CW: Violence
Murtagh often spent time tucked away in the Old Chestnut, keeping company with the chatty merchant Garren, who was one of only a few tavern customers that would dare take a seat next to him. It was clear that his identity had become known, but his being the son of Morzan didn't seem to bother Garren in the slightest. Murtagh got the impression that the man was lonely, and he was good at keeping up a steady stream of mindless talk that drowned out Murtagh's other thoughts, so he didn't mind keeping the man company.
It was a drizzly, gray evening and they sat by one of only two grease-darkened windows in the seedy establishment, each sitting over their fourth mug of ale. That was another good thing about Garren–he could keep up.
Usually Garren spent his time talking about his business as a maker and seller of fine tableware–elaborate goblets, mostly; he was very passionate about goblets. He spoke of his travels to other cities, or humorous anecdotes from his upbringing in Belatona. The man had no family so far as Murtagh could tell, or at least he didn't speak of them, and he seemed single-mindedly focused on his business, though from the number of times he complained about having no money, Murtagh figured he must not be a very good businessman.
Today, however, Garren's talk had drifted–whether unwittingly due to drink or purposefully due to curiosity–to the war.
"Hear talk of those rebels gettin' in league wif 'de Surdans, eh?" He murmured, scrunching his nose out the rain-splattered window. "Bloody vagrants can't leave us in peace what just want to eke a living."
Murtagh grunted in agreement, a response which he had found would usually satisfy Garren's need for approval, and send him onto his next thought.
"You know I says to me mate the other day, I says… them rebels is kiddin' themselves, if they fink that one lousy dragon can stand against the whole of the empire, eh? I says to him, I says–that Shadeslayer bloke, he may be powerful, but he's noffin' on the king. Pit our dragons against his, and there's no fight."
Garren smacked the table with the palm of his hand, pronounced and final.
"No fight attall! Bloody ended, they'd be."
Murtagh was holding his mug of ale close, hunched over the table, about to offer his usual grunt of agreement, when his mind caught on something.
He blinked, and lifted his gaze as Garren downed the last of his drink.
Suddenly Murtagh was utterly sober.
"What do you mean 'dragons'?" He asked, his voice low and his body still. Garren paused, one hand on his empty glass.
The man was half-way to a smile, but his face blanched, and there was a spark of fear in his eyes.
"Oh… I just mea–"
"Letta," Murtagh said quickly, quietly. And the man was frozen before he could rise out of the booth, his expression suddenly terrified.
Without hesitation, Murtagh stabbed out with his mind, hitting against Garren's defenses, which were decent enough, but no match for him. He felt the man's fear as he twisted his way through the mental walls, brushing aside the blockade as though it were a pile of dead leaves.
He felt first the man's surprise and fear, then scraps of words, impressions, sounds, images…
No! Don't think about it, shut him out! He can't–
Murtagh saw furtive whisperings in dark alleyways. Saw Garren riding into Uru'baen, his head cloaked. Saw heat waves rippling off the sandstone buildings of Surda. Saw Garren standing in a tiled room, before a young woman with dark skin and a simple green dress.
"Find out what you can, and report back. But know this," Nasuada's voice carried through the memory, "If you are caught, we cannot help you."
"Yes, milady," Garren bowed.
Murtagh ripped himself out of the man's mind and slammed up his own defenses, blinking in the hazy light of the old tavern, staring at the merchant who sat frozen across the table from him.
No, not merchant.
Spy.
Murtagh swore under his breath.
Dragons. The man had said dragons, as in more than one, as in he knew about Thorn. He couldn't have known about Thorn. He wasn't a part of the court or castle staff, and every single person who knew of Thorn's existence had been sworn to secrecy by the ancient language.
Murtagh glared at Garren, furious with the man for being so stupid, reeling from the sight of Nasuada in his memories.
Garren's eyes quivered. He knew he was done for. He knew this was it.
"Losna," Murtagh muttered, and the man shifted forward clumsily, the binding spell on him broken. Still he did not move. He knew it was futile to run.
