CHAPTER TWENTY TWO: LIFE AND DEATH
Thorn flung himself from the outcropping that loomed over Uru'baen, hurtling down towards the city street where Saphira had just fallen after being wounded by the projectiles that the soldiers had fired at her.
The sky had barely lightened over the eastern walls when the Varden attacked, and Murtagh had to draw energy from the Eldunari, having gotten no sleep since the night before last.
The wind whipped through his hair as he brandished Zar'roc, his eyes locked on Saphira's rolling form, as she struggled in the street.
Thorn landed, scattering Imperial soldiers as he shook the ground. He roared and fired a blast of flame at Saphira, but her wards deflected it.
Saphira leapt over a row of buildings, frantically flapping one injured wing as her claws brought pieces of the roof hurtling down towards the street. Thorn pursued.
Once again the dragons wreaked havoc on a city as they pursued each other relentlessly. Murtagh was whipped around as Thorn clawed and slashed at Saphira. He clenched his teeth to keep from biting his tongue when Thorn jumped and landed on another street.
The sounds from the walls echoed over the city, as men shouted and the Varden army began battering at the gates.
Fools, Murtagh thought angrily, hearing the screams of dying men.
He had just turned his attention back to Saphira and Eragon when Saphira took another leap, and batted her wings back, escaping a swipe from Thorn. At that moment, Murtagh's eye caught the tip of Saphira's wing, as it brushed through the upper level of one of the houses… and went straight through.
Murtagh felt a jolt down his spine.
They didn't…
With no hesitation, he jabbed out towards Eragon with his mind, and he felt… nothing.
They're not real, He realized, but he didn't say it to Thorn, who was firing another jet of flame at Saphira, nearly cooking some imperial soldiers in the process. Murtagh's mind raced, and he swiveled his head around, searching the city for a sign of the real Saphira.
They have to be here somewhere. If they're not here fighting us, then they have a plan… some sort of feint…
For a moment, Murtagh was torn. He could allow Thorn to continue fighting this mirage of Saphira, giving Eragon and whoever was with him the opportunity to enact whatever secret plan they had concocted, to try and get one over on Galbatorix. Murtagh didn't have any faith that they could defeat the King in this, their final confrontation, but if the plan included rescuing Nasuada…
He hesitated for a long few moments as Thorn continued to batter and harass the fake Saphira, which, Murtagh now noticed, had not once touched Thorn, and was running away at any opportunity. The elves were skilled at their deception.
He tried to think through his options as the noise of battle raged around him.
The King had taken Nasuada to the throne room–he knew this because he'd shouted at one of the terrified guards after finding her cell empty. Eragon and Saphira were likely heading for a direct confrontation with the King, meaning they would try to find a way into the throne room–past the many wards and traps that he and his spellcasters had erected during the night.
Once they got the throne room, the King would overpower them and demand they give oaths of fealty. If they refused–which they would–he would begin to use force. There was a chance that he would use Nasuada to persuade Eragon–hurt her, or worse, kill her, in order to get him to submit. Murtagh could not allow that to happen.
His eyes continued to scan the maze of buildings around them, until he saw a flicker of blue near the citadel. It was as he suspected–they were trying to break into the keep.
Thorn! She's a fake! Murtagh shouted to his partner, his mind made up. Whatever Eragon's plan was to get past the well-defended citadel gate, he could not sit back and let him walk straight into the King's arms, just so Nasuada would be used to hurt him.
Thorn recoiled his neck mid-growl, a questioning thought pushing against Murtagh as he tilted his head at the still-growling fake-Saphira
It's a mirage! Murtagh shouted, They're at the citadel! Go!
Thorn rippled with fury and sent a petulant blast in the direction of the false Saphira, before leaping from the streets and rising in the air, charging towards the citadel gate, through which Saphira had already disappeared.
His roar of rage thundered in Murtagh's ears and silenced the clamor of the city for a moment.
By the time they landed in the courtyard, Eragon and Saphira had gone, and the gate was closed again.
Blast them! Murtagh cursed for the hundredth time that day, as Thorn swung an infuriated paw at the doors. But the King's spells would keep the door held against them as well.
Murtagh quickly undid his leg straps and slid from Thorn's back, landing on the pavement hard, and running for the still-open sally port.
The gate mechanisms were in shambles–evidently Eragon and his friends did not want to be followed. Murtagh growled and started working through the cranks and levers, knowing he could not go into this confrontation without Thorn.
