CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: SPIRES

CW: Violence, dark thoughts

Oromis and Glaedr–those were their names.

Galbatorix welcomed Murtagh and Thorn back to the throne room with an almost giddy exuberance, applauding them for their fine work, despite the disaster that was the invasion of Gil'ead. The Elves had overrun the city after Thorn had fled with Murtagh unconscious on his back, but all King Galbatorix cared about was that the gold dragon and his rider were dead.

"It is only fitting," The King said warmly as Murtagh stood before him in the throne room, caked in sweat and blood and close to toppling, "That your hand should have struck the killing blow, Murtagh. Oromis was your father's master."

Murtagh closed his eyes, feeling this truth like a punch to the gut. The white-haired Elf had trained his father?

"He also trained the idiot Brom, who killed your father–so in a way, you've just avenged your father's death. Congratulations."

Murtagh fought not to throw up.

Nevermind that he hadn't even been conscious when his arm had swung Zar'roc and cut the elf from shoulder to hip, nevermind that the King had invaded his body like a parasite and used him like a puppet, nevermind that he was sickened by the very thought of what had happened in the skies over the Gil'ead–The King was happy for him.

He steadied himself for Thorn's sake and tried not to feel anything.

Galbatorix sent them on their way with a proverbial pat on the back, still chuckling with delight as they both stalked from the throne room.

Thorn said nothing as Murtagh undid his saddle and washed his scales, treating the small cuts and bruises he'd received by both magic and mundane means. The dragon's head sat on his forepaws and his eyes were listless–his madness from the courtyard had passed, but it was replaced with a terrible melancholy that made Murtagh's bones ache.

Still, he knew he couldn't push his partner to speak of it; their places had been reversed enough times for him to understand that Thorn would talk when he was ready. Until then he went about getting food for them and a hot bath drawn, and trying to clean the blood from the creases in his hands. Whose blood it was, he couldn't say for sure.

He spoke quietly with Demelza in the hallway for a few moments, explaining what he could, though he had not yet regained the lost time between the battle in the sky and waking up on Thorn's back near Uru'baen.

"The elves took the city," He murmured to her, standing outside of his chambers so as not to disturb Thorn, "But your cousins were safe in the keep, so they may have been taken captive, but they should be alive. I don't believe the elves will harm any prisoners. I'm sorry I couldn't do better."

Demelza nodded, her bright eyes misty.

"And you? You are alright? And Thorn?"

Murtagh grimaced, looking down again at the blood which he couldn't manage to get out from under his fingernails.

"It was bad," He whispered.

Demelza just breathed, and said nothing.

The servants were dismissed and Murtagh bathed to rid himself once more of the grime of war. He found several more bruises and cuts that he didn't remember receiving, and a few that he did. He was too tired to do more than close up the wounds, though, so he sat in the warm water feeling his skin pulse with every heartbeat, each bruise lighting up its own small area of pain.

He approached Thorn's cushion cautiously and said,

"Can I join you?"

His dragon sighed noncommittally, but Murtagh took this as a sign that he at least wouldn't be bitten for coming close.

It was midday, and Murtagh hadn't slept since two nights before, so when he crawled onto Thorn's cushion and lay next to him, he fell asleep immediately, despite the light from the window and the pain in his heart.

When he awoke around sunset Thorn hadn't moved, and his demeanor didn't change. Murtagh ate some of the food that had been left earlier that day, and tried to get Thorn to have some of the meat, but the dragon sighed and shifted his head, his eyes turned away.

Murtagh decided not to push it.

For several days it went on like this–Thorn said very little, and refused to eat, and hardly rose from his cushion. Murtagh tried everything–he suggested they go flying together, he talked about unimportant things, he sat next to Thorn silently, he busied himself around the room, and a few days in, he asked Thorn directly if he would talk about it. Nothing stirred the dragon.

Murtagh was beginning to fear for him when he hadn't eaten for the better part of a week after the battle at Gil'ead, and more and more Murtagh felt the looming shadow of the time he was missing. Foggy scraps of memory were beginning to appear–like he had observed the whole battle through a cloud, with his ears stopped up. He had an image of a furiously roaring gold dragon, a falling sword, a sudden blast of energy, but he couldn't put anything in its place.

When Galbatorix had taken over his mind, Murtagh had been certain that the battle was nearly over–that they were about to lose. But whatever the King had done with his body, it had somehow overcome the previously impenetrable defenses of the older dragon and rider. Thorn had witnessed all of it, and had probably felt helpless and confused, knowing Murtagh was on his back, but also knowing it wasn't him–not really.

Murtagh wanted to ask him to share the memory–to walk with him through what had happened–but from experience he knew that this would be a heavy thing to ask. Thorn was grieving, and wounded in more ways than one–to relive the experience might prove to be too much for him.

So Murtagh kept his peace, but his worry did not abate. Demelza tried to coax Thorn into eating, bringing up the finest cuts of venison she could strong-arm the cooks into making, but even Demelza–whom Thorn doted on–couldn't bring him out of his fog.