Murtagh closed his eyes, his hands gripping the mug of ale in front of him.
"Blast you, you bloody idiot," Murtagh hissed, barely containing himself.
Garren was shuddering, but Murtagh steeled himself, and took a breath. When he opened his eyes, his voice was hard and determined.
"Get out of the city. Tonight," He muttered, unmoving. Garren blinked.
"I d–"
"Don't say anything to me. Get yourself and anyone with you out of the city, or you're going to die," Murtagh said through gritted teeth.
It was only a matter of time before Galbatorix took another look into his mind, sifted through his memories again, checked up on him. As soon as he did, Garren would be finished. Anything Murtagh knew, Galbatorix would know.
Murtagh had sworn no oath that forced him to relay any Varden secrets he happened upon to the King. He was not required to report Garren's existence immediately.
The spy blinked, brow furrowing in confusion. Murtagh could hear his heart pounding.
He met the man's gaze, as his confusion turned to realization, a shocked gratitude transforming his features.
He nodded, shakily.
"Th–thank you."
"Just go."
Garren nearly stumbled, getting out of the booth, his limbs trembling. He hurried for the door of the tavern, casting back a bewildered glance in Murtagh's direction.
The man's face grew solemn, and he nodded, understanding that Murtagh had just saved his life.
He disappeared into the street, and Murtagh sat emptily in the booth for a moment more, his head still spinning. He knew the King would discover his betrayal eventually, and when he did…
Stop it, Murtagh clenched his hands together to keep them from shaking, resisting the urge to stand up and run after the man, to turn him into the King and receive a reward, rather than the punishment that now awaited him.
He found himself clinging to the fading image of Nasuada from Garren's mind–sitting in a high-backed chair, like a queen on a throne, the Surdan sun filtering through a window, her green dress sparkling against her beautiful skin.
Stop it, Murtagh said again, pulling himself back from the memory. He waited a few seconds more, giving Garren time to disappear in the streets, then he placed down his coin and left the Old Chestnut, knowing he would never return.
So far as Murtagh could tell, Galbatorix never found out about the spy.
He had stopped searching Murtagh's mind as often as in the beginning–seeming to think that he had his servant under his control, and that Murtagh was bound by too many oaths to consider sedition.
Although he was afraid of the King's wrath should his betrayal be discovered, Murtagh moved throughout his days with a sense of self-satisfaction, a knowledge that he had a secret, that he had done something against Galbatorix, and the King didn't know it yet. Perhaps Garren would make it back to Surda, with news of Thorn, news of Murtagh, praising his bravery to Nasuada, showing her that Murtagh still clung to his allegiance with the rebels, despite the oaths that bound him.
Murtagh supposed it was too much to hope, though. If he were Garren, he would find a medium-sized city to hide away in for a few months, disappear into a crowd, and cut all ties with the Varden, until he was certain he was not being watched. That would be the smart thing to do.
Murtagh tried not to think about it as he returned to his training the next day. He'd told Thorn of the incident, and his partner had approved of his choice to let the spy go, though of course he worried for the consequences that would befall them.
It may have been better to turn him in, Thorn worried, Than to face what the King will bring upon us.
Who knows what information he has on the Varden? Who knows what Galbatorix could've learned from his mind about Eragon or–or about Nasuada? It might've put them in danger.
It's putting you in danger, Thorn reminded.
Thorn was surprisingly empathetic, considering his upbringing, and he did care for the people Murtagh cared for, as an extension of himself. But he did not place the same value on the lives of those he had never met–Eragon and Nasuada were just names in his head, images in Murtagh's memory, not true friends, not people to whom his heart was attached. He looked out for Murtagh's safety, and anything that compromised that was immediately suspect.
It's too late now, anyway, Murtagh dismissed. If Garren's smart he's miles from Uru'baen now.
Thorn huffed, but remained silent. Murtagh now had no doubt that the man was, in fact, smart. The silly, chattering goblet maker who drank too much mead was clearly a front he'd constructed to get Murtagh to let his guard down. It had bloody worked, too, for a time.