Sweat rolled down his neck as he worked, trying to repair the gate, hindered by the King's magic. It felt like hours before he finally heard the click and the gate rolled open.
Thorn hurried through, and Murtagh ran towards the hallway that led to the throne room. If they hadn't accidentally killed themselves on one of the hallway traps, then he could still try to catch up with them.
He began to run back and forth across the hall, disabling the many traps and tricks with the spells that Galbatorix had shown him, but it was time consuming. He saw a group of at least six or seven people surrounding Saphira up ahead, the eerie lanterns glittering off her scales. Thorn followed him slowly, not wanting to trip any of the deadly traps.
He soon found a crumpled pile of the King's magicians–their bodies cut in two by the their own traps.
Idiots, He cursed them, as he first had to disable the trap that had killed them, and then drag the body parts out of Thorn's way. He groaned in frustration when he saw the door to the throne room swing open, and watched Eragon, Saphira, Arya, and a little girl he knew must be the witch-child, step into the glowing light of the cavernous space.
He worked even faster, his panic mounting, knowing now that every second he wasted put Nasuada at risk. The King might kill her as a show of force, might kill her the moment Eragon said something disrespectful, might kill her to wound or scare the little girl, anything.
Finally, Murtagh reached the carved golden doors, his breath haggard, his Eldunari weakened from the many frantic spells he had cast to undo the King's magic.
He pushed into the throne room with Thorn stalking behind.
When he saw Eragon, Arya, Saphira and the girl standing frozen before the King, he was unsurprised. As he had suspected, their little plan had been useless–all they'd managed to do was get to the throne room without getting cut in half, and delay him and Thorn awhile. As if that would stop the King from destroying them, as if it would change the outcome of the day.
He saw no sign of Nasuada in the dark room, and that worried him. Where would the King be hiding her? But if he didn't see her corpse lying at the King's feet, he would maintain his hope that she was still alive.
The thing he saw that almost made him stop short, were two children, huddled at the front of the King's dais, shivering and holding each other. Murtagh felt a rush of fear and confusion. He recognized the children. They were Lord Barrow's son and daughter.
Then he looked from the King, to Eragon, and he understood. The children were pawns. He cursed again, praying that Eragon's stubbornness wouldn't get the brother and sister killed. In the back of his mind he had to wonder–had it been random? Had it just been bad luck that these particular children were snatched from their home? Or had it been because Galbatorix knew Lord Barrow had been willing to help Murtagh–was this another punishment?
Murtagh gripped his fists as he marched closer and closer to the gathered group. When he was abreast with Saphira, he stopped, and bowed, his gaze forward.
"Sir," He said, and Galbatorix beckoned for him to join him by the throne. Murtagh turned and his eyes locked on Eragon, scowling at his brother for the harm he had done to Nasuada. But then he turned his face away, and kept his gaze fixed on the far wall.
Galbatorix chided him for taking so long, a threat hanging in his deceptively calm voice, and Murtagh kept his responses civil. He was now trying to win the King's approval. That was all that mattered–making sure the King kept Nasuada alive for him.
His forced composure was almost broken when Galbatorix brought the lights of the throne room back to their full brightness, and Murtagh finally saw her–chained to a stone slab, wearing trousers and a white tunic, hanging from shackles, her mouth gagged.
His heart leapt into his throat, and he met Thorn's glance. He couldn't decide whether he was relieved or terrified.
Eragon called her name, and asked if she was still free of any binding oaths. Murtagh scowled at this–as if Eragon really cared. He hadn't come to rescue her, had he?
He met Nasuada's fearful gaze and gave her the slightest of nods.
Then Eragon began to sling empty threats at the King, swearing in the ancient language that he would kill Galbatorix–an oath which the King immediately dismantled with his use of The Word.
Murtagh scowled as Eragon threatened the King, again, and demanded that Galbatorix fight him.
Idiot, stop it, you'll get them killed.
He glanced at Lord Barrow's frightened children; the girl, Aberly, looked over at him with wide, questioning eyes, as if to say,
Why aren't you helping us?
Eragon went on taunting the King, trying to goad him into fighting like the fool that he was. Murtagh understood Eragon risking his life–he understood Eragon and Saphira giving everything they had to defeat the King, laying down their lives in sacrifice for those they loved.
But he was furious with his brother for risking the children, for risking Nasuada, with his recklessness.
He could've strangled Eragon when he heard the King say,
"Since you wish so badly to fight, I will grant your request. But not with me. With Murtagh."
