CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: CRIPPLED
Lord Barrow was a balding man of middle age, with an easy smile and a jolly disposition. His personality was so jarring that Murtagh didn't know how to speak to him at first.
Murtagh had sent a servant with a request to meet with Lord Barrow and received a response almost immediately, inviting him to the man's home. It turned out his home was barely a handful of steps from the main entrance to the citadel–Lord Barrow was wealthy indeed.
Murtagh stepped into the lavish front entryway, trying to calm the hammering in his heart as the smiling man beckoned him in. He had to keep reminding himself that he had chosen to come here, that he had taken no oaths and could leave whenever he wanted, that he owed Lord Barrow nothing, and that he had a knife concealed under his tunic.
"We're honored to have you visit," Barrow said, leading him into the dining room, where Murtagh was surprised by the high voices of two young children.
"This is my wife, Abiletha," Barrow gestured to a woman with soft brown curls and rosy cheeks.
"My lord," She curtsied.
"And my children, Aberly and Callen," Barrow gestured to a boy and a girl near the same age, who had stopped their poking at each other when their mother cast them a stern look.
"Good evening," Both the children said, bowing and curtsying to Murtagh.
"Uh, hello," He returned.
It took him a few minutes and a few drinks to relax, but Lord Barrow and his wife didn't seem to mind his quiet demeanor; they filled the evening with relaxing chatter, their spirited children chiming in eagerly.
Murtagh's first encounter with Lord Barrow had been hazy, frantic and full of pain. But he quickly decided that his brief impression of the man had been right–he was far more kind and humble than most of the other nobles Murtagh had met. He wondered how the man had survived, how he'd made it so far in Uru'baen, being as soft as he was.
When desert had been placed before Murtagh by a servant who was shaking with nervousness, Lord Barrow folded his napkin and took a sip of his wine glass.
"So, Lord Murtagh, of course I'm honored by your visit no matter the circumstance, but I take it that there was a mission behind your call?"
Murtagh cleared his throat.
"Uh, yes, you are correct. Um, firstly I wanted to thank you… for… your help," Murtagh said, giving Barrow a significant look. "You needn't have been as kind as you were."
Barrow seemed to know better than to go into more detail, because he simply nodded, his lips thin.
"Of course, sir. Glad I was… there."
If his wife wondered what they were speaking of, she kept her questions to herself.
"And I was hoping I might be able to seek your help again," Murtagh said, reaching into his vest to pull out Demelza's letter.
"One of my attendants has been trying to reach her family in Tirendal, but the castle lettermen have been giving her trouble. I was hoping you might be willing to send a note out along with your own correspondences, as a favor to me."
Murtagh kept his gaze unflinching as he placed the letter between them; he knew this was a strange request; he knew Lord Barrow would be suspicious. The man was soft, not stupid.
Barrow looked down at the letter like it was a snake. He licked his lips and shifted.
"It's nothing nefarious," Murtagh assured calmly, "You can read it yourself. Just a personal letter from my attendant to her family."
Lord Barrow cleared his throat.
"Quite the favor, for a servant," He said coolly.
"She's quite the servant."
Lady Barrow lowered her gaze. Murtagh knew what they were thinking–that his motives were more romantic than philanthropic, that he must be using the girl for his own needs and then doing her a favor in return. But he didn't correct them; he didn't care what they thought; he just needed the job done.
"I would consider myself in your debt, if you were able to help me," Murtagh said unflinchingly.
Lord and Lady Barrow looked at each other, and the older man shifted.
"Of course, sir, happy to help you," He finally said, taking the letter with a smile. Murtagh was sure he would read it, but so what? He had told the truth; it really wasn't anything but a young woman reaching out to her family. There was no secret message, and Demelza would just have to accept other people snooping into her business.
Murtagh sat back, satisfied, as one of the Barrow's servants shuffled into the room.
"Thank you."
"Pardon the interruption, my lord," The woman said with a curtsy, "Message from the citadel, for Lord Murtagh."
Murtagh felt a chill on his neck, sudden fear returning. Had the King found out about his meeting with the Barrows? Was he angry? Was he going to be punished for trying to send a letter?
Murtagh took the note from the servant's hand, and Lord Barrow held his wife's hand tightly–they seemed to feel the tension.