Despite his training to be aware of other people's minds, Murtagh hadn't thought twice about sensing the man's mental barriers. Many people in Uru'baen knew how to guard their minds. Murtagh had dismissed Garren for exactly what he appeared to be–a lonely, simple man with little money and much to say. He now wondered what the spy was really like, having pulled himself from Garren's mind before he could learn too much.
Through his observances of the King's war councils, Murtagh could tell that the conflict with the Varden in Surda was coming to a head. Things were happening quickly, and he knew it would not be long before he and Thorn were called upon to act.
Galbatorix began to include them more in the discussions with the various generals, placing lieutenants under them, teaching them battle strategies. If any of the King's servants resented Murtagh's authority, they refrained from showing it, but Murtagh knew they didn't think well of him. Fear him? Of course. Respect him? No. He was another puppet of the King, just as they were, but unlike them he had a dragon and a universe's worth of magic at his disposal. Unlike them, he was not replaceable.
In the throne room, emptied of any guards or servants, Galbatorix taught Murtagh how to harness energy from outside of himself, a revelation that made him dizzy with possibility. Certainly Eragon hadn't known this was possible, when they were fighting their way across Alagaesia, trying to stay alive. To think that any plant or animal could provide energy necessary to perform magic, even when a person was at their weakest.
As with every new skill Murtagh learned, he mourned his ignorance, knowing that any piece of this knowledge could've helped him get out of his predicament, kept him free of Galbatorix's control.
As it was, the first day Galbatorix taught him to harness energy around him, he did not send him to the gardens to draw energy from the plants, or to the stables to take it from horses and mules. Six servants were brought into the throne room, and Galbatorix said,
"Lift Thorn off the ground two feet."
Murtagh blinked, and looked at Thorn.
"You know the spell. The only thing preventing you from doing so, is insufficient energy. You may draw that energy from the people around you." Galbatorix gestured. "Once you master this skill, you will be unlimited, so long as you can access living things that are not guarded against magic."
Murtagh frowned, glancing back at the servants, who stood quietly in a line, nervous but still.
He took a breath, organizing his thought and focusing his magic on Thorn, who shifted uneasily. He would draw as much energy as he could from himself, first, before taking from the servants–they didn't deserve to be treated like plants. "Living things" Galbatorix had called them, like they were bugs or trees, and not people.
"Reisa," Murtagh said, his palm extended towards Thorn. Immediately he felt a great drain of energy drag him down. He grunted from the exertion, sweat beading upon his brow. Before a few seconds had elapsed, he was forced to divert the magic away from himself and to the line of people behind him. He touched their minds and felt their nervousness and their fatigue as the magic siphoned from all their strengths.
Murtagh gritted his teeth, his hand shaking as Thorn's huge bulk began to lift from the floor. One inch he rose, and Murtagh felt the drain like heavy stones on his back, then two; then he reached a foot. He was in the air nearly two feet, when suddenly Murtagh felt a great fearful cry in his mind, and his eyes snapped open.
"Letta!" He shouted, and Thorn fell to the ground, but it was too late.
He whirled towards the line of servants. Two were still standing, swaying tiredly, four were on the ground. Three of them were dead.
Murtagh let out a cry, stumbling backwards as another servant fell to his knees in exhaustion.
"Very good," Galbatorix said, as though nothing out of the ordinary had occurred, "You see that your power is only limited by how much energy you can find around you."
"You knew that would happen!" Murtagh shouted before he could stop himself, his brain flooded with the thoughts of the three dead people–two men, one woman– people whose minds he'd been connected with, as their bodies gave out and they entered the void.
He felt sickened.
"Yes, I knew that weak vessels can only give so much power. When they have given what they can, they are no longer of use."
Murtagh stared at the crumpled bodies on the floor, grimacing, clenching his hands. The King had let them die for a training exercise. Servants just doing their job, going about their day–not rebels, not spies, not insubordinates. Just people trying to live. And the King had killed them; Murtagh had killed them.