Murtagh and Demelza sat together on Thorn's cushion, leaning against his great side, nibbling on food, and listening to the dragon's breathing. They tried to talk about light-hearted things, to keep Thorn's mind off his sorrow. Murtagh told Demelza about his deal with Lord Barrow, who had agreed to send her letter to her fiance, and she thanked him.

She relayed some stories of the servant's gossip from that week, and he described an amusing gaff that one of the noblemen had made in court when he was younger, but both of them knew their voices were falsely bright, falsely calm, and both of them kept glancing towards Thorn's head, trying to see if they could draw him from his melancholy and into their casual talk.

Several long days after arriving back at Uru'baen, Thorn had eaten nothing and said nothing, and Murtagh felt the strain and hollowness from his partner so much it started to weigh on him like a physical illness.

Murtagh returned to their chambers after a half-hearted attempt at sparring, and he found Thorn in the same position as always, head on his forepaws, eyes closed, breaths deep. Murtagh sighed heavily, and undid Zar'roc from its belt, laying the sword across his bed, before he climbed onto Thorn's cushion and curled up next to the dragon's bulk, listening to the sound of his great lungs as they rose and fell.

Murtagh heard the snick of Thorn's eyelids opening, and then, to his surprise, Thorn spoke to him.

I felt his pain as though it were my own.

The words were low and deep, like the thrumming of some sorrowful melody that rose up from the recesses of the earth. Thorn's mental voice was somehow heavier than it had been before, the tone had changed.

Murtagh lay very still, and tried to keep his thoughts tranquil, waiting for his partner to continue.

When he charged us… his agony lashed out at me as if it were the striking of his tail. And I heard his thoughts… 'my rider is dead… my rider is dead…'

Murtagh felt Thorn's breaths.

And after I… ended him, still his words lingered in my mind, and they began to take on a form of their own. And suddenly I thought they were my words, and I started to believe them of myself.

Thorn's large head shifted, and he blinked glistening red eyes at Murtagh.

I searched for your mind and I could not find it. You were gone. You were on my back, but your body was limp and your mind vacant. And all I could hear in the voice of my consciousness was… my rider is dead.

Murtagh closed his eyes, understanding; his partner's hurt filled his heart.

I thought I had lost you.

Thorn's warm breath grew close to Murtagh's face. Murtagh tried to keep his own tears from falling.

And then I thought… perhaps it was as I deserved, for what I did to the Old One.

No, Murtagh sat up quickly, No, no that wasn't your fault. You–

I killed him, Murtagh–

You had to–

I killed him and I knew what I was doing. You were not in your body; your hand may have held the blade but it was Galbatorix who did the killing. But me…

Thorn, Murtagh gripped Thorn's scaly face in his hands, trying to push some light into his pain-weary mind.

He was trying to kill us. He would have killed us. You had no choice. You were fighting for me–

You are my heart, Murtagh… Thorn's eyes were fathomless, …I was fighting for myself.

Murtagh swallowed through a lump in his throat, shaking his head, trying to say something that would draw Thorn out of his guilt and sorrow.

S–so-so what? It's you and me, right? We look out for ourselves, we look out for each other. He would've killed you.

Thorn's lids were half closed, his eyes down.

Maybe… I should have let him.

Murtagh felt a thrill of terror.

"Don't say that," He said aloud, his voice cracking, "You can't–don't–don't talk like that."

I am selfish, Murtagh, Thorn said hollowly.

"You're not–"

I would fling myself into the jaws of death for you–I would face a hundred Kull and brave the depths of the sea for you. You are my heart. We are one. For you I would do anything. But I would not sacrifice you. Not if the whole of Alagaesia were burning and your death could save it. I would kill a thousand innocents to save you. I would tear a hundred ancient dragons limb from limb for you.

His lids blinked and Murtagh felt hot breath on his face.

But how then am I any better than the King-Enslaver? If I look out only for myself, if I cannot bear to give you up, even when it may be the right thing to do… then I am a tyrant and a monster. As he is.

"You're nothing like him," Murtagh whispered, wincing, his heart hurting like someone had taken a knife to it.

He has his reasons, for what he did, Thorn returned heavily, He tore the world down when he lost the partner of his heart… and when I thought I had lost you… I was ready to do the same.

Thorn touched his snout to Murtagh's palm, where the gedwey ignasia glinted.

What separates us from him?

In Murtagh's head echoed the parts of his name that he had wrestled with, those two words that hung over him like a dark cloud, exposing his soul:

Selfish and Coward.

He had thought that his name must be wrong–because he'd risked himself in the past, showing selflessness, and he'd acted bravely in many trials. But Thorn's words cut into him–the idea that, in order to be truly selfless and truly brave, he would need to be willing to lay down not his own life–which he esteemed very little, all things considered–but Thorn's life, which he held in worth above all else in the world.

