CHAPTER NINETEEN: NIGHTFALL
CW: Violence, PTSD, distressing situations
Uru'baen was like an anthill that had been disturbed. Those refugees who had escaped Dras Leona before the Varden had invaded were crowding the streets, and soldiers from all corners of the kingdom had been called to assemble at Uru'baen, preparing to make a final defense against the rebel army that was sweeping across the land.
Murtagh ordered a castle attendant to tell the King they had returned from Dras-Leona, and he and Thorn hurried back to their chambers to remove his dented armor and finish healing their superficial wounds.
Demelza had to help him remove his bracers, which had been crushed against his forearm, and she brought fresh water for him to wash the dirt and blood from his hair. He had no time to bathe, as an attendant knocked on the door and said the King wished to see him in the throne room, but he changed out of his blood-stained, torn clothes and donned a new pair of dark boots, as his other pair had been soaked with the blood from his leg wound.
He was strapping Zar'roc back onto his belt when he noticed a small parcel sitting on the nightstand.
"What is this, Demelza?" He asked as she gathered up the soiled clothes for cleaning.
"Delivered for you from the castle letterman, sir–it's from Tirendal."
Murtagh frowned. He didn't know anyone in Tirendal.
"You're sure it's not for you? From your fiance?"
"No, sir, I don't believe so."
Murtagh opened the lid of the wooden crate, and found a finely crafted golden chalice lying in a bed of straw. He frowned. There was no note to explain the goblet.
He cast a quick spell to detect any poison or traps, but the goblet appeared to be mundane.
He lifted it up, and Thorn blinked at him.
A gift from one of the nobles? He suggested.
From Tirendal?
He turned the goblet over in his hand, and saw an inscription on the bottom.
"With thanks, Old Chestnut Goblet Makers"
Murtagh frowned down at the writing, something sparking in his war-tired mind. Old Chestnut…he had an image of grease-darkened windows and a chatty merchant.
His brow creased.
Garren. The spy, it's… from him.
Thorn blinked his lids.
He is telling you where he is.
Idiot, Murtagh put the goblet down quickly, confused, trying not to dwell on it too long. Galbatorix had not searched his mind in months, but if he did…
Why would he do that?
He owes you his life. Perhaps he thinks you may need help.
He's going to get himself killed. He should flee back to the Varden before it's too late.
Murtagh closed the lid over the goblet and pushed it under the bed, trying to push the knowledge from his mind, so that the merchant-turned-spy could have a chance at remaining free.
His anger from the battle over Dras-Leona was still clenched in his heart, the memory of Thorn's pain and the crushing panic he'd felt under the citadel ruins suffocated him like a dark cloud.
He strode into the throne room with angry vigor, his boots echoing along the polished floor as Thorn stalked beside him.
He didn't pause his stride when he saw a disheveled man held on his knees between two guards. Whatever poor bastard the King was tormenting now, he didn't care. He had bigger problems.
"Your Majesty," Murtagh stopped before the throne, parallel with the kneeling man, and bowed, his eyes low.
"Ah, excellent. Welcome back, Murtagh. It's good you're here. I hope you're recovered enough from the battle–I have some work for you."
The King sighed languorously and picked up a roll of parchment from the arm of his throne. Thorn sat at attention.
"Several days ago, I received the final report from Dras-Leona before the rebels took it, and one of my scribes found some odd discrepancies in the supplies and troop numbers."
The King's tone was light and lilting, not hard with anger as Murtagh had expected after his embarrassing loss during the battle. Again, he was set on edge by the King's seeming apathy towards his failure.
"...it seems someone has been, shall we say, skimming a bit off the top, from the funds I allocated to the city's defenses."
Galbatorix tapped his long fingers on the piece of parchment, and Murtagh frowned–he wasn't sure what the King was getting at. He glanced at Thorn once. Surely the King didn't think Murtagh had anything to do with the city's treasury? He didn't touch any gold going between Uru'baen and Dras-Leona. That job would fall to–
"Of course I had to learn who was stealing from me–as you know I consider thievery like this to be a sign of disloyalty, which I despise." For just a moment the King's tone was darkened, but then he returned to his casual cruelty.