"If I've told you once, I've told you a dozen times, Murtagh," The King continued as guards came to drag the dead bodies away, and help the exhausted survivors to a healer, "You've got to harden yourself to all this nonsense. Much must be sacrificed in the pursuit of peace. Until you learn that, you will have to keep suffering these lessons."
Murtagh knew he should look away, stop staring as the guard folded up the arms of the dead woman and lifted her from the floor. But he couldn't. He had felt her life snuff out. She was someone's daughter, someone's wife perhaps. She could've been anyone. She could've been Demelza.
Murtagh, Thorn's mind pressed to his, It does not do to dwell on these things. You didn't know. You couldn't have prevented it.
Murtagh bit the inside of his cheek to keep himself from crying. Thorn was right. And the King was right. He had to harden himself. He'd given up hope of freedom long ago, but now he had to give up this idea that he was somehow still good, somehow still able to make any right choices.
You feel nothing, He told himself as they carted the bodies away.
Because nothing mattered.
Two days later, Galbatorix brought Thorn and he to a room in the castle he'd never been before, near the treasury, and he made him swear not to reveal anything of what he was about to see.
When they walked into the half-light of the dusty room, Murtagh's eyes took some time to adjust. It was full of shelves, three levels high, and on those shelves sat padded wooden boxes, and in those boxes sat dozens and dozens of round, shining objects, opalescent, slightly luminous.
Before Murtagh could truly comprehend what he was seeing, his mind was swept with the sudden whisperings of a hundred voices. He inhaled sharply, and backed away, slamming up his defenses as Thorn did. But Galbatorix's calming voice said,
"Not to worry. They cannot harm you, they are under my power. They listen to me."
Murtagh frowned, blinking about the room, trying to find the source of the mental noise.
It was then that he learned of the Eldunari.
They came from the dragons, Galbatorix said, every dragon had one–even Thorn–and in the days of old most dragons disgorged their Eldunari and used it as a way to communicate with their riders even from afar. Eldunari varied in size and power; the younger the dragon, the smaller and weaker the heart.
Murtagh was in a haze as he walked through the rows of shelves alongside the King, feeling the brief touch of thought from every colored orb he passed. He felt Thorn's strange mix of emotion–wonder at the knowledge that these minds were dragon-minds, minds like his–and terrible sadness at the understanding that they were enslaved in a prison of their own making.
"This is a secret known only to you, and to me, and to scarce few of my most loyal servants. The source of my ever-greatening power. Now I grant you access to this source, so that you may use it to crush our enemies."
Murtagh stared with a mix of wonder and horror as Galbatorix handed to him one of the smallest of the orbs–a glassy ball no bigger than a grapefruit, tinted with a purple hue and swirled with white.
Thorn's head hung over his shoulder, watching the pulsing light within the orb. Murtagh felt whispers of thought coming from the Eldunari–the dragon must have been no older than Thorn, when it had disgorged its heart. He felt a profound sadness from the creature–a cowed, weakened thing, barely conscious, existing only as the source of a mad man's power.
Galbatorix taught Murtagh how to control the Eldunari–young ones, all–small but containing significant power. It felt wrong, forcing them to his will, bending their minds in the direction he asked, but he knew he could not refuse. This was what Galbatorix had been training him for all along–the secret weapon, the advantage they held over Eragon and the Varden. These dragon-hearts would be Galbatorix's hammer to swing against the Varden. Murtagh was merely the vessel through which they would work.
In the back of his mind Murtagh realized he had held onto the small hope that when he faced Eragon, his brother might be able to best him, might be able to come out victorious and perhaps take Murtagh and Thorn captive, forcing them out of the fight until Eragon could defeat Galbatorix. He would've gladly sat in a Surdan prison for the duration of the war, if it meant he could avoid being used as Galbatorix's weapon. But that hope died now. Eragon had no Eldunari, Murtagh knew this without a doubt. The fight was over before it had even begun.
He comforted Thorn in their chambers that evening, knowing that learning of the dragon-hearts had hurt him more, feeling his partner's keen sorrow.
