."
The King sighed heavily, still slowly pacing.
"No, Murtagh. Your life ends when I decide."
There was a stretch of silence, and Murtagh fought panic.
This was not the plan. He was supposed to walk in and be beheaded, or killed in an instant with a magic word, or run through with a sword or eaten by a dragon. That was the plan. Die like a man. Now Galbatorix was showing him mercy? Expecting him to pledge loyalty?
His mouth was dry, and he couldn't think straight.
He didn't want to die, but he certainly didn't want to become a slave to the mad king for the rest of his life, which would likely be short and unpleasant. If he swore loyalty to Galbatorix, he would be dishonoring Tornac, would be making his sacrifice meaningless. He had to stick to his determination.
"I will not pledge myself to you," Murtagh said, his voice clear and calm.
There was a beat of quiet, and the King stood still. Murtagh could hear the hammering of his heart in his chest, feel the tiled floor beneath his boots, see the dust particles floating through the half-lit air. Everything was sharp and focused, his senses heightened.
"Very well," Galbatorix said quietly.
Then the King raised a hand and beckoned to two of the guards who stood by the door. Murtagh fought the urge to bolt as he heard the men's sturdy footsteps across the floor.
"I had hoped to avoid any unpleasantness, Murtagh," The King said as the guards approached, "But if you will not willingly swear oaths to me, you will have to be… convinced."
Murtagh kept his mouth shut, not trusting himself to speak in that moment.
"As you wish," The King said, disappointed. Then, to the guards he said, "Take him to the dungeonmaster."
The two guards grabbed ahold of Murtagh's arms again and forced him around, his feet tripping over themselves.
"I hope you'll see sense, Murtagh," The King called after him. "Your father would be disappointed."
In the black, choking dungeons under the citadel of Uru'baen–a place of which he had only heard horrible rumors as a young man–Murtagh was acquainted with new forms of pain.
The guards themselves seemed to want to plug their noses at the smell as they dragged Murtagh down sets of stairs into the underbelly of the citadel.
The clogging smoke of many torches–the only things keeping back the darkness–threatened to choke Murtagh before ever he made it to a cell.
He tried to steel his nerves, knowing that torture was coming, knowing that oaths of fealty would be demanded of him, and that he had to refuse. But it was difficult, when his tongue tasted acid in the air, and his eyes stung from smoke, and the dampness of the walls around him made him feel suffocated.
The guards turned him over to a grim man with thick arms and a scarred face, and hurried away themselves back to the daylight. This man–whom Murtagh assumed was the dungeonmaster–had his own assistants; black-clothed, pale men with biting grips.
They forced Murtagh onto a rough wooden slab, shackled his wrists and ankles, and cut his shirt off his body. He tried to pull away from his captors, but they were practiced at their craft, and he was weakened from his long travel.
Feeling the coarse wood of the slab against his back, Murtagh breathed unevenly through his nose, blinking up at the damp stone ceiling and trying to hold back his fear. The scarred man shuffled in the darkness, saying no word until he turned to stand over Murtagh, a small iron vice in his hand.
"Will you swear fealty to his Majesty King Galbatorix?" The man asked in a dull voice, his eyes deadened. Murtagh's gaze flicked to the device in the man's hand, guessing its uses, his chest rose and fell with uneven gasps, but through trembling lips he managed to say,
"No."
The man was expressionless as he bent towards Murtagh's hands and put the vice around his fingers. Then the man turned a screw and Murtagh felt pressure pushing against his nails, he blinked and tried to look away.
"Will you swear fealty to his Majesty King Galbatorix?" The man asked again.
"No," Murtagh scowled at the ceiling. And the crank was turned again. He grunted in pain as he felt the clamp crushing down upon his fingers, but when the dungeonmaster asked his question a third time, Murtagh remained steadfast.
Again the clamp closed, and again tendrils of pain fired up his hand, and again he was asked, and again he refused.
He tried to keep his mouth shut and hold in his pain, but when he felt his fingernails crack under the pressure, and the broken shards began to dig into his tender flesh, he cried out and arched his back, trying unsuccessfully to pull away from the iron clamp.