Murtagh's eyes closed, the truth settling heavy on his bones.

He could not do it. He would not. Thorn was all he had, and he would see the world crumbled to ashes, would see Eragon and Saphira dead, would see the forest burned and the Varden destroyed and the free people's of Alagaesia cowed under slavery, before he would see Thorn taken from him.

His name was right after all, then. And there was no use denying it. He was selfish, and he was a coward. And he would be hanged before he would give Thorn up.

After that day, Thorn began to rise from his stupor, and he took some of the food that Demelza brought, and he consented to fly with Murtagh in the evenings. They did not speak more of Thorn's heavy revelations after killing Glaedr, and he still could not bear to open that memory to Murtagh–to share with Murtagh what had happened while he was unconscious and the King had taken over his body.

It is too close to me, Thorn said softly, and Murtagh understood. There were memories he did not share either.

Murtagh himself began to remember things, though–recovering in his thought images and sensations that were foreign to him. He woke up with a start in the middle of the night, having seen a vision of a red sword cutting through the chest of a white-haired elf, a gold sword flipping out of his hand and tumbling towards the ground.

He sat panting and shivering for a long few seconds, the face of Oromis burned into the back of his mind, haunting and pale, with sharp, accusing eyes that seemed to say,

Selfish.

Murtagh couldn't decide which was worse–to remember the whole battle over Gil'ead with terrible clarity, as Thorn did, or to have these hazy half-conscious impressions that plagued him at unawares.

Thorn and he spoke no more of the Elf Oromis and his dragon Glaedr–there wasn't much to say. They were dead, and that was that, and whether or not Murtagh and Thorn should have died rather than end the life of two such wise and venerable persons, they could not now go back and undo what had been done.

They did not, however, have much longer to dwell on their grief, as word reached Uru'baen that the Varden had taken Belatona, and were now marching towards Dras-Leona.

The King dispatched them once more, sending them to Dras-Leona to delay the Varden.

"Let them languish," Galbatorix said in the treasure room, as he handed Murtagh three more Eldunari to bend to his control. He had forced another growth spurt upon Thorn, who was now almost too large to fit in their shared chambers.

"See how long the girl can keep her band of vagrants together, when they are staring down starvation in the heart of my kingdom."

Murtagh knew that "the girl" meant Nasuada, and that Galbatorix was growing ever more irked by the Varden's continued successes; apparently the now-renowned Roran Stronghammer was being hailed as the hero of Aroughs, breaking into a seemingly impenetrable city with naught but his wit and his will. If Eragon and his companions weren't careful, Murtagh thought that they might spur the King to real action. If he and Shruikan decided to depart Uru'baen and face the Varden directly–it would be over.

For now, though, Galbatorix was content to send Murtagh and Thorn to be his lackeys; they were to help the priests of Helgrind and the Governor of Dras-Leona hold the city, to let the Varden dash themselves against the walls and wear them down, and, as always, to capture Eragon and Saphira if possible.

The flight to Dras-Leona was shorter than Murtagh would have liked–his time traveling with Thorn was some of the most peaceful time they shared together. They could imagine, as they flew, that they were free–that they were traveling together, exploring new lands, drifting from place to place as the wind took them, beholden to no one but themselves.

But as the dark spire of Helgrind loomed before them on the horizon, Murtagh prepared himself for another clash with his brother–with the Varden. This time, he felt, it would be different. Word would have reached them of the gold dragon's demise, and they would certainly know who was responsible. Murtagh expected no mercy from Eragon, for the slaying of his master, and Murtagh would not give any.

The priests of Helgrind–the true governors of the city–were a disgusting amalgam of deformed ghouls whose eyes sparked with violent fervor and who seemed to worship blood and death above anything else.

Murtagh had never liked Dras Leona–it had been one of his least favorite places to visit while growing up–but now when he and Thorn descended over the city, he felt nauseated; the dense, crooked streets were as unsightly as the ugly black-spired cathedral that jutted out from the center of the city.

He met first with Governor Marcus Tabor–a sneering, broad-shouldered man with dark eyes and a hard-lined face. Murtagh immediately disliked him. He was about as opposite from Governor Tallman as one could get–bluster and pride instead of fear and nerves–but Murtagh would've taken the cowardly governor of Gil'ead over this man.

Not only was Dras-Leona known for its rampant slave trade and its religion rooted in violence and human sacrifice–all of which Murtagh was sure Governor Tabor profited from–but he also could not stop thinking about the deputy governor who served under Tabor–Falcry–whom Murtagh was terrified of running into.

He had tried to learn for certain if the deputy governor had remained stationed in Uru'baen as liaison despite the approaching army, but could get no official word, and every time the door to Tabor's office opened, Murtagh expected to turn and find the gray-haired man staring down at him with that sickening, malicious smile.

His hand didn't leave Zar'roc's pommel the whole time.