Murtagh kept his hands from shaking as he unfolded the paper. The scrawling writing said,
Troops approaching Gil'ead. Summoned for immediate departure.
Murtagh closed his eyes. Thorn had been right.
He folded the letter and stood.
"My apologies, Lord Barrow, Lady Barrow," He bowed, "Thank you for hospitality. I must be gone now."
Barrow stood abruptly and stiffly.
"I–of course–of course, my lord… anything I can assist with?"
Murtagh offered a small smile.
"Not unless you have an army of immortal sorcerers at your disposal," He said.
"Ah… the Elves, then," Barrow placed a gentle hand on his wife's arm, "I've heard they crawled from their woody burrows."
Murtagh nodded.
"Blasted rebels," Barrow commiserated, reaching out to shake Murtagh's hand. "Give them the Empire's best for us then. We'll have you for dinner again when they're well and truly trounced."
Murtagh didn't know what to say. He only nodded to the both of them, and swept back into the cool street of Uru'baen.
Murtagh listened to the hurried report of the magician who skryed from Gil'ead, nearly frantic, saying that the Elven army was mere hours away. The King then gave Murtagh a few curt instructions and sent him on his way.
He rushed back to his chambers and packed up Thorn's saddlebags while Demelza ran to the kitchens to bring food and water for the two of them.
"They're saying the Elves have invaded," Demelza said as she handed him wrapped parcels of food for him to stuff into the bags.
"Is that where he's sending you?"
"Aye," Murtagh answered, his hands working quickly.
"You think there's a chance? That they can hold the city?"
He gave her a glance and saw a worry in her eyes.
"I've cousins there, sir," She explained, her lips thin. "Don't see how we could fight off a whole army of them," She worried, her gaze growing distant.
"Well…" Murtagh started, swallowing down his own nervousness, "That's why they're sending Thorn and me, yeah?"
He tried to give her a confident look, but Demelza seemed to know him too well. Thorn twisted his head close.
We will not let your family come to harm, Friend-Demelza, He said, opening his mind to her directly, as he had begun to do more often.
Murtagh kept quiet as he did up the ties on his bracers, but he wanted to berate Thorn for making a promise like that–one they couldn't hope to keep. The promise was already made, though, so Murtagh asked,
"Do they have a surname? Your cousins?"
Demelza blinked.
"I–um–Falkan, sir."
"Right. Well, we'll look out for them if we can," He murmured, giving Thorn a sharp look. When he turned back, though, the expression on Demelza's face was worth whatever trouble his partner had gotten them into–her thankfulness was glowing.
"Thank you, sir," She whispered, with a low curtsy. Then she gripped Murtagh's hand reassuringly, and placed a palm on Thorn's snout.
"Take care of both yourselves."
She nodded to them, and Murtagh returned it. Then she stepped away so that Thorn could fit through the doorway.
Night had fallen when Murtagh strolled into the open courtyard from which Thorn would take off.
He gazed into the stars that circled above and closed his eyes, preparing himself for the long flight and the battle to come. He had never fought Elves before. And he understood Demelza's fear–a whole legion of advanced magic-users and warriors who'd had hundreds of years to hone their craft. He didn't know how he was supposed to keep them at bay–a lone human man with a dragon that was barely more than a hatchling.
You can't fail again, He told himself. Who knew how far the King's apparent apathy would stretch–who knew if he would get a reprieve the next time he came back from a losing battle.
I am ready, Thorn told him as he stretched his neck towards the sky. Let us fly.
Governor Rutgard Tallman was the opposite of what his name suggested–the man stood a full two feet shorter than Murtagh, stocky and red-faced, with a thick neck and dense arms that seemed to be a compensation for his lack of height.
He stood in one of the outer rooms of the citadel explaining the state of the siege to Murtagh with trembling hands as he pointed to various places on the map.
"They're–they–they haven't managed to breach the walls yet but my spellcasters say it's only a matter of time–"
"How many do you have?" Murtagh's hands were pressed against the table, his voice quick.
"H–how many what?"
"How many spellcasters?" He shot back, impatient. The man was clearly scared out of his wits; he hadn't been able to form a full sentence since the moment Murtagh landed, and he kept taking drinks from a hip flask.
Murtagh had managed to get word to the Falkan family of Gil'ead, and see that they were safe within the upper keep, but other than that his progress had been infuriatingly slow.