Blast it you bloody idiot, I'll kill you.
Murtagh's fists clenched, and he felt Thorn's worried touch. So this was to be it. This would be how he won Nasuada's life–he would have to take Eragon down in combat, to prove to the King once and for all that he was the better fighter. He was steeling his nerves and already thinking through strategy when the King said,
"It will be rather entertaining, I think, to watch brother fight brother."
And Eragon answered,
"No. Not brothers. Half brothers. Brom was my father, not Morzan."
Instantly all thought of the fight left Murtagh's mind. He blinked, thinking he had dreamt up Eragon's words, had fallen into a strange dream for a moment. But then he saw his brother–his–his half-brother?–he saw Eragon meeting his gaze with determination.
Is that possible? Thorn wondered.
It… I… Brom? How would… if she…
And suddenly Murtagh was brought back to a cool evening in the garden of his father's estate, holding to his mother Selena's hands as she knelt before him and said,
"This is mummy's friend Neal. He can help you. If you're ever in trouble, you go to Neal, alright sweetheart?"
And Murtagh had looked into the eyes of a tall, sun-darkened man, with graying hair and kind eyes.
"Hello, Murtagh," The voice had rumbled.
Murtagh! This was Thorn's voice, calling him back to the present, where the King had freed Eragon from his bind and had created a circle of light in which to do battle.
Murtagh scowled, and shoved the revelation from his mind. Brother or half-brother. It didn't matter. He would best Eragon no matter what it took. He was the better swordsman, he knew it without a doubt, and he would make sure the King knew it too.
Drawing Zar'roc, he faced Eragon in the circle of light.
"What are you doing?" He hissed when his back was to the King.
"Buying time," Eragon muttered in return as they circled each other.
"You're a fool. He'll watch us cut each other to shreds, and what will it change? Nothing."
Eragon made a movement that caused Murtagh to twitch, but it was a feint. Murtagh hunched his shoulders, his grip shifting.
"Blast you," He said for the hundredth time that day, "If you had waited just one more day, I could have freed Nasuada."
He didn't know why he said that–perhaps because he wanted Eragon to know just how big a mistake he'd made. When it was all over and Eragon was a slave like him, and Nasuada too, he wanted Eragon to share in the blame for her imprisonment. Had his plan been likely to work? Not necessarily. But it had been Nasuada's only chance at freedom, and Eragon had taken that away. Now all Murtagh could hope for was to keep Nasuada alive as the King's servant and Murtagh's consort, so she could hate him until the day she died. But at least she'd be alive to hate him.
"Why should I believe you?" Eragon retorted under his breath as they circled, and that caused Murtagh to bristle. How dare he. After everything Murtagh had done–for him, for the Varden, for Nasuada–how dare he.
Murtagh wrestled his anger under control, and molded it into an impenetrable wall of determination. He would see this done or he would die in the effort.
When he attacked, it was sudden and powerful, and he could tell it unnerved Eragon. Good. Served him right for dropping the revelation about Brom right before their fight. Underhanded trick.
Rapidly, their dueling escalated, as blows were exchanged and their red and blue swords rang out across the echoing throne room. Murtagh feinted and lunged and blocked. It was like a dance between them, their rhythms evenly matched, their moves echoes of one another. They had practiced together too much, and though they were now very different people from the two boys who had fled through Alagaesia on horseback together, the core of their fighting styles were the same.
The air shuddered with the collision of their blades, and sweat began to trickle down Murtagh's neck, but his determination was implacable. Once, Murtagh managed to almost win–he would've won, except for Galbatorix's rule about killing blows. He'd thrown himself recklessly at Eragon and shoved him backwards–taking a page from their cousin's book, if what he'd heard about Roran Stronghammer was correct–and in Eragon's moment of instability, Murtagh had swung Zar'roc with a shout of rage, bringing it within inches of his brother's neck.
Only the King's magic stopped him from killing Eragon right there, though whether subconsciously he had known he would be stopped, Murtagh couldn't say for sure. Had he really intended to kill Eragon? The King wouldn't have been pleased by that, certainly, but maybe somewhere deep down, he did… he wasn't sure.
The action seemed to throw Eragon off, though, and after the King had chastised Murtagh with a threat, they continued, and Eragon seemed weaker than before.
The fight dragged on, but Murtagh's resolve was unwavering. First Eragon received a wound on his leg, then on his forehead, then he landed a cut on Murtagh's sword-wrist, and blood began dripping down Murtagh's hands, causing Zar'roc to become unsteady in his grip. His hair hung in front of his forehead, drenched in sweat, as on and on the battle dragged, and he felt Thorn's worry increasing.