The priests were worse than Governor Tabor, though, always hissing and screaming about how they would 'avenge' the Ra'zac and how Eragon and Saphira were 'blasphemers' and 'heretics'. Murtagh had to restrain himself from lopping off their remaining limbs. The only qualm he had with the Ra'zac's death was that he had been punished for it–otherwise, he said good riddance to the chittering beasts.

He held his tongue in the presence of the priests, though, and when the Varden army approached, consented to allow some of their spellcasters to join him on the ramparts of the city.

"No one attacks until I say," Murtagh ordered as he stood in the keep with the city leaders, the Varden arrayed just outside the gates, where the poorest hovels had been abandoned by frightened residents that fled for safety inside the wall.

"Let them dash themselves against our defenses. They will starve long before we do."

He met the eyes of every person in the room–looking especially sternly at the Helgrind priests, whom he knew might be furious enough with Eragon to disobey his command.

Thorn remained low in the streets behind the wall, unseen by the Varden, waiting to reveal himself until the opportune moment. The first battle they would fight would be a battle of wits, and Murtagh hoped to dismay as many of the Varden as possible with Thorn's sudden appearance. As far as he knew, no one was expecting the King's rider and dragon to be in Dras Leona.

When he was standing on a narrow set of stairs near the city gate, and he heard the voice of the herald call up from below, asking for audience with Governor Tabor, he took a calming breath, and shouted back,

"These gates shall not open. State your message where you stand."

"Speak you for Lord Tabor?" The herald's voice came from below.

"I do."

"Then we charge you to remind him that discussions of statesmanship are more properly pursued in the privacy of one's own chambers rather than in the open, where any might hear."

Murtagh scowled. Patronizing git.

"I take no orders from you, lackey!" He shouted back, "Deliver your message–and quickly, too!–ere I lose patience and fill you with arrows."

The man then gave the usual imploring speech–that Governor Tabor and Dras Leona should simply step aside and give them control of the city, that their quarrel was with Galbatorix and no one else.

Nevermind the string of bodies you leave in your wake, Murtagh thought, leaning close to the stone wall, a cloak over his head, listening for his moment to rise. The herald finished his imploring speech with a threat,

"...none can withstand the might of our army, nor that of Eragon Shadeslayer and the dragon Saphira."

Then Murtagh heard the concussive thunder of Saphira's great roar, and for just a moment he was back in the skies over Gil'ead, the wind biting his skin, the white-haired Elf's face set with determination, and the gold dragon bearing down upon him–

Murtagh closed his eyes and hit his fist against the stone wall, cursing himself for his weakness. Then he scowled, and marched up the remaining steps until he was atop the battlements and visible for all to see, still cloaked, and followed by the array of dismembered priests.

He forced a laugh as he stood between the merlons, his voice echoing down at the assembled army, which–though imposing–was battered and disheveled. It may have looked like a fine fighting force, but Murtagh's keen eyes could make out the dents and tears and bruises. This was a force on the brink of failure, dancing on the knife-edge between victory and dissolution. Murtagh would be the push.

"None can withstand your might?" He shouted, spotting Eragon astride Saphira below, a gleaming blue sword at his waist.

A new sword? A rider sword?

Murtagh scowled.

"You have an overly high opinion of yourselves, I think."

Now, Thorn, He said, and he felt his dragon leap from the ground below and land on the roof of one of the houses with a crack like thunder. He spread his huge, claw-tipped wings, opened his crimson maw, and raked the sky with a sheet of rippling flame, causing the Varden horses and men alike to shudder.

"Dash yourselves against the walls all you want," Murtagh spat, "You will never take Dras-Leona, not so long as Thorn and I are here to defend it. Send your findest warriors and magicians to fight us, and they will die, each and every one. That I promise. There isn't a man among you who can best us." His eyes narrowed at Eragon, who was struggling to conceal his sudden dread.

"Not even you…brother. Run back to your hiding places before it is too late, and pray that Galbatorix does not venture forth to deal with you himself. Otherwise, death and sorrow will be your only reward."

With one last scowl in Eragon's direction, Murtagh pivoted and stalked down the narrow steps towards the street below, as Thorn's growl rippled over the city.

The Varden did not attack.

Nasuada held her force back as the city waited in a breathless silence, and hot days came and went. Thorn remained on the battlements–a warning for any that would attempt an assault of some kind–and reported any movements to Murtagh, who assisted in the preparation of the city.

No doubt Nasuada and Eragon were scrambling to figure out some way of subterfuge, some trick to cripple Murtagh and Thorn or get them to leave. They hadn't counted on Dras-Leona being so defended; the King had given them Belatona, and they'd thought themselves great victors for the achievement.

Fools, Murtagh thought as he watched the camp from the battlements on the third day of the standoff.

He wished Eragon would just attack and get it over with. He hated Dras-Leona more every day he spent there. The priests were irate, barely held back by his threats and commands, and Governor Tabor was already complaining that his business was suffering–as if an army marching on his city was less important than making himself money.