"It now appears that the person who was robbing my treasury was the exact person whom any logical man would expect it to be–the person in charge of sending gold to Dras-Leona: the liaison to Uru'baen." Galbatorix sighed.
"The foolish thief, as it happens, is none other than our guest here today, Deputy Governor Falcry."
Galbatorix gestured, and Murtagh's skin suddenly went numb; he felt sick and every muscle tensed. He blinked three times, each beat of his heart suddenly slow and laborious, but he kept his expression blank and hard as he swiveled his head towards the shivering, disheveled man on the throne room floor.
Sure enough, Deputy Governor Falcry–the gray-haired man with the cold smile–was hanging from between the two guards, his face bruised and blotched, looking haggard.
Murtagh's veins turned to ice. His hand gripped Zar'roc so tightly his knuckles turned white. He felt a worried nudge from Thorn.
"...I thought, Murtagh," Galbatorix continued jovially, "You might appreciate the opportunity to show the deputy governor here just what we do to people who are disloyal."
Falcry blinked through his swollen face, and grunted something unintelligible, blubbering pathetically. Long gone was the haughty, loud man, accustomed to getting anything he wanted, the sadistic monster whom the King had used to hurt Murtagh in a way that could never be healed.
Murtagh could not take his eyes off the man, his jaw shaking with anger, his expression terrible to behold. Thorn tried to touch his thoughts, but in that moment his mind was blank to everything but Falcry, shivering on the throne room floor.
In the ancient language, Galbatorix said to him,
"I give you permission to hurt this man however you would like."
There was no hesitation.
Murtagh immediately thrust out his hand and said,
"Haina,"
Falcry shrieked and twisted from the guard's grasp, falling to the ground, his hands scrabbling at his throat.
"Brisingr," A fire erupted at Falcry's feet and he screamed, trying to kick it out, writhing on the floor as both spells clawed at him and the two guards backed away in alarm.
"Svell," Murtagh said, and ice began to crawl up Falcry's hands, turning his fingers black with frostbite.
"Please! Please!" The man howled, as he burned and choked and froze all at once, but this time, Murtagh really did feel nothing.
There was a mad fervor in his eyes as he stepped towards the man, feeling the magic flow from him, but experiencing no drain on his energy. His gedwey ignasia glowed, and all that existed was a blank silence in his mind, a void of any conscious thought as he said,
"Verkr," And watched Falcry shudder with agony.
As he stood over Falcry's body, he was aware of nothing but the vicious pleasure of seeing this man suffer, and he didn't care that Thorn was recoiling in disgust.
He didn't care that the King was chuckling with amusement, that this was just another one of his games, that–just as he had used Falcry to punish Murtagh–now he was using Murtagh to punish Falcry.
Murtagh didn't care if he was being used, it felt too good to twist the man's insides and scorch his skin. He poured all his pent-up anger into the magic. He relished the screams, the incoherent pleas for mercy. Murtagh had no mercy. He didn't know what mercy was. He would've strangled the man with his bare hands, but he couldn't bear to touch him.
After a long, terrible stretch of time, Murtagh snatched a spear from one of the terrified guards and said,
"Brisingr," So the end of the staff caught fire. He then stood over Falcry's head and brought the flaming stick towards the man's face. He would burn his eyeballs out of his face, so he could never look at Murtagh again.
But just as the flames made contact and Falcry began to screech, Murtagh heard a voice say,
"Vergari," And instantly the man was still.
Murtagh blinked, the burning staff smoldering in his hand, the dead shape of the disfigured body lying limp in front of him, the room suddenly very quiet.
He raised a quivering glare towards the King, who sat on his throne with a calm expression.
"I couldn't let you use up all your rage on that gutter rat," Galbatorix said casually, "I will have need of your rage, soon."
Murtagh was shaking with anger, gripping the broken staff so hard it dug splinters into his palms.
"You may remove him," Galbatorix said with a lazy gesture to the petrified guards. They shuffled forward uneasily, unsure where to grab the bent and broken body, skirting around Murtagh fearfully as they dragged Falcry's corpse from the room, leaving a trail of blood behind them.