He would not lose. He could not lose.
His greave was dented by a powerful blow from Eragon, and he felt a shock of pain up his leg as he stumbled back, defending himself against Eragon's pursuit, suddenly fearful. But he pushed back with renewed determination, unwilling to yield.
You will not best me, He thought as their eyes locked, the floor spattered with blood and sweat. Time was immaterial; Mutagh was immortal, and he would fight Eragon for a thousand years if he had to.
Never before had he been so determined to win. Every fight they'd had, a small part of him had been holding back, had been wishing for Eragon to beat him, for his brother–or half-brother–to come out victorious. It was not so, now.
He heard a snarl from Saphira, and Thorn responded with a growl, but Murtagh could not see what had caused Eraogn's dragon to react. He paid it no heed. He would not be distracted.
Murtagh rushed at Eragon, determined to throw off whatever plan was forming, and their blades rang. When they disengaged and started again, Eragon stepped to the right, and in that moment he twisted his arm too far, and his side was exposed. With a spark of triumph, Murtagh lunged, and, almost in disbelief, he felt Zar'roc plunge into Eragon's side.
He looked up in shock–his determination broken for just a split second, so surprised was he to have won. But then, in the next moment, he saw Eragon's arm moving and Thorn said,
Look out!
And suddenly Brisingr pierced his stomach, running him through with a shock like fire.
Murtagh's breath left him with a wheeze, his face went slack and he choked, pain erupting from his center.
Thorn's roar shook his ears, but the world was spinning, and he felt himself falling to his knees, his lungs rasping. He grunted as he felt the sword leave him, and Eragon–still standing over him–stepped back.
His body was shuddering, and he tasted blood in his mouth, and every beat of his heart felt like the slow banging of a deep drum, with an eternity in between. The grip of his hand loosened, and Zar'roc clattered to the floor. He clutched his arms over his torso, hot blood spreading onto his hauberk as a wave of despair washed over him.
It had been a trick. Eragon had tricked him. He had won. Murtagh had failed.
Murtagh curled forward, partly from physical pain, partly from emotional anguish, and he pressed his forehead against the cold floor, crying out as he felt the strength ebbing from his body.
He vaguely felt the room lighten around him, he vaguely heard a muffled voice–Nasuada's voice–he vaguely sensed Eragon kneeling next to him, as Galbatorix said,
"And to Eragon goes the victory."
Murtagh panted, close to unconsciousness, but so full of sorrow that he couldn't seem to die. He looked up at his half-brother, his face contorted.
"You couldn't just let me–let me win, c-could you?" He muttered unsteadily, "You–you can't beat–you can't beat him but you still had to p–prove that you're better than–"
He groaned as the pain redoubled, and he rocked back and forth, overwhelmed by the weight of his failure, unable to turn his head to the right, to look Nasuada in the eyes, knowing he had lost her her life.
Murtagh, strong, Thorn pleaded from behind him, shifting on his forelegs helplessly, the dragon's own misery palpable.
Murtagh felt Eragon's hand on his shoulder as tears smarted in his eyes. His first instinct was to bat it away, but he couldn't have moved his arm even if he wanted to.
"Why?" Eragon's voice said softly, and Murtagh understood. His brother had seen–had understood something was driving him–had understood his need to win.
If only he had known.
Murtagh's voice was haggard and high-pitched, like the pathetic pleas of a child,
"Because I hoped to gain his favor…" He whispered, "...so I could save her."
He looked up at Eragon once, tears blurring his vision, then away, bitterness taking the place of his anguish for a moment.
"You tricked me," He muttered, replaying the moment over and over. How had he not seen it? How had he allowed himself to be fooled? How had he not understood Eragon?
"It was the only way."
Murtagh grunted, but it came out more like a wheeze.
"Th–that was always the difference between you and me," He said humorlessly, "You were willing to sacrifice yourself. I wasn't… not then."
He lifted his eyes to Eragon, trying find the places where they were the same. He knew now what it was like, to love that fiercely, to put his own life last, not because he didn't value it, but because he valued it much, and was willing to lay it down anyway.
"But now you are," His brother concluded, with such sympathetic understanding Murtagh could've smacked him, if he'd been able to take his arm off his wound.
Murtagh breathed weakly, exhaustion hanging heavy on him. He was just so tired.