When the fingers on his right hand were a mottled mess of bruising, the man moved to his left. This time he did not use a vice, but rather, thin pieces of sharpened metal. After asking Murtagh if he would swear fealty, and receiving a refusal, the scarred man pushed the metal pieces underneath each finger nail bed, sending sparks of hot agony up each finger.
Murtagh struggled against his bonds, and groaned with pain as the metal spikes were driven deeper, numbness and tingling and fire running up and down his whole arm. Still, he refused.
He began to lose track of time, in the darkness of the chambers below Uru'baen, as the grim-faced dungeon master moved from one torture to the next, always asking a question Murtagh had to repudiate.
The man seemed to know when Murtagh had become so desensitized by one form of punishment that he could no longer feel the agony through his numbness, and so he would move onto another, to reawaken new waves of pain.
After an endlessly long time, Murtagh was given a coarse gray tunic and dragged to a cell, dropped there in chains on a cold stone floor scattered with straw. He lay on his side, shaking, his breath trembling as he tried to blink the pain away.
Perhaps it had been a day, perhaps an hour, before they'd given him a break from the torture, he couldn't think of when he'd met with the King in the throne room. Had that even been real? Or had it been a nightmare?
He was too hurt to feel hungry, but when one of the black-clad men came by with an old piece of bread and cheese and a cup of dirty water, he ate and drank as best he could with his mutilated hands. Then he lay in a stupor on the floor, feeling every pulse of blood to his body as it lit up his pain again.
It wasn't long enough when the black-clad men returned, waking him from his half-conscious state, and unlocking his chains from the ring on the ground. He knew what was coming, as they hauled him back through the dark tunnels, and the knowing only made it worse. Again he fought futilely as they pushed him down onto the rough wooden slab, removing the gray sack they'd given him to wear.
The dungeonmaster turned to him again, as though no time had passed, and said,
"Will you swear fealty to His Majesty King Galbatorix?" His dead tone filling the dark room.
"No," Murtagh managed, pouring out his fury through gritted teeth. He would not submit. He would not shame Tornac's memory. They would have to kill him.
The dungeon master lifted the lid of a brazier that held hot coals, and Murtagh's stomach did a sick twist. When the man drew out a thin rod with a sharp, glowing-hot tip, Murtagh whimpered in fear and tried to pull away from his shackles, but of course it was futile.
He screamed when the sharp tip pressed into the skin near his ribs, both cutting and burning, creating pain like a hole was being dug into his side and filled with dragon fire. He twisted until he thought his wrists and ankles might crack, trying to escape the burning as it blackened his flesh.
"Will you swear fealty to His Majesty King Galbatorix?" The man asked again, and Murtagh shouted,
"No!" Through waves of agony.
The hot metal attacked again.
Patches of blackened skin ran down Murtagh's side as the dungeonmaster continued his questioning, and Murtagh's body began to tremble uncontrollably, his breath rattling like cold winter wind.
His mind felt bleary and confused; he couldn't remember where he was or how he'd gotten there. When the dungeon master asked him to swear fealty to the king, the words swam in his head indecipherably. He was sweating and shivering at the same time, his view of the ceiling above blurring in and out. Who was he? Why was he being punished like this? What had he done?
After the fire was the water. They covered Murtagh's head with a cloth bag, and they poured water over him until he was certain he would drown, and he choked and spluttered when they removed it and the voice over him said,
"Will you swear fealty?"
And he shook his head, because he no longer trusted himself to speak.
They dragged him back to the straw-floor cell, and he lay there for hours again, trying to remember who he was. His trembling hands spilled out most of the water they brought for him, and the bread tasted like ash.
When the black-clad men came back again, he tried to strangle one of them with the chain of his shackles, but before he got a sure grip around the man, his companion struck him with a heavy wooden mallet and sent him stumbling into the bars of the cell, dazed and seeing sparks.
Again the dungeon master asked him his question, and again Murtagh shook his head, no longer consciously aware of why he was being asked or why he was refusing, only that it was his life's mission to say no, over and over he would say no. That was all he could do.