Such wisdom they could share, such knowledge is held within them, and yet we use them as leeches use a passing deer; to suck their life away for our own sustenance.
He leaned his head against Thorn's jaw. The dragon had become eloquent and insightful, able to put into words feelings that Murtagh was just barely aware of, and showing a mastery of language that was unexpected from someone having learned to speak only months previous.
"I'm sorry," Murtagh comforted, unable to find his own words that would fix Thorn's hurt.
One week after revealing the dragon hearts to Murtagh, when he had been able to show control over the collection of young Eldunari that the King had placed in his care, Murtagh was summoned to Galbatorix's map room, and the King told him that the Varden had crossed the Surdan border, and were amassing an army on the Burning Plains below Feinster.
"It is time to bring your brother and his dragon back to us. It is time to end the Varden."
Murtagh felt coldness in his bones.
"Is Eragon not still in Du Weldenvarden?"
"He will come. Rest assured. He labors under the delusion that he must stand with the Varden and fight. Unlike us, your brother has an inflated sense of honor, which will not allow him to stay sequestered among the elves when his liege lord is waging war."
Nasuada. That's who the King meant. They'd received word that Eragon had publicly dedicated himself to her service almost immediately after she'd taken over Ajihad's position. It was an act that Murtagh envied–how he wished he could've pledged himself to Nasuada, served under her, protected her, stood by her side and fought instead of…
No. You don't know her. She doesn't matter. Nothing matters.
"I command you to go to the Burning Plains and attempt to bring Eragon and Saphira back to me. Alive. You will not kill them."
He swore the oath that Galbatorix made him swear, feeling a sudden chill that did not come from the cold.
You feel nothing.
It was like a switch had been flipped, and suddenly everything was frantic. Murtagh was fitted for armor, given a list of wards to cast about himself and Thorn, and handed over control of the young Eldunari.
He forced himself not to think as he bustled about the city, gathering the supplies he would need for the long journey south, preparing himself for the battle that had loomed over him for months.
But Eragon-brother-Murtagh is our friend, Thorn protested, his great eyes full of sadness as Murtagh strapped on his sword belt, packing his armor away before they left.
"Not anymore," Murtagh answered, determined to harden himself against this worst, most terrible thing.
He was going to the Burning Plains, and he was going to kill his brother. It didn't matter that Galbatorix wanted them alive–he would still be responsible for Eragon's death, when the stubborn rider refused to serve the King. Galbatorix had been right–Eragon did have an inflated sense of honor, Saphira too. Murtagh knew that they would not submit, as he had; they would suffer endless torment, and then they would die, rather than betray their ideals. And it would be his fault.
He tamped down all feeling and refused to let himself mourn.
So what.
Eragon would die and that would be that.
It didn't matter.
Nothing mattered.
Flying out from Uru'baen under a cloak of invisible magic, Murtagh might've felt a thrill of freedom, leaving the confines of the city, and, for the first time in months, flying to a new place with the open horizon in front of him. But he was no more free now than he had been in the cell beneath the castle. They were flying not to freedom, but to the end of all hope.
It's just us, now, Murtagh told Thorn, We look out for ourselves. Nothing else matters. You and me.
Thorn hummed along, uneasy but determined. He understood their purpose, their need.
They flew south for a full day, and when they landed they slept in the wilderness, shielded by magic, and Murtagh tried not to think about those days traveling with Eragon–with his brother–when they passed the evening by the fire, the horses nickering quietly while Saphira's breaths filled the air.
He tried not to yearn for the chance to show Thorn Alagaesia–to really show him–to wake up in the morning and decide for themselves where they might go. He wanted it so badly it made him sick: to rise with the sun, pick a direction, and fly until they grew tired, beholden to no one but themselves, limited only by the strength of their limbs. He huddled close to Thorn's warmth, and let the night eat itself away until dawn breached the eastern sky.
They kept flying.