"Now that's dealt with," Galbatorix said with a small smile, "Come with me."
The King stood and gestured for Murtagh to follow him, his heavy footsteps echoing through the throne room as he made for a side door. Murtagh stood frozen for a long second, gazing down at the bloody spot on the floor where Falcry had lain, feeling suddenly numb, now that the fury was passing.
When he finally turned his haunted gaze to Thorn, the dragon was staring at him with what he could only describe as abhorrence. Thorn blinked, but Murtagh could give him no explanation for the revolting scene he'd just witnessed.
Unwilling to fall apart over this again, Murtagh swallowed down the tears and nausea, and forced his shivering limbs to move, stalking out of the throne room after Galbatorix.
His mind was still buzzing with a mix of manic energy and terrifying hollowness, when the King lead them into the treasury room, where Murtagh expected him to hand over more subjugated Eldunari to his control; perhaps if Murtagh got enough of them, he could finally manage to take down Eragon like he should have done that day on the Burning Plains.
But Galbatorix did not make for the shelves lined with the sleeping dragon hearts. Instead he turned, and he closed the doors with a word of magic, and he cast another spell around the three of them that would keep any sound from leaving their circle. Murtagh frowned, suddenly unmoored, unsure what to expect.
"What I am about to tell you, Murtagh, no one in the whole world except myself and Shruikan knows. Not for millennia has this knowledge been brought to light." The King's voice was calm and steady.
"But after nearly a century of careful search and study, I have at last discovered the final weapon in my war against disorder, and here today I share it with the two of you–my chiefest servants, that you may bring order in my name throughout Alagaesia."
Murtagh kept his expression still, but he felt a confused tendril of thought from Thorn, and his own mind began to race.
It began with a language, Galbatorix said, a language to which magic had been tied, a language which had been used by the elves for thousands of years to mold the energy of the world to their will. Every person and thing had a true name in this language, and knowledge of that true name would give one the power over the named thing. Murtagh knew this all too well–his True Name was the shackle around his neck.
"Long have I labored over how to keep control over the many varied and powerful persons in my kingdom–sorcerers and witches and magicians who would seek their own ends through the use of magic. I have, at last, found it."
There was a name, he said, the name of the language itself–commonly called The Ancient Language. And Galbatorix had found the True Name of the Ancient Language carved on a tablet of unknown origins by an unknown race. With it, he would have power over every spell ever cast. No magician would be able to work without his say so. No one could ever amass enough power to overthrow him.
As Murtagh came down from the rush of adrenaline he'd felt in the throne room, he began to feel dizzy, seeing in his mind's eye the far-reaching ramifications of this final, terrible weapon of the King. He had held no longer onto hope that the Varden could win their futile war, but he now despaired of hope that Galbatorix would ever be killed, ever die, ever end his terrible rule, even if a hundred millenia passed and the world was utterly changed. The Tyrant King would still be there, living forever, all-powerful, untouchable, able to control the lives of every living thing in the known world.
Here Galbatorix was–giving Murtagh the key to life and death, the key to ultimate power, the key to freedom and imprisonment–and he could do nothing with it. When Galbatorix spoke The Word, Murtagh felt a shivering in the air, in his bones, similar to the sensation of his True Name being spoken, but this time the True Name belonged to everything around him, not just everything within him.
The Word lodged itself in its brain, sitting there like a bird in its nest, quiet, but filled with massive potential.
Still, he was no more powerful than he had been while chained to the floor in the cell. His oaths would not let him make use of The Word against the one person he really wished to overwhelm. And, as Galbatorix shortly explained to him, he would not be able to tell anyone else of The Word, as wards of forgetfulness had been placed on it for all except Thorn and Murtagh. If he tried to tell anyone, The Word would slip through their memories like water through a hole-riddled bucket. And The Word could not be written down, and it could not be spelled.
In his mind now, Murtagh held the most powerful weapon in the history of the world. And it was useless to him.