Murtagh saw very little of the residents of Dras-Leona; every time he passed someone in the streets they scurried away, or lowered their eyes, or shuttered their doors. The city was strangely quiet and unmoving, like a hive of bees laden with smoke, but always the priests of Helgrind were about some secret business of theirs, and strange noises seemed to drift through the streets like the haunting whispers of spirits.

Murtagh stuck with Thorn as often as he could, sitting against his inward-facing side, listening to the distant sounds of the camp and the city. Once or twice a herald from the Varden approached the city, but it was never anything significant, just more insisting that Governor Tabor give up the gates.

Murtagh wondered just how long Nasuada was willing to hold out, before she sent Eragon to face him, or how long the dwarves would be willing to stand back and let him taunt them. The army of dwarves had bolstered the Varden's forces several days after the standoff began, and Murtagh had learned that Orik–the dwarf who had saved him and Eragon under the falls at the entrance to Farthen Dur–had been crowned their king, in replacement of Hrothgar.

Fate has a cruel sense of humor, He thought, not for the first time. To think that the three people with whom he had been most friendly–Eragon, Nasuada, and Orik–were now leading the armies that were arrayed against him in a fight to the death. His life was a joke, Murtagh was convinced, and the longer the standoff at Dras-Leona dragged on, the more absurd it all felt.

One afternoon there was a disturbance of some kind from the Varden camp–a great rumbling, though not physical, and some screams. Murtagh winced as a thunderhead of pain dashed itself against his skull, and he nearly stumbled. But just as soon as it had come, it disappeared, and when he ran to the gates to join Thorn, his dragon had no more insight on what had caused the disturbance than he did.

Some trick they are trying, no doubt, Thorn said, his head raised and his ruby eyes watching the distant camp.

Nothing came of the disturbance, and the siege stretched on.

Murtagh ordered the gate nearest the Varden camp to be piled high with rubble against it, so that if Saphira decided to smash down the doors, she would still be hindered by the mountain of boulders, and the Varden would have no clear path. He selected a group of soldiers to set wards about and placed them in the area around the gate, to guard with their lives.

He slept in the guardhouse so he could be close to Thorn, who remained on the ramparts–though he had moved to a more comfortable spot a few hundred feet from the gates. He sent reports back to Uru'baen, but Galbatorix did not seem concerned by the length of the siege. He didn't care whether the siege stretched on for a year, and the poor of Dras-Leona starved to death–as long as the Varden starved too.

As far as provisions, the city was well-stocked, and Murtagh didn't see how the Varden could outlast them, but he did sense a tension rising, especially among the lower-class homes and neighborhoods. The close confines of the besieged streets were causing some conflicts between the residents of Dras-Leona, and Murtagh was having to police them as well as keep an eye on the Varden.

He was exhausted as he returned to bed one night, annoyed and impatient, and wanting more than anything to just fly away on Thorn and be gone from the dank, crowded city.

Sleep, Thorn bid him as he sat drinking in the candlelight, trying to dull his senses, Tomorrow may bring news.

As it turned out, the next day brought far more than news.

Murtagh was awakened from his slumber by the distant tolling of the priory bell. He sat up with a start, pulling out the knife that he always kept under his cushion.

What is it?

He touched Thorn's thought and felt an anticipation, an alertness that had been missing during the sleepy stretch of days.

The tolling of the bells continued. The first gray light of morning drifted through the guardhouse window.

Then Thorn's voice in his head:

Saphira is descending. They attack!

Murtagh hurled himself off the bed and belted on Zar'roc–he had slept in battle-ready clothes for weeks, and was now scrambling to race up the ramparts and climb onto Thorn.

Joining the clanging sound of the cathedral bell was a host of horn-blasts coming from the Varden camp.

What changed? Something must have happened. Why now?

She is landing on the black-spike-towers, Thorn said as Murtagh clambered onto Thorn's back, strapping in his legs with hurried movements.

Get high, come down on them from above.

Murtagh had barely pulled the last strap tight when Thorn unfurled his wings and shot from the ramparts, beating into the sky as the rising sun illuminated his ruby-red scales.

Murtagh's heart was pounding, but he squared his shoulders and prepared for the fight. In the back of his mind he was worrying over what had caused the Varden to end the standoff; what trick were they playing? But the fight was on, and he had to focus on crippling Eragon and Saphira. The city was his to defend, and he would not fail.

Thorn shot out of the sky with flames rippling from his throat, swooping over Saphira again and again as she clung to the roof of the great cathedral like a spider at the center of a web. Thorn was trying to bait her into taking off–he struck her once with his tail, but it was glancing blow and did nothing. The fire was more for show than anything–both of them had wards against that.

What are they doing? Murtagh wondered as Thorn swooped over for another pass. It was unlike Saphira, he thought, to be reluctant in battle. She was waiting here, Eragon astride her back, waiting for something, delaying for some reason. He tried to imagine why, tried to scan the now-frantic city with his mind, to see what trick the Varden were pulling, but so far as he could see, the army was approaching the gate, and Saphira was keeping Thorn away from them–that was the only trick, and it wasn't a very good one. So what if the Varden arrived at the gate unmolested? They had no chance of getting through, with the spells and the rubble that guarded the gate.