"S–sixty, around–around sixty."
"In the whole city?"
The man nodded, and Murtagh swore. Sixty spellcasters–of dubious ability–against hundreds of elves.
What does Galbatorix expect me to do? He thought with frustration. The city was woefully under-defended, and it was clear that the King did not think it a priority to keep it from the Elves very long.
Does he just want us to hand the city over to them? Murtagh wondered.
Likely as not he cares little for Gil'ead, Thorn said from where he sat on the other side of the shelter wall. It is just a stumbling block for the Elves. If he truly cared to stop them on their way to Uru'baen, he would fly out and meet them.
Instead he sends us to rally an army of ants against a great boot.
Thorn snorted, as Governor Tallman took another drink.
"Where's the most likely breach?"
"Sir?"
"The breach–in the wall, you said they're trying to breach it; where?"
"Uh–uh, there… northeast gate."
The man pointed.
I suppose we go there. Harangue them into giving up? Murtagh thought, running a hand through his hair.
A few men ran past shouting, and a great explosion in the distance shook the floor.
They've emerged from their woodland homes for the first time in a century with the sole purpose of winning this war, Thorn said from outside, I do not believe they can be harangued.
"Where's the highest concentration of spellcasters located?"
Murtagh looked back to Governor Tallman, but the man was shivering and sweating, and clutching at a gold chain around his neck. The explosion had rattled him.
"Governor Tallman–"
"I–um–I–it–it–" The man was blubbering, his face white with shock, his lips quivering. He raised his flask for another drink, and Murtagh smacked it out of his hands, grabbing the man by the shirt and pushing him into the table.
"Do you want me to kill you?" Murtagh growled. The governor went even more pale.
"Ah! Oh–oh–p–p–"
Murtagh smacked him across the face.
"Answer the question! Do you want to die? You die, and I'll call your Deputy Governor in, and he can come and take charge of the defense of this city so you don't have to worry about it anymore. Is that what you want?"
"Oh—I–"
"You tell me right now; do you want to man the defenses, or do you want to die?"
The man swallowed.
"Do you want to man the defenses, or do you want to die?!" Murtagh shouted, shoving him harder.
"Man the defenses," The man managed.
"Alright. Then help me get–"
Suddenly Murtagh felt a concussive thud in his ears. He flinched, and there was a strange twinge from Thorn.
Thud.
Murtagh straightened, and let go of the governor's shirt.
Thud.
There were distant screams.
Thud.
Thorn? What are you doing?
Thud.
It is not me.
Thud.
The unmistakable beat of dragon's wings.
And Thorn was sitting outside.
Murtagh drew Zar'roc and ran out of the building, leaving the blubbering governor to sink to the ground by the map table.
He's supposed to be in Feinster! Murtagh thought frantically as he burst into the cool air, searching the orange sky for Saphira.
Thorn's neck was craned, and he sniffed the air, as more screams drifted up from the battlements. Murtagh's heart was hammering, his eyes scanning the sunset clouds, his grip shifting on Zar'roc.
What are you doing, Eragon? He asked silently, his breaths heaving.
For a moment things felt quiet again.
But then he saw, rising above the layers of blue haze that surrounded the city, scales glinting in the evening sun, the massive shape of a giant, gold dragon.
For a long second, Murtagh felt as though someone had placed a binding spell on him–his whole body seemed to go numb at once, and Zar'roc hung loosely from his hand, its tip touching the stones beneath him.
He blinked, trying to clear the vision, trying to correct himself. The dragon was blue–it must be–it was Saphira–it had to be… but it was far too large to be Saphira, and as it tilted in the sunlight, bright gold flashes danced before Murtagh's eyes, the screams of a hundred terrified soldiers drifting back towards him.
MURTAGH!
Thorn's mental shouting finally jolted him out of his frozen state. His hearing seemed to pop, and again he heard the concussive,
Thud, thud, thud, Of the massive dragon's wingbeats.
Murtagh was shaking, his eyes racing, trying to think, trying to understand, trying to get his limbs to move.
What are we to do? Thorn asked, his own thoughts equally frantic and scattered.
Murtagh panted, as a pair of soldiers ran past.
Dragon, a dragon, there's a dragon—gold dragon–not Saphira–who is–rider?