A council of war was called in the repaired map room that afternoon, and Murtagh and Thorn had only a short spell to return to their chambers and rest from the chaos of battle and their flight from Dras Leona. Thorn had kept the Eldunari tied to him by magic, and they had been given two more by the King, or else they would have long since dropped from exhaustion.
Thorn's worry over Murtagh's outburst against Falcry had replaced the dragon's fury from the battle, and as he ate his venison and Murtagh drank down a mug of ale– unable to stomach anything else–Thorn kept casting concerned looks his way.
That man… He said finally, his mental voice heavy, …he hurt you.
Murtagh was sitting on the bed, his arms resting on his knees, drink in his hand, boots dirtying the fine bedspread. His eyes flicked in Thorn's direction, dead and unfeeling.
"Yes," He answered dully, unwilling to say more.
You feel better? Thorn questioned, and Murtagh understood–did he feel better now that the man was dead, that he'd gotten his revenge, that Falcry had suffered at his hands and then met the fate he deserved?
"No," Murtagh said heavily, drinking down more of the ale.
He wasn't sure if the unsettled, hollow feeling in his chest was because the King had taken from him the opportunity to land the killing blow, or because his revenge against Falcry was always doomed to leave him dissatisfied. After all, no matter how dead the deputy governor was, it would not undo what had happened. It would not rid Murtagh of the memory.
Murtagh called Demelza for more ale, so he was pleasantly foggy when the war council was convened and he and Thorn wound their way through the castle to the map room.
Those generals and lieutenants who had not been killed in the Varden's invasions were convened around Galbatorix's table, as well as two warriors that Murtagh knew were a part of the King's league of assassins–The Black Hand. The stony silent men gave him the shivers.
Reports on the approaching army were given as the sun set outside, and Murtagh tried to remember what day it was, and how long it had been since the battle, and when he'd last slept. He felt as though he had been awake for years.
"They've left Dras-Leona already," One of the lieutenants reported, "They're camping near the lake, but we believe they intend to begin the march to Uru'baen in the morning."
Galbatorix's hardened mouth twisted.
"She's getting bold," He commented, his dark eyes scanning the map before him.
"Arrogant, more like," One of the generals supplied haughtily. Galbatorix sighed.
"No. Arrogance would be a person esteeming themselves to be more than they are. Ajihad's daughter has proved herself a deadly leader; an opponent worth my attention, and that is saying something indeed."
The King placed his long hands on the map.
"Garvundel," The King's voice said, and the leader of The Black Hand nodded.
"Sir."
The King sighed.
"I think it's about time we removed the girl Nasuada from the map."
Murtagh's foggy mind had drifted to the sunset out the nearest window, but now his attention was snapped back to the present, and everything in the room felt sharp and clear.
"Our spies say the witch-girl has all but abandoned her former master. Nasuada's cadre of guards should prove no issue for you to circumvent. See that she's dispatched before they reach the city."
Heat flushed up Murtagh's neck and his heart hammered. He made frantic eye contact with Thorn as the assassin bowed and said,
"Your majesty."
"–no," Murtagh blurted out, before he could stop himself, and every eye in the room turned suddenly towards him, including the King's cool, raised eyebrow. He knew he had half a second before Galbatorix's wrath came down on him.
"That is, Your Majesty," He corrected his tone, somehow keeping his expression calm and speaking clearly and crisply, hiding the sudden panic in his veins.
"...I think it unwise to assassinate Lady Nasuada now that the Varden are so close to the capitol."
"Oh?" Galbatorix said, his eyes glittering with amusement. "And why might that be?"
Murtagh was utterly still, his eyes unflinching, his hands steady, his voice calm. If he couldn't convince the King, then she would die.
"...we killed Ajihad, and expected that to cripple the Varden for some time," He began, feeling the astonished gaze of every lieutenant on him, "It had the opposite effect. They rallied in the name of their dead leader, and launched an offensive never before seen by the empire. Since then, Ajihad's daughter has garnered an almost worshipful loyalty from her soldiers. You need only look to the siege at Dras-Leona for example–they risked starvation for days, like sitting ducks in enemy territory, because they believed that she would come up with a plan to gain victory. It may seem that killing her would be the most effective way to end their assault, but I believe that once again the opposite will prove to be true."