As they passed again, he saw Eragon speaking words, likely muttering a spell of some kind, but he felt no change against himself.

She's trying to tire you out! Murtagh decided. Land on the cathedral, force her off.

Thorn grumbled in agreement, and landed on the other end of the roof, stretching out his wings for balance as the building shook and the stained-glass windows shattered. One more thing for the priests to be upset about.

Thorn stalked towards Saphira, his tail twitching, ready to pounce, but just then she unleashed a torrent of fire that cocooned around them. Murtagh flinched, but his wards diverted the flow of heat, and the fire passed harmlessly.

"Is that the best you can do?!" He shouted through the flames, annoyed that Eragon was playing games with him.

But just as the flames dissipated, he saw the massive glittering form of Saphira hurtling towards them, and she struck Thorn full in the chest, causing Murtagh to lurch back in the saddle as Zar'roc was nearly jostled out of his grip.

He cursed as the force of the impact pushed Thorn off balance, and he began to slip from the side of the cathedral.

"Thorn fly!" He shouted as he felt the dragon tipping backwards. But it was too late, and Saphira was too close. Both dragons fell towards the ground, and Murtagh instinctively covered his head with his arms as the paving stones rushed up underneath them.

The impact would've killed him–Thorn's weight would've crushed him flat–except his wards kept a thin space of air around him when Thorn landed on his back, a pain spiking from his wing as he arched.

Murtagh cursed and reached out to heal the wing shoulder as he felt Saphira kick Thorn in the chest and take off again. Thorn growled and groaned as he tried to right himself, his claws raking the stones as Saphira set a row of buildings on fire, returning to the roof of the cathedral and tearing at it with her claws like a dog digging for bones.

Thorn's pain made Murtagh furious, and he drew from the Eldunari as he healed the dragon and cursed under his breath. When Thorn had recovered from the fall, he leapt into the air again, holding himself aloft as the flames consumed the buildings around them.

Murtagh reached out to Eragon's mind, trying to attack, but before he felt anything, Thorn lurched forward, reaching his claws out for Saphira as she roared at him from the cathedral roof.

Murtagh had just a moment to realize where she was standing, and just a moment to shout,

' "Thorn, wait!"

Before Saphira leapt out of the way and Thorn's momentum rammed him head first into the base of the cathedral's central spire. Murtagh whipped forward and would've impaled himself on a neck spike but for his wards. He felt Thorn's shock and dizziness as he tried to right himself, but Saphira had torn a hole in the roof, and Thorn's rear legs were slipping.

"Get up! Get out!" Murtagh shouted over the din of the city, as Thorn scrambled to pull himself from the hole, his rear-end weighing him down.

"Get out!" Murtagh screamed louder, as he saw Saphira fly to the spire above them, and bat at it with one great paw. Thorn's bellowing took on a frantic note as he realized what she was doing, and he scrambled to try and pull himself free.

Murtagh uttered a spell to try and lift Thorn from the chasm below, but the drain on his energy was astronomical, and he struggled to keep it up, drawing from the already-taxed Eldunari. He raised his dirt-smeared face to the spire, and saw Saphira land a third blow on the stone spike.

Murtagh's heart hammered as the base cracked, and Thorn whined, clinging to the edge of the roof like a man hanging from a cliff. Then the spire began to collapse towards them like a great tree being felled.

"Thorn!" Murtagh screamed, but Thorn's claws slipped, and the spire hurtled towards them, and Murtagh barely had time to sheath Zar'roc and brace himself against Thorn's neck before the great building collapsed in on itself, and the pillar crashed on top of them.

Everything was dark, and dust, and shifting rock and pain. Murtagh felt the strain of all his wards working to keep him from being crushed to death. Would they last? How long did he have to get out?

He whimpered and found himself unable to move, pressed in on all sides by heavy stone, guarded by the thin membrane of his wards, but otherwise utterly trapped. His breath was wheezing as dust choked his lungs, and Thorn was still thrashing, trying to pull himself from the great pile of rubble.

He heard rumbles and crashes all around them as the building continued to collapse, and panic began to close his throat. He couldn't move. He couldn't breathe, the pressure of his wards was overwhelming, any second they could break, he had to get out.

Then a terrible heat began to radiate from the rubble around them; Murtagh coughed and shuddered, still hugging to Thorn's neck as he thrashed.

They're going to cook us alive, Murtagh thought with horror as the heat increased, the rocks around them beginning to glow. He muttered spells under his breath to combat the scorching inferno, but still he could not move.

Thorn lurched and Murtagh cried out in pain as a sharp piece of stone sliced through his calf, drawing blood. One of his wards had failed.

He gripped to Thorn's neck spike and cast another spell to clear the choking dust around his face. He would pass out if he couldn't get air soon, if he couldn't get out of this clogging, suffocating rubble.