"I'm not the person I once was. I have Thorn now, and…" His eyes flicked to the stone, where Nasuada hung, watching the two of them with worry in her eyes.
"I'm not fighting for myself anymore," He managed, "It makes a difference. I-I used to think you were a fool… to keep risking your life as you have. I know better now…"
He looked up at Eragon, pleading, but for what he didn't know.
"I understand why. I underst…"
At just that moment, it was like he'd stopped suddenly at the edge of a chasm.
Up from the darkness below came a great wind, a hundred whispers that echoed in his ears all at once, blowing his hair, brushing against his skin. Then a great chill started from his feet and crawled up through his spine and into his skull. Suddenly his head felt light, and breath was pushed into his lungs.
I'm not the person I once was–
He wasn't sure if the shackles had been shattered just in that moment, or if they had been gone for some time, and he was only just now noticing their absence, but it was like he was breathing fresh air for the first time in months. It was like a mountain had crumbled off his shoulders, like iron bands around his chest had been released. He felt no pain, his limbs were flushed with life, his gaze wide and astonished, the essence of his being thrumming with energy.
"I understand…" He whispered, his mind spinning, "We understand…"
He felt a sudden press of thought from Thorn, the same wild energy flowing from his dragon, the same light pouring off of him.
Thorn…
They are gone, Thorn seemed to gasp, his consciousness swirling, The egg-breakers chains are gone. I feel like a starling taking flight, like a river pouring over a cliff, like a sun rising… they're…
Thorn… Murtagh gasped again, his thoughts suddenly racing. Power sparked at his fingertips. He was unshackled. Unrestrained. Every weapon was at his disposal. Every piece of magic he'd ever learned, every spell he'd memorized, every word…
He looked to his dragon, and Thorn met his gaze, and an understanding passed between them.
They would do it now. They would end this here, or they would die trying. And if they died, they would do it together, and they would do it for those they loved.
He heard the King say something, but it was immaterial to him in that moment. He did not have to heed the King's commands.
Eragon started to stand, but Murtagh's hand shot out and gripped his wrist like a drowning man gripping a buoy.
"Ready yourself," He said, barely a whisper.
Then, still clutching his stomach with one hand, Murtagh pushed Eragon aside, rose to his feet, lifted his gedwey ignasia towards Galbatorix and shouted The Word.
The power rushed through him like a great ocean wave. Before its reverberations had even stopped, he began to speak, weaving a spell as though he had known it from birth, as though this was the moment he had been preparing for his whole life, as though the words from his mouth were pre-ordained.
He felt the spell gripping around the edges of Galbatorix's wards, even as the King recoiled in shock. Murtagh's heart beat with the thrum of the magic flowing through him, his hand was thrust outward, trembling with energy, his gedwey ignasia glowing.
Then, with a visceral scream, Murtagh ripped the wards apart.
Fire and light crackled around the King; trapped spirits freed themselves from his bonds and shot away with a shriek. The air shuddered and around Galbatorix, his protections crumbling away like sand as a blast of wind blew Murtagh's hair back.
He was aware of Thorn and Saphira pouncing on Shruikan, aware of Eragon and Arya charging towards the dais, aware of the witch-child's whispering, and he was about to snatch Zar'roc off the floor and rush at the King, when Galbatorix recovered his wits and shouted The Word back at him, restraining all of them with a spell.
Eragon shouted,
"Get him!"
And then Murtagh was suddenly aware, somehow of the whispering voices of Eldunari–not the mad, cowed Eldunari in Galbatorix's control, but living swirling beings of light, dragons of old, full of energy and might–as they threw themselves against the King's mental wards. Murtagh flung his own mental spear in with them, his body still radiating with energy. The King's Eldunari retaliated, and their collective minds recoiled, but Murtagh shouted,
"I stripped him of his wards! He's–"
At that moment he felt a great spear of energy against him and he was flung back, his head striking the floor, and his vision going black.
His eyelids fluttered open, lights swimming in his eyes as his vision flickered. He could hear the wheezing sounds of his own breath as he lay on his side on the blood-smeared floor, staring at Zar'roc several yards in front of him. The world was hazy, and sound was distorted, and he thought he heard the muffled shouts of someone saying,
"Submit! Submit!"
He wondered where Thorn was, and if he was okay, but his thoughts swam like cold molasses, and he couldn't feel his body, and his heartbeats were agonizingly slow.
Then there was a sound in his mind, like the angered cries of many voices, like the rush of mad waters, like the pain of a thousand years flowing over him, aimed at one single point. He thought he heard his own screams among the voices, the echoes of his own pain turned into a weapon against his captor.