Murtagh spoke so smoothly, so eloquently, it was like he had practiced this speech in his head a hundred times, like he had learned his letters and studied with his tutors as a child for the express purpose of making this speech–this one speech on which so much hung.
"If we kill her now, we will make her a martyr. And Eragon Shadeslayer will use her death to rally the Varden behind him and spur them on to their last battle. They have no hope, of course, of achieving ultimate victory, but if we kill their leader she will become the banner under which they march, and their thirst for revenge will make them all the more ready to lay down their lives as they wreak havoc upon this city."
Murtagh took a breath.
"Rather than killing her… we must turn her against them."
Murtagh's mind was racing as he spoke, unspooling his thread of thought even as he wove it together. How could he save her? How could he convince the King?
"...if we take her captive, and we bring her to our side," He said, meeting the King's cool glance, "...it will cripple the morale of the Varden. They will see her serving under you, and they will lose all will to fight. She is a formidable enemy, if only because she inspires such loyalty in the people she leads. We can use that against them. Eragon cannot hold that army together the way she can. He will be helpless, and his friends will abandon him, and he will come to you all the faster if he knows you hold his liege lord in your sway."
Murtagh stopped, and waited as the room hung with heavy silence. No doubt the assembled parties expected the King to lash out at him in anger for his insolence, but Galbatorix only looked at him with a subtle, amused expression.
"Well. That is an interesting proposition," He mused, his fingers still pressed against the table. "But what if she will not submit? What if she cannot be broken?"
Murtagh's face was devoid of emotion as he said,
"Anyone can be broken."
To his great horror, and also his great relief, Galbatorix agreed to Murtagh's proposal. Nasuada would not die. She was to be captured, and Murtagh was to do the deed.
He fought down the twisting revulsion in his gut as he hurried with Thorn down to the armory, to be equipped with rigging that would allow Thorn to carry several dozen soldiers on his back.
They were to leave immediately, to pick up a cadre of undying men from the outpost nearest to the Varden army, and to descend upon the Varden's camp in the dark hours of the night, the day after their victory at Dras-Leona, when they would be least expecting an attack.
Another group of soldiers, along with their spellcasters, was marching from the outpost even now, in order to reach the Varden camp at the same time, and join in the assault.
It does not seem right, to swoop in like bats in the night and terrorize the enemy while they sleep. That is the coward's way, Thorn mused as an armorer worked to fit him with the leather rigging.
It doesn't matter, Murtagh thought, his mental voice hard, I had to do something.
We will capture Friend-Nasuada and condemn her to the same torture–?
We're saving her life, Murtagh spat sharply, whirling on Thorn, torn between disgust for himself and fear for Nasuada.
I'm sorry, He said immediately, his breaths unsteady.
I understand. But she may not thank us for it.
They left Uru'baen as darkness fell, and Thorn hurried to the west, his mighty wings pumping, his energy and wards renewed from some of the Eldunari in the treasury room.
Murtagh forced his mind to be empty of all except the mission: capture the Varden leader.
He could not let his emotions take hold. This was too important. If he failed tonight, the King would kill her. He had one chance. He closed his eyes and imagined his heart was a hard, cold piece of granite, unyielding, jagged and unbreakable.
You feel nothing.
The soldiers from the outpost were grim and silent, likely aware that they were going into a battle from which they did not expect to return. They were painless, and drunk with power.
Whistling like a silent arrow through the night sky, Thorn began to descend as the flickering torches of the Varden camp appeared on the horizon. Murtagh knew Eragon would race towards Nasuada once he got an inkling of what was happening, he had to keep his brother distracted for long enough to get off the ground. That was the purpose of the soldiers, who were gathering on the north end of the camp and had been ordered to attack at the same time Thorn landed.
Silently Thorn glided, and Murtagh melded his mind with his partner, his heart still as the wind whipped his hair and the Varden camp passed below. Murtagh scanned the sea of gray tents until he spotted the one he was looking for–Nasuada's pavilion with its pointed roof and flapping flag.