He squeezed his eyes shut as chinks of light pierced the darkness around him, and he braced himself as he felt Thorn coil up, as though to spring. Just when his vision began to get blurry from lack of air, Thorn gave a great heave, and burst from the pile of rubble.

Murtagh gasped for air and struggled to right himself. He felt a ripple of fury emanating from Thorn, overwhelming even the pain, as Murtagh opened his dust-caked eyes to see Thorn's crumpled wings.

With shaking hands he healed Thorn and coughed the smoke from his lungs, his hair and face gray with dust. Saphira took off immediately, and Thorn bristled as his wings sewed themselves together through Murtagh's touch.

Go! He shouted in his mind, as his voice would not work. Thorn took off the moment his wings were functional, and Murtagh continued to frantically heal the rest of the cuts from the rubble, even as his own leg dripped blood into his boots.

He looked up to see Saphira twisting in the sky, as though to dive at them from above, but just then, she pulled her wings in close, and dropped in a steep angle towards the southern wall.

Thorn lunged at her, but missed, and he struggled to gain on her as she rocketed towards the gate.

What are they doing?! Murtagh wondered for the dozenth time as Thorn labored and he poured as much energy from the Eldunari as he could into the exhausted dragon.

Saphira shot out past the edge of the city, and Thorn pursued, but then she looped around and came back, aiming for the courtyard near the gate.

Don't let her land! Murtagh shouted, and he felt a strange twinge in the back of his mind–someone was using magic–not against him, but against…

His eyes scanned the courtyard below as Saphira attempted to descend. His mind raced as Thorn caught up, forcing the blue dragon to take off again and veer up into the sky.

The two dragons spiraled upward, lashing and clawing, and Murtagh twisted his aching neck back towards the ground, feeling again the pull of an attack on the wards he'd put on the soldiers.

He returned his gaze to Saphira, who was snapping at Thorn's neck as the red dragon jerked away. Then he raised his eyes to the rider on Saphira's back–Eragon–still and calm and unflinching–Eragon, who had said not one word to him in the whole frantic fight. Eragon, who had not attacked his mind, even when he was crushed under rubble, panicking and vulnerable.

Murtagh glowered, and sent a barb of thought in the direction of the rider.

The instant their consciousnesses touched, Murtagh realized what had happened.

He cursed, and drew back his mind.

It's not him! He shouted to Thorn as he chased Saphira upwards. Turn around! Eragon is in the courtyard! Turn around!

Without hesitation Thorn pulled an about face, and, with a sickening lurch, began plummeting down towards the city again. Murtagh swore in every language he could think, furious at the trick. That was some elf on Saphira's back, dressed up in Eragon's skin, stalling them, distracting them.

"Those men are under my protection, Brother!" Murtagh shouted as they hurtled towards the square.

He would have Eragon now. Saphira had been caught off guard; she was at least ten seconds behind them, Thorn could swoop in and pick up Eragon and lift him into the air again before she reached the roofs of the houses. Murtagh would have his revenge for their games.

Finally, he saw Eragon's blue sword flashing in the light of the sun, and the black hair of Arya next to him. They'd made it into the city somehow, and reached the gates, but still the pile of rubble and the garrison of soldiers blocked their path. Their little trick would be futile after all.

Get him, Murtagh said, shifting his grip on Zar'roc.

He saw Eragon's pale upturned face for one second, and then the world seemed to slow.

Thorn's wings flared out, and his talons were outstretched, reaching for Eragon, and he was just passing over the gates when Murtagh saw his brother stretch his right hand out to the pile of rubble.

From his lips came the distant shout,

"Jierda!"

And in the span of a heart beat, Murtagh saw what was about to happen.

"Stop!" He screamed to Thorn as he passed over the rubble. But it happened so suddenly, Thorn could not stop.

Like an arrow fired from a crossbow, the entire pile of rocks erupted towards the sky in a solid pillar of earth and stone. The boulders struck Thorn in the side and shredded his wing.

Murtagh felt a lightning strike of pain as debris hurtled upwards and sent Thorn spinning out of control, the momentum of his flight suddenly reversed. Several rocks battered against Murtagh's wards, and then he felt a sharp fire against his cheek as one struck him in the head. His wards had failed.

Thorn was shrieking and wheezing as he spun through the air, out beyond the walls of the city, spiraling, trying to right himself with just one working wing, his whole left side drenched in blood. The sky and the ground were flickering in Murtagh's vision as they hurtled through empty space.

He barely had enough wits to hold onto Zar'roc and one of Thorn's neck spikes, as waves of pain washed over him from his partner, and his own wounds throbbed. He gritted his teeth and watched as the ground hurtled up beneath them at an ever-shallower angle.

Thorn would land on his side, and skid, and Murtagh would be crushed. As the wind whistled past him and Thorn held out his one wing in a vain attempt to keep aloft, Murtagh uttered a desperate cry and slashed at his leg straps with Zar'roc, launching himself off of Thorn's back just before the dragon hit the ground.