Murtagh's gaze shot back up and he squinted to make out the shape atop the terrifying beast.
It is a two-legs pointed-ears, Thorn said, his own gaze locked on the approaching pair, Hair like snow.
Then Murtagh was moving. He rushed back into the building where Governor Tallman sat quivering on the floor still.
"You!" He shouted, and the man looked up, "Run to the upper keep–get a spellcaster to skry the mirror at Uru'baen and tell the King there's a gold dragon with a white-haired Elven rider. Ask him what's to be done."
"D–dragon?" The man asked, dazed.
"Say it back to me."
"G–gold dragon, white-haired–Elven rider," Tallman stuttered.
Murtagh pointed a harsh finger down at the man and snarled,
"You do this right now or I'll kill you."
The man stammered and pulled himself to his feet, careening out of the door as he muttered,
"Gold dragon, white-haired…"
Murtagh burst back outside, and ran for Thorn.
What are we to do?! Thorn asked, his fear clear.
They'll break the city within seconds if we don't meet them, Murtagh thought as he clambered up Thorn's legs and frantically strapped himself into the saddle.
I've gotten a message to the King. But we have to stall them–
We cannot–
We have to, Thorn! Murtagh's own fear and confusion was so loud he couldn't think through it, but he knew if they hesitated now the dragon would overrun Gil'eads defenses and the city would be taken within minutes.
They had the Eldunari; that was their advantage. They had Eldunari and this dragon and rider did not.
Murtagh took a few heaving breaths, squeezed his eyes shut, and tried to send Thorn calming thoughts.
Fly, He begged, and his dragon took off.
Thorn bellowed, half in challenge, half in fear, Murtagh thought, as they closed in on the giant golden dragon and his elven rider. Murtagh tried to steady his frantic mind, preparing to grapple mentally and physically. He risked a glance below, where the Elven army was spread out in a glittering sheen and Isenstar Lake reflected the orange light of the dying sun on its silver surface.
Murtagh squared himself and gripped Zar'roc, glaring down the Elven Rider as the two dragons hurtled towards each other.
"You'll be faster than him!" Murtagh shouted to Thorn over the sound of the wind, "Don't get caught in his clutches; make him chase you!"
He felt Thorn's rumble of agreement, as they had closed off their minds on the approach.
When the dragons collided for the first time, Murtagh thought he would be flung from his saddle, despite the straps that held his legs in. They whipped in a circle for a few sickening seconds and Thorn raked one claw against the gold dragon's belly, before it got a good kick in and Thorn was set hurtling back into space.
Murtagh gritted his teeth and held onto the closest neck spike, cursing over and over in his mind, trying not to lose it completely.
"He's missing a leg!" He shouted to Thorn, "Aim for his bad side!"
Thorn tried, but the dragon swatted at him with his tail–a giant boulder of a tail–and Thorn had to evade. Murtagh felt the sharp stab of an enemy presence attacking his mind, and his own duel began.
Again and again the dragons struck out at each other, and once or twice Murtagh was near enough to try swinging Zar'roc at the white-haired elf, but Thorn dared not stay close to the enormous crushing limbs of the gold dragon for long, and he kept his moves evasive.
The two beasts were cratching and clawing and biting and sending bursts of fire. Murtagh flinched as a wreath of flames from the gold-dragon's mouth passed around him. Instinctually he held up his arms, but he felt only the slight tickle of warmth as his wards protected him. He fought to keep control as the Elf's mind-probe attacked relentlessly.
…table is ready and supper is on, I've asked the butcher, the cook and the maid, where has the boy gone, and could he have stayed?
Thorn's wards began to fail, and the gold dragon's, and each of their bites and scratches drew blood, and over and over again Murtagh drew on the power of the hidden Eldunari to heal Thorn and protect him. The elf seemed to be doing much the same, and his face was unreadable.
A deep anger boiled in Murtagh's heart–a rider and dragon, here, in the flesh, alive this whole time. The gold dragon was clearly old enough to be Shruikan's equal in age–if smaller because he had not been grown with magic. This elf and his partner had sat by while the world crumbled around them, sat back and watched Galbatorix take over, and destroy Alagaesia.
And then when Eragon came along they had welcomed him to Ellesmera with open arms–Murtagh now had no doubt who it was that had been training his brother that whole time.