You should've blended in, He chided her in his mind, as he pointed out the large tent to Thorn, and the dragon dropped in altitude.
Now their time had come.
Thorn let out a rippling growl that split the silent blackness around them, and the soldiers clinging to his side howled their savage war cries, facing down death fearlessly.
Murtagh remained grim and silent, drawing Zar'roc as Thorn landed hard on the packed earth near Nasuada's tent, shaking the ground while horns began to blare along the perimeter of the camp.
Immediately Nasuada's team of guards–Urgals and dwarves and humans–charged them, and Thorn swiped at them with one great claw as the undying soldiers leapt from his sides and hurtled into the camp, madly swinging their blades.
Murtagh slid from the saddle and dispatched one of the Urgal's with Zar'roc, snatching the creature's weapon and hurling it at a dwarf guard who was swinging an ax at Thorn.
As chaos erupted around him and Saphira's roars rippled from several hundred yards away, Murtagh ran towards the pavilion, leaving Thorn to wreak havoc on the nearby tents.
He encountered half a dozen Varden soldiers and two more of Nasuada's guards, but all of them he slew with unfeeling efficiency, focused solely on his goal.
Screams rent the air, and he felt the heat of flames behind him as Thorn bathed a row of tents in fire. Saphira's roars grew loud, and he sensed the two of them slam their great forms against each other as he pushed through the heavy tent flaps into the semi-darkness of Nasuada's tent.
Before his eyes adjusted, there was a shout, and a sword descended towards him. He blocked it with a flick of Zar'roc and punched the guard who had swung it in the face, knocking him towards the tent wall. Murtagh sliced the man's neck before he could rise, and he swiveled into the half-lit pavilion, ready for another attack. He felt a spark of pain from Thorn as Saphira clawed at him, but the rumble of the dragon's great wrestling match shook the earth, and he knew Thorn was holding his own.
A cry rang out, and a thin woman with graying hair and a small knife ran at him. Murtagh uttered a word and she fell limp–unconscious, not dead–she was a handmaid, not a soldier, and she was no real threat to him.
Then his eyes fell on Nasuada, her shadow cast against the tent wall by the flickering of a single candle. Her shoulders were drawn back, and a knife was in her hand, and she wore only a yellow dressing gown, her dark curls cascading around her shoulders.
Their eyes met, and there was a long moment of breathless silence.
"Are you here to kill me?" She asked, her voice calm and firm.
You feel nothing.
"No," He answered, as the cacophony continued outside, muted by the heavy fabric walls.
Nasuada's chin raised, the candlelight flickering in her dark eyes.
"You will come with me," Murtagh said, "Or I shall force you."
Nasuada displayed no fear, her knife hand was steady, ridges of several scars rising along her wrists.
"I will not go with you, Morzansson. Begone from here. Or you and your dragon will not escape as easily as you did at Dras-Leona."
Zar'roc hung loosely, and his hard stare was unflinching.
"You will come with me," He repeated, and the knife shifted in Nasuada's hand.
Almost in unison, the two of them leapt towards each other, Nasuada uttering a feral cry as she ducked and swung her blade with trained precision. But Murtagh was better trained.
He smacked his right bracer against Nasuada's wrist, blocking the arc of her knife, and swung himself underneath her arm, grabbing her shoulder with his left hand and her knife hand with his right, and wrenching her arm back until she was doubled over, gritting in pain as her shoulder tore.
"Drop it!" He ordered her. She was no match for his strength, and he could easily overpower her, but he didn't want to hurt her more than he had to.
In answer, Nasuada aimed a kick at his shins. The blow glanced off his ward, but she thrust herself forward, trying to pull him off balance.
Scowling, Murtagh shoved her in the back and let go, causing her forward momentum to send her to the ground.
He was on top of her in seconds, clamping down on her wrists, his knees against her thighs, pinning her down. Nasuada snarled, her hair splayed out behind her, and she wrenched her knife-hand towards him, trying to stab him in the face.
He let go of her left hand for one second and snatched the knife from her right, but as he did she swung the free hand towards his face and landed a punch against his jaw.
He instinctively retaliated by swinging his forearm down at her face, and as he made contact with her cheek, his bracer cut into her soft skin.