The smoke was the first thing he noticed–an orange-gray haze that rose on the horizon the closer Thorn flew. Murtagh felt a nervous anticipation in his stomach, knowing that they were near, knowing that this was it. He breathed deep, and placed a hand against Thorn's neck as the dragon's muscles tightened with every beat of his wings.
Nothing else matters.
They followed the King's directions to find the Empire's army arrayed along the banks of the Jiet River, shrouded in layers of thick smoke. Murtagh allowed himself one small glance down as he and Thorn passed silently over the Varden's tents, invisible to the poor rebels below. He wondered if Nasuada was there–in a command tent, overseeing her army. He hoped not. He hoped she was far away. He couldn't bear the thought of her seeing…
No. You feel nothing.
As instructed, Murtagh and Thorn landed a good distance from the rear of the Empire's army, and were met by a man named Stalgen, a scarred veteran with a stern brow and hulking shoulders.
"My lord," The gruff man said with a bow, as Murtagh undid the straps of Thorn's saddle and let himself down. They had landed afar off to avoid being shot out of the sky by the Empire's archers as they landed–the generals and lieutenants were all aware of Thorn's existence, but word had only just that day begun to be spread to the whole army, as Galbatorix did not want the Varden to have a chance to prepare.
For his part, Stalgen seemed unaffected by the presence of a ferocious, fire-breathing beast ten feet from him. Evening was falling over the scorched plains, and the rows of tents stretched out smoky shadows behind them.
"I'll show you to a tent, get some food and drink; the generals are convening in an hour."
Stalgen gestured.
"The dragon has a place to rest as well."
"The dragon's name is Thorn," Murtagh snapped back, his voice hard, "You'll address him as such."
"Yes, m'lord," Stalgen answered, betraying no emotion as he inclined his head.
Murtagh squared his shoulders as they tromped towards the rows of tents. He removed his invisibility wards, and gave a glance back at Thorn, hoping for some resolve. After months of concealing themselves and hiding away, they were now walking into the open–first for the Imperial army to see, then for the world.
He placed a hand on Thorn's leg as they passed into the camp.
There were gasps; some men swore, backed up, tripped over themselves, drew their swords. One or two screamed. Murtagh ignored it. He was not worried about any foolish archer firing off a shot in panic–their wards would protect them.
By the time they'd reached the main thoroughfare through the camp, the open spaces between tents were lined with gaping soldiers in various stages of dress and dishevelment. They murmured among themselves as Murtagh and Thorn stalked past, many whispered oaths under their breaths, some seemed ready to faint.
One man called out,
"Hail Bloodscales! Doom of the Varden!"
And some others cheered along. Murtagh kept his gaze forward.
When he convened with the group of generals in the tent that night, he could tell that his presence unnerved them. The grisled men held their council, and informed him of the Varden's movements and numbers, such as they knew. There were Imperial spies, even still, among the Varden camp, ferrying information back and forth. No doubt the same was true of their own. Galbatorix had been wise to keep the knowledge of Thorn and Murtagh from most of the men–or else it certainly would've reached the Varden's ears by now.
"My lord," General Errinmor addressed Murtagh finally, "Have you recent orders from Uru'baen?"
The others looked at him, a mix of nervousness and suspicious. No doubt they knew he could kill them all with a word. But they also knew he had been fighting with the Varden less than a year previous.
"My orders are to capture Eragon Shadeslayer and his dragon Saphira, and bring them before the King," Murtagh said, his voice void of emotion. "I am to wait to confront them until the opportune time, until they have tired themselves out with the battle and are at their weakest. What this army does, I care not, so long as you leave him to me."
Errinmor nodded stiffly.
"Yes, m'lord. We shall clear a path for you and the dragon as soon as possible."
"His name is Thorn," Murtagh said cuttingly.
"Ah, yes. For you and Thorn."
Errinmor bowed his head. Clearly the man had his resentments of Murtagh's authority–but clearly he understood his own position.
In the darkness of the newly-lit torches, Murtagh walked back to the tent with Thorn, after they'd shooed away the group of soldiers that had come to gawk.