For a moment he was weightless, he frantically muttered a few words of protection around himself as the ground raced up below. Then he squeezed his eyes shut and flinched.

He skipped like a stone across a pond, the first impact jarred Zar'roc out of his grasp, and he spun through the air, landing again, hard, against his wounded leg, until he finally skidded to a stop in the dirt, and lay for a second wheezing and coughing, struggling to move his limbs.

He'd been saved from breaking his bones by his remaining wards and the hurried spells he'd cast, but his whole body was throbbing and the left side of his face felt like the skin had been blasted off it.

Murtagh rolled onto his front and tried to push himself up, his arms shaking. He staggered to his feet, his leg encrusted with blood and dirt, and he blinked his vision clear, searching the horizon for Thorn.

He saw the dragon's shape several hundred feet away, and lurched forward, heedless of his pain, and the fact that he'd lost his sword.

"Thorn!" He cried out as he stumbled, his voice cracked and raw.

"Thorn!"

He reached out with his mind and felt a flicker of consciousness. When he was close enough, he reconnected with the energy from the hidden Eldunari and immediately began pouring strength into Thorn, who had startled awake and was now thrashing, trying to pull his less injured wing out from under him.

"Don't–stay–hold on, hold on," Murtagh panted as he stumbled to a stop in front of Thorn's broken body.

He began with the largest of the wounds on Thorn's side. The pillar of rubble that Eragon had thrown at them had cut him open like a hundred blades, and blood was soaking the ground.

How did he do that how did he do that how did he–

Murtagh shivered and gasped through tears as he muttered the words of healing, drawing more and more strength from the Eldunari and praying they wouldn't give out.

Thorn groaned and whined, as Murtagh sealed up a deep gash on his leg, but once enough of the larger wounds were healed he was able to pull himself upright. His left wing hung like a crumpled piece of parchment, barely attached in some places.

Murtagh fought not to be sick as he knelt before the dragon, pouring all his energy into healing the gaping holes in his wing membrane. Thorn twisted and growled, and Murtagh watched the sky for Saphira to come hurtling down at them, but eventually the most catastrophic of the wounds had been repaired, and Thorn was no longer shuddering from loss of blood.

Heal yourself, He said finally, his mental voice heavy with exhaustion.

I'm okay, Murtagh panted as he worked on a wound on Thorn's neck. Thorn growled.

You will fall unconscious. Heal yourself.

Thorn pushed him back with his neck, and Murtagh nearly stumbled, his wounded leg not bearing his weight.

Murtagh's breaths were still shaky as he knelt and muttered the healing spells over his own body, wincing and grunting in pain as his skin knit itself together. His shaking hand touched the throbbing left side of his face, and came away red. He tasted salty blood in his mouth and felt it on the back of his head.

Too many long minutes stretched out as he healed wound after wound on himself and Thorn. Every moment he watched the walls of the city, waiting for the Varden to come after them, waiting for Eragon to descend with his blue sword.

My sword, Murtagh realized when all but the superficial wounds had been put to right. He stood, taking energy from the Eldunari to sooth his trembling limbs, and he scanned the area around them for a sign of Zar'roc.

Thorn raised his head and looked.

There, I see its glint, He said, and Murtagh stumbled through the pulverized grass in the direction Thorn pointed. The red sword had embedded itself in the ground after it had flipped from his hand, and he had to pull it free from clods of dirt.

He hurried back to Thorn, panicking that they were going to be attacked any second.

We must face them, Thorn growled, anger like Murtagh had never felt before filling his mind.

We can't.

They tried–

We can't! Thorn. My wards are gone. The Eldunari are nearly spent, if we try to face them again, they'll kill us.

Thorn watched the distant city as horns blasted, signaling that the Varden had entered and were fighting their way past whatever soldiers remained in Dras-Leona. Murtagh felt Thorn rumble underneath him as he took his place in the saddle, unable to strap his legs back in.

We have to get out of here, Murtagh breathed, his frantic heartbeat only now returning to a manageable pace.

Thorn chuffed, but he crouched, and prepared to fly.

As they rose into the sky, Thorn angled over the city once again, and Murtagh spotted Eragon below, surrounded by his grouping of Elven spellcasters. No doubt one of them had been charading around wearing a mask of Eragon's shape. Murtagh scowled at them, full of rage at how close they had come to killing Thorn.

"Brother!" He shouted, pushing his voice loud enough with magic to hurt Eragon's sensitive Elf ears, "I'll have blood from you for the injuries you caused Thorn! Take Dras-Leona if you want. It means nothing to Galbatorix. But you've not seen the last of us, Eragon Shadeslayer, that I swear."

He thought he saw an expression like pain pass over Eragon's face, but then it was gone, and Thorn winged his way north over the ruined city, disappearing into clouds of smoke as the sun climbed ever-higher into the sky.