Special Eragon and his special dragon–they'd taken him in and taught him their secrets and passed along the wisdom of the old riders and given him a new body that was quicker and stronger and faster and healed. And meanwhile Murtagh and Thorn had been chained in a dungeon and tortured for weeks and no one had done anything. This blasted dragon and his rider could've saved them, could've helped them.
Thorn slammed again into the gold dragon's weak side, and the two spun around each other, plummeting towards the gold dragon snapped and tore and raked with his hind feet, trying to batter Thorn into submission while Thorn scratched with his claws.
Murtagh shouted and tried to swing a sword, but the Elf blocked him, and the ring of metal-on metal shivered up his arm. Then he felt a shock of pain from Thorn as the gold dragon stabbed him in the thigh with its tail-spike and then, before Murtagh could move to heal it, the great dragon let loose another bath of fire around them.
Just as the fire hit, the Elf renewed his mental assault, and Murtagh slammed up his defensive walls again, desperately clinging to his focus, trying not to lose grasp of himself amid the whirl of confusion and desperation.
"Get away!" Murtagh shouted aloud, pounding on Thorn's shoulder as the fire died around them and the gold dragon gave chase.
"Go up! Get us away!"
Murtagh flinched at another mental spike. He was losing it. He had to recover.
Thorn pumped his wings furiously to gain altitude, and Murtagh muttered words of healing, his hands shaking as he drew from the Eldunari and tried to keep his mind locked. The blood dripping from Thorn's limbs was stemmed, but Murtagh could still feel his exhaustion. He gave him energy from the Eldunari, but he sensed that both their weariness came from something other than physical strength. There was a certain despair–a certain heavy grief that was laying on him even now, as he tried to regain the strength of his mind.
How could it have come to this? What were they to do? What hope did they have to win? And if they did win–how could they bear it?
The air around them grew thin as Thorn climbed, and tears began to sting Murtagh's eyes–though if that was from despair or from the biting cold, he couldn't be sure. He fought back panic and tried to force air into his lungs as they climbed ever-higher.
"We have to end this!" He shouted to Thorn, but it was more out of desperation than anything. If they didn't end it–if they didn't manage to gain the upper hand on the dragon and his rider soon–Murtagh knew they would be overtaken.
As the gold dragon emerged from a cloud, Thorn tucked his wings and hurtled towards him, slamming into the dragon's side and biting ferociously. Murtagh swung his sword and connected it with the elf's lighting-quick blade. Thorn's element of surprise did not last long, though, and Murtagh felt a crushing pain from his partner as the great dragon wrapped his legs around Thorn's body.
"No!" Murtagh screamed, and swung his blade again, while Thorn tried to climb out of the gold dragon's grasp. Before he could, the dragon bit down hard on Thorn's hind leg, and Murtagh heard a sharp squeal of pain, as Thorn fought to wriggle his way free.
Thorn's agony sparked his own fury, and Murtagh landed his blows against the elf harder than ever. Thorn convulsed, heaving and desperate, as the wind whipped past and the four of them hurtled to the ground.
"Curse you!" Murtagh screamed at the elf, torn between rage and sorrow, "Curse you for not showing yourself sooner! You could have helped us! You could have–"
Suddenly Murtagh choked, and his voice failed, and his breath caught, as a great presence pushed itself into his mind–overwhelming, suffocating, debilitating.
He had only a moment to be afraid, before everything went black.
Murtagh gasped awake, and slumped forward in the seat, his neck throbbing.
It was nighttime, and he was in the saddle, and Thorn was flying, his wing beats steady but urgent.
Murtagh coughed and wheezed, trying to regain the function of his lungs, trying to blink confusion from his mind, wincing through pains that he didn't remember getting.
Where are we? He thought to Thorn, looking around in the dark, trying to remember what he had been doing.
Thorn? He tried to reach out to Thorn's mind, but encountered a mental wall of ice, as the dragon's great breaths blew out into the night air and his wings pushed.
"Thorn!" Murtagh shouted over the sound of the wind, his voice cracking. He hit against Thorn's scales with his hand, but his dragon was not responding; Thorn was deaf to him; he would not listen.
"Please! Thorn!" He tried again, but his voice was hoarse and it was torn away by the air.