That night he lay on a cot in a well-sized tent, feeling Thorn through the canvas on the other side, staring up at a gray fabric roof.
Nothing matters. You feel nothing.
In the early morning hours, Murtagh was awakened from a fitful sleep by the sound of men screaming in agony. He bolted upright, thinking that the battle had begun and no one had woken him. But there was no clash of swords, no twang of bowstrings or thunder of horse's hoofs–just the screaming.
Murtagh rolled from the cot he had lay on and strapped his hand-and-a-half sword to his belt, rushing out into the gray dawn as Thorn lifted his head.
It started a few minutes ago, Thorn said, sniffing the air and swinging his head this way and that. Murtagh listened, calming his beating heart, trying to pick out the disturbance from the cacophony of whispering minds.
Get him to the healers tent!
Are we under attack?
Bloody latrines…
AH! It hurts! Please!
Murtagh ran to where he could hear the healers gathering writhing men, hurrying to treat an ailment whose source they did not know.
"What is it?" He demanded of a haggard looking older woman with graying curls, who leant over a young man in death throes.
She looked up with wide white eyes, and blanched at Thorn coming up behind him.
"S-sir I must say I do not know."
The young man screamed, and Murtagh flinched.
"It's just started a little bit after first call. We was just sitting down for our breakfast when–"
Another scream.
A man was retching on the ground just past them, another had collapsed to the ground and was seizing uncontrollably. Murtagh scanned the chaotic scene around the healer's tent as more and more men stumbled or were dragged towards them, screaming for help.
The light of the breakfast cook fires cast an orange glow on the sides of the tents. Men who were not sick were standing in horror in between the structures, watching their comrades' sufferings. .
One young man stood near a cookfire with a wooden bowl in his hand, his porridge forgotten as he watched the grisly display.
Suddenly Murtagh had an idea.
"Give me that," Murtagh demanded, marching towards the man, who blinked and startled when he saw Murtagh coming. Those around him backed away.
"Sir?"
"The bowl! Give me the bowl!" Murtagh shouted, startling the soldier, who shakily passed him the bowl of porridge. Murtagh had a tingle on the back of his neck as he looked over the small bowl, placing his gedwey ignasia above the food and whispering a series of spells that would detect poison.
Sure enough, he felt the familiar flare in energy that meant poison was present.
He swore under his breath, anger rising in his throat.
"You!" He shouted at the young man whose bowl he had taken, "Did you eat any?"
The screams around them made it hard to hear.
"W–sir?"
"The porridge! Did you eat any?" Murtagh demanded, feeling Thorn growl behind him. The terrified young man looked from the dragon and back to Murtagh.
"N–no sir, not… I'd quite lost my appetite, when…"
"Good. Don't," Murtagh dumped the porridge onto the ground and addressed the group of four or five healthy men who stood just past their own cookfire.
"You run to every cookfire you can find and tell them to stop eating this immediately. You. Get to the command tent and tell them first, don't stop along the way, shout out a warning as you go. No one in this camp is to eat anything else."
The soldiers were pale and shaken, but they seemed to understand. Immediately they ran, and Murtagh stormed back under the healer's tent to the gray-haired woman.
"You, what's your name?"
"M–Matelda, sir," She answered, now splattered with sick.
"These men have been poisoned by a variety of poisonous mushrooms. You have anything to treat that sort of thing?"
Matelda blinked, her demeanor calm but unnerved.
"I–sure, sir, I think so. Not nearly enough for all…"
"Just do what you can. Get the magic users here and set them to work. And don't let anyone eat anything."
"Yessir."
Murtagh whirled back to Thorn and said,
We have to get to the command tent, climbing up Thorn's foreleg and mounting the dragon as the nearby men scattered.
All in all, nearly a thousand men either died or were severely sickened by the poison that had somehow made its way into the morning breakfast of half the camp. The Chief Cook was dragged to the command tent by two angry soldiers, pleading that he knew nothing of the poison.