She growled and struggled, but he had control of the knife, and he tossed it in the darkness. As blood dripped from her face, Murtagh wrestled both her wrists into one of his hands and stood, yanking her from the ground and charging for the tent door.
He burst into the flame-riddled night, dragging Nasuada kicking and screaming behind him, his face and heart hard as stone. Nasuada battered his legs with her flailing feet, but she could not touch him. She tried to bite him, but he elbowed her in the face.
She's going to kill herself if she doesn't stop struggling, He thought, as she aimed another kick. Finally, he'd had enough, and he yanked her towards him, landing a carefully aimed blow on her head with Zar'roc's pommel and knocking her unconscious. She fell limp into his arms.
He heard a furious shout, and he turned to see Eragon, a hundred yards away through the flailing bodies and burning tents. He gave his brother a glare, and sheathed Zar'roc, hoisting Nasuada's limp body into his arms and kneeling, calling to Thorn in his mind.
Now, Thorn!
He felt Thorn extricate himself from Saphira, even as he saw Eragon hurtling towards them across the corpse-strewn camp.
Don't you know, fool? I'm saving her life.
He heard Thorn swoop overhead, and sheltered Nasuada's body with his own, as his dragon's mighty talons descended and picked them both up like an eagle catching a fish. Murtagh felt a sick swoop as they took into the air, clutched in Thorn's great paw, swinging in the wind.
Nasuada's body was warm against him, and he held her tightly as Thorn climbed into the air above the Varden camp, uttering a visceral roar. Just when Murtagh thought they had gotten away, he felt a sharp spike of pain from Thorn, and was sent an image of the elf Arya, a glowing spear in her hand, hanging from Thorn's tail.
Murtagh's thoughts raced, lifting his gaze to stare through the cracks in Thorn's claw. He couldn't help fight the elf off, not from this position, except with magic.
She climbs me like a cliff-face! Thorn growled, and Murtagh saw the Elf crawling up Thorn's tail, the strange glowing spear–which should not have been able to pierce his wards, but did–used as a pickaxe. Murtagh felt a clench of fury. Damn that elf.
Then in his mind, he prepared to use The Word; he would tear her wards down and kill her with a single spell. She was at his mercy and didn't even know it.
Before he could convince himself to do it, though, Thorn took matters into his own hands, saying,
Hold on, As he pitched forward and began to spiral rapidly, sending the Elf whirling through the air so fast that she and the glowing spear snapped loose from Thorn's bleeding tail.
Through the gaps in Thorn's claws, Murtagh saw the elf stop her momentum with a spell and hang in the night sky, the spear glowing in her hand like a sickly star.
Then Thorn bore down upon her and unleashed a torrent of flame, and just as he ended it, Murtagh felt a sickening lurch as he pulled an abrupt reversal, and swung his great tail at blinding speed, smacking the elf out of the air with a sickening crunch.
Murtagh squeezed his eyes shut as his stomach did loops, dangling from Thorn's grasp, hugging Nasuada tightly to him, his cheek pressed against her hair.
After a moment, all was quiet except for the beating of Thorn's wings and the pounding of his own heart. He blinked his eyes open, seeing the stars flicker in and out between Thorn's talons.
Are they following? He asked.
They have retreated, Thorn answered, his voice determined.
Murtagh realized he had been holding his breath. His chest rose and fell, and he swallowed down bile, his heartbeat slowing.
Then he carefully tilted Nasuada's head back, and stared at her face for a moment in the dim light. She held no expression, and her head hung limply, but he sensed her consciousness and the pulse of blood through her body. She was alive. That was what mattered.
He pulled a strand of her curly hair from the blood that had caked along the side of her face, and he held his gedwey ignasia over the wound his bracer had cut in her cheek. He healed it with a few whispered words, the glow from his hand illuminating the small cave formed by Thorn's paw as they floated through the stars.
When Nasuada's face was whole once more, Murtagh resisted the urge to touch it again. He did not deserve to touch her. He had just given her a wound from which there would be no healing. He had sealed her fate, and she would hate him for it.