During one of the brief respites from his agony, as he lay on the wooden slab feeling his skin throb with pain where the dungeon master had grated it like so much cheese, he felt a different man standing over him, and the voice of the King saying,
"It needn't be so hard, Murtagh. Give up. Let this foolishness end."
The voice was smooth and lulling, but it sparked a memory: of the man who had demanded Murtagh march into a village and slaughter a hundred innocents. Of the frantic pacing as Murtagh tried to find a way out of his obligation. Of Tornac's calming presence, a compass of morality. And then of a hurried flight and a terrible scream, watching Tornac fall and holding him as he died.
Tornac.
The thought which before had been his undoing now was his anchor in the sea of his agony. He could not give in. He could not dishonor the man who'd been more like a father to him than anyone. He would continue to refuse.
There was no part of him that did not hurt. Days passed, how many he could not say, and a dreadful routine fell into place. He looked forward only to the hours when he would be allowed to lie in the corner of the dank cell, the cold floor soothing his throbbing skin as he tried to think of anything but his pain.
He would stare at the wall, where a loose nail stuck out from under the bars, and imagine prying it free, working loose all the nails and pushing down the bars and making a run for freedom. But his shaking hands were too weak even to grasp the nail, much less pry it loose.
He began to beg, hating himself for it, but unable to stop. He pleaded for mercy, for his freedom, for a pause to the torment. He pleaded for water, for sunlight, for one kind touch. He screamed his pleas even as the dungeon master struck his back with a glass-threaded whip, even as he forced his hands into a bed of hot coals, and poured a sour black liquid down his throat until he choked. He begged for death, but his captors would not acquiesce.
His survival they made sure of, sending in a healer every few days to draw Murtagh back from the brink of oblivion. There was a small draught of relief in the healing, but that relief was soured by the knowledge that it was only preparing him for more pain.
He'd once grabbed the wrist of the woman who was kneeling over him chanting her magic, and begged her to end his life with her words, but she merely pulled her hand from his weakened grasp, and continued her assignment.
He began to feel himself slipping.
He no longer refused when the dungeon master asked, he only remained silent. He didn't trust himself to open his mouth, fearing a "Yes" would come out. He tried to remember Tornac, tried to hold on to the anger that fueled his resolve, but the memories were gradually being snuffed out by the wind of agony.
What did it matter, anyway? Tornac was dead, after all, he'd never know he'd been betrayed. Who would find out? No one was coming for him. Eragon had forgotten him, Ajihad was dead, the elf whose life he'd saved apparently did not care to repay the debt. Why would it matter, if he just said yes?
His bloodied feet dragged as the black-clad men hauled him back to his cell once again, chained him to the floor, and left him curled up by the wall. His chin trembled, and he began to sob, a whimper growing into tears that made lines through the dirt and blood on his face.
"Please, Eragon…" He whispered, cradling his head like he was going mad.
"Please…" He croaked, thinking perhaps he could reach Eragon in his mind, perhaps his pain was loud enough, perhaps someone would hear, and they would know, and they would care.
But no one did.
He stared at the rusty nail, no longer dreaming of breaking his way out. He would submit, or he would die. And they weren't letting him die.
His gaze fixated on the sharp, protruding edge, thinking how easy it would be, how quick, how soothing, to end his pain. He couldn't keep saying no. He was going to break soon, if he didn't do something. But this he could do.
It wouldn't dishonor Tornac, would it? He could die like a man, as he'd wanted to. He could perform one last rebellion against the tyrant King, could escape, knowing that he'd kept his word.
Seconds passed like hours, and he couldn't look away. His breath was shallow and his mind blank except for a voice that said,
Die like a man.
"I'm sorry," He whispered, though to whom he wasn't sure. He reached out his shaking hand.
When it happened, he gasped in pain, but then the hurt from his wrist dissipated into his whole arm, and it hardly registered amidst all his other injuries.
His vision began to blur, and hot blood spread from the wound. He rolled onto his back, and stared up at the ceiling as he felt his heart begin to beat sluggishly, his wrist cradled against his chest as the life left him.
He had one last regretful thought–wondering if any of the Varden would ever know he'd survived the tunnels under Farthen Dur–if Eragon would ever know how hard he'd tried.
I'm sorry.
Then his vision went black.