They were about to execute the man on the spot, but Murtagh demanded to be allowed to search his mind. He entered the man's thoughts easily and rifled through, looking for any sign that he had wrought this damage upon the camp. He was innocent, as Murtagh had suspected–only a fool would be so obvious–but General Errinmor had him executed anyway, for dereliction of duty.
Murtagh said nothing. It didn't matter.
How the poison had gotten in the porridge, he did not know. None of the night watchmen reported strange activity around the tent, no one had seen anyone out of order, and the food had been prepared by all the usual hands.
Playing games, are we, Eragon? Murtagh thought as he stared across the barren, smoking plain in the early hours of dawn, watching the Varden's torches flicker out.
He knew it didn't matter. He knew thousands more men were about to die in that day's bloody conflict. But it gave him an unsettled feeling in his gut–to know what underhanded tricks the Varden were willing to play to gain an advantage over their enemy. Perhaps their sense of honor was not so inflated as he had supposed.
The sounds of war were worse than he remembered.
Murtagh sat near Thorn at the back of the Empire's camp as hours passed, and the conflict raged before him, the blood-red sky masking the path of the sun.
This time it wasn't men versus Urgals, it was men versus men, versus dwarves, with some Urgals thrown in–apparently Nasuada had gone mad and actually struck up a treaty with the feral beasts. It somehow made it worse, listening to the men slaughter each other on the open plain.
Murtagh felt like a coward, waiting back here while the soldiers threw themselves against the Varden forces, but he was following the orders he'd been given–to lay in wait until Eragon had tired himself out with his straining, and then to swoop in and finish him off. He tried not to feel so cowardly–after all this was a war he did not believe in, and he was fighting for a man whom he'd rather see dead than victorious.
But still, listening to the dying men and watching the healers rush about trying to save them, he recalled that this conflict was not one-sided. The Varden were not a wholly good force coming up against a wholly evil one. The soldiers who fought for the empire were just people, and the men they killed on the other side were also just people. And none of it mattered.
He received reports on the battle, and he checked in with the command tent, and as the red sky remained gloomy above them, he waited.
When the time came, he repeated his hard-fought mantra in his head:
You feel nothing. Nothing matters.
Thorn was buzzing with nervous energy.
When they rose over the tops of the tents, Thorn's scales reflecting the orange light like a brushfire, Murtagh could almost feel the terror of the Varden below, looking into the sky and seeing a monster, seeing their Doom hanging before them.
Nothing matters, He said again, despite the desperate clenching in his heart when he saw the shape of the glittering blue dragon below.
Nothing matters, He repeated as Thorn beat his wings forward and a chorus of screams echoed up at him from the terrified troops.
Has he seen me yet? Has Eragon seen me? Has Nasuada? Have they…?
Murtagh gritted his teeth and let out a war cry that was torn away by the wind. Angrily he watched the throngs below, locked in their bloody conflict, and his eyes were caught by a circle of men–not men, dwarves–who ferociously defended their leader at the center of a great throng of Imperial soldiers.
You feel nothing. Nothing matters.
He wanted to scream, wanted to bellow his rage at the twisting masses below, wanted to stop this heat behind his eyes and this great aching in his chest. He was about to kill his brother. He was about to end the life of the only family he had. This was it.
Nothing matters, He thought, and he pointed his hand down at the ring of dwarves, their King battling ferociously in the center, and he said,
"Deyja."
He felt Thorn's twist of surprise, his attention turned back to Murtagh from the wafting pillars of smoke and upward-flying arrows.
As soon as the word left his mouth, he felt the spell drawing on the power of the Eldunari as it fought to overcome Hrothgar's wards and the strength of the dwarven spellcasters who surrounded him. But they were no match.
When the King crumpled to the ground, he heard a great throaty wail rising up from below, the joined chorus of a thousand grief-stricken, rage-filled dwarves, but he lifted his chin and did not allow his own tears to fall.
Nothing matters.
When Saphira lifted away from the pockmarked ground–with Eragon shouting a war cry and brandishing his blood-red sword–Murtagh was ready.