Murtagh panted, peering down and finding the flickering torches of a city approaching below.
Uru'baen.
Murtagh turned in the saddle, looking back into the darkness of the north. How had they gotten here? What had happened? Where was the gold dragon? Had Gil'ead fallen?
"Thorn!" He tried, but Thorn's thoughts were blocked from him.
He felt a sick swooping in his stomach as Thorn angled sharply downward towards Uru'baen, a half-controlled dive at the citadel. Murtagh grunted and held onto the spikes, squeezing his eyes shut as the dragon plummeted.
A few long, sickening seconds passed, and then he heard shouts of alarm, and suddenly Thorn was flaring out his wings and Murtagh had to brace himself so as not to slam his head on a spike.
"You're too lo–"
Thorn's tail smacked into the slate roof of one of the walkways, sending rubble flying as he flapped his wings twice more and hurtled towards an open courtyard. Murtagh flinched away as the ground came up beneath them and Thorn landed, hard, in one of the garden courtyards, crushing a tree and trampling over flower beds as he came to a sudden, violent stop.
Murtagh blinked his eyes open as Thorn stood, heaving, ready to pounce, his shoulders hunched and his eyes wild. Something was very wrong.
Murtagh quickly undid his straps with shaking hands and swung his leg over the saddle, but just as he placed a foot on Thorn's leg to climb down, the dragon growled and twitched, and Murtagh slipped downwards, tumbling into space for a brief moment before landing hard on the courtyard floor and rolling.
Murtagh groaned in pain as he skidded to a stop, Zar'roc's sheath crushing against his hip. He pushed himself to rise as a great roar shook his skull. Thorn was incensed, mad, swinging his head this way and that, his great ruby eyes unseeing, his body coiled like a snake.
Murtagh heard fearful shrieks as a group of three garden attendants huddled by a half-broken tree.
"Thorn–" He tried, but the dragon let out another growl, and this sent the servants fleeing.
"No!" Murtagh shouted, as the terrified servants ran directly through Thorn's line of sight. The crazed dragon reared up and opened his maw, and Murtagh saw what was about to happen.
From where he'd fallen he reached out his left hand and shouted,
"Skolir!"
Just as a sheet of red flame ejected from Thorn's mouth and shot towards the servants. He felt the spell pulling at his energy as the flames engulfed them, but when Thorn's fire died and his head swung away, the three servants were still alive.
"Go!" Murtagh shouted, waving them off with an urgent throw of his arm as he finally managed to get to his feet and ran towards Thorn, who was shooting out jets of flame at every tree and rock within reach.
Murtagh ducked as Thorn's tail swung over him, and he saw that it was missing nearly three feet, splattering hot dragon blood onto the garden beds as he rampaged.
"Thorn!" Murtagh tried, running around to Thorn's front, trying to get his attention before he killed someone.
"You have to stop!" Murtagh pleaded, as Thorn set out another jet of flame into the sky.
"Thorn, look at me!" He shouted.
"Blothr!"
This seemed to have the effect of at least getting his attention; Thorn shuddered, and swung his great head towards Murtagh violently, as though he were about to bite him in half.
Murtagh stumbled back and tripped over his bruised limbs, landing with one hand behind him as the dragon's great head came close.
Murtagh was holding out one shaking hand, gasping for breath, fearful for the first time of the real Thorn–not a dream or vision. Thorn was staring down at him, his smoking snout inches from the gedwey ignasia on Murtagh's palm, his red eyes wide and wild.
After a breathless, agonizing few seconds, Murtagh saw a change in the eyes. The manic, confused anger turned to a deep sorrow, and Thorn closed his lids and began to sway. Murtagh heard from him a low, despondent keening that raised slowly in pitch and volume, as hot tears fell from his red-scaled lids.
Trembling, Murtagh pushed himself to his knees, and placed his palm against Thorn's snout as the dragon's wailing split the night air.
Murtagh slowly brought his other hand to Thorn's jaw, and he pressed his forehead against Thorn's brow, holding his partner's head as he knelt on the stones, both their breaths rising and falling in unison, their heartbeats aligning.
Then from Thorn he felt, more than saw, what had happened:
The gold dragon was dead. Thorn had killed him. And the Elf-Rider was dead. Murtagh had killed him.
And they mourned.