He blinked slowly, and he heard the ringing of sword on sword, and he saw gray phantoms passing before his eyes, their feet shuffling back and forth, caught in some conflict. He felt a spike of pain–was it his pain? Thorn's? He couldn't tell, he couldn't feel anything.
Then the room was bathed in fire, the light swirling above him as he lay with his head against the polished floor, his skin smarting from the heat, his eyes vacant. Was this what it was like to die?
"Make it stop!" A voice echoed somewhere, and then the ground shook, and Murtagh felt the air quiver around him with the force of a great fall.
He couldn't move, he wasn't sure where he was, he might have been dead already. But that was okay. At least he had tried. At least he and Thorn had given it their best. At least they died free. At least Tornac would be proud.
Murtagh! A voice was shouting at him through the fog, and he blinked.
Get up! You have to get up!
He recognized that voice. It was someone he loved. Not Thorn. Thorn's mind didn't feel like that; humming like a great heartbeat, shimmering like the sun off a lake. Murtagh waded through the haze of his mind, hearing his mother's nursery rhyme echoing in his head:
Sweet little darling, where have you gone?
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?
He heard an echoing laugh, and then he saw a pair of sad, smiling eyes before him, and a woman's voice saying,
"Don't you worry, love. I'm coming back for you, alright? I'll be back. It'll all be okay. I promise."
I promise…
…I promise.
Then his own voice,
"I'll find a way to free you, I swear."
I swear…
…I swear.
Wake up, Murtagh!
His breath wheezed, and his eyes snapped open, and he suddenly remembered where he was, and who he was, and what he had to do.
Past Zar'roc, chained to the stone slab, Nasuada was staring at him with wide, urgent eyes,
Get up! She shouted in his mind, and he lurched upwards, pain shooting from his head and wrist and stomach and everywhere. The room was a cacophony of shattering stone work, and the ringing of swords and the screaming of Lord Barrow's children, and Galbatorix shouting,
"Make it stop!"
Murtagh dragged himself across the floor towards Nasuada, gripping to Zar'roc as he passed, leaving a streak of blood behind him.
"Nas–N–Nasu–" He couldn't get her name out. His breath was wheezing as he dragged himself forward, and he knew he wasn't going to make it. From where he lay on his stomach, he tried to lift his gedway ignasia, to use The Word, to break her bonds, but his hand was shaking and he couldn't think straight.
Then suddenly there was an anguished howl that seemed to fill the whole room,
"Waise neat!"
And Murtagh felt himself propelled by magic towards the stone block, suddenly surrounded by Eragon and Arya and Thorn and Saphira and the children. He shuddered and tried to push himself off the floor, but then there was a flash of light brighter than the sun, and all went black and silent.
When sound returned to the world, the air was hazy with dust, and he felt Thorn's pressing thought against him, energy pouring into him from his Eldunari
Murtagh! Thorn's worry was overwhelming as Murtagh took a breath, the air sharp with iron.
You are alright?
He saw Thorn's great head enter his field of vision. A cough racked his body, and pain spiked up from his torso, but he blinked through the fog.
The Oath-Breaker is gone, Thorn said, his voice jittery with wonder, fear and excitement.
You're alive. You're okay, Murtagh thought blearily, placing a bloody hand on Thorn's snout, delirious with pain.
But then there was a rumble in the floor, and he felt a spark of fear. He pushed himself up.
Is… are we… is she…
He looked around and saw Eragon standing before the stone where Nasuada was held, trying to hack at her chains with Brisingr.
He raised his eyes to the ceiling and saw a pulsing glow emanating from it, cracks shuddering down the walls, chunks of stone falling. Fire returned to his limbs.
We have to get out of here.
He grabbed onto Thorn's neck spike, and let the dragon help him stand. Then he sheathed Zar'roc, lurched towards Eragon, and gripped his brother's arm like a vice.
"Move," He growled, his other arm still clutching his stomach. Eragon stepped aside, and Murtagh lifted his blood-drenched gedwey ignasia, speaking The Word, and then,
"Jierda!"
Nasuada's shackles released. She gasped and gripped his arms as she stumbled off the stone. Her eyes were a whirl of emotion.
"We have to go, now," He managed to grit through his teeth, pulling her towards Thorn, who was eyeing the ceiling with suspicion.
After a few steps, Murtagh's right leg nearly buckled, and Nasuada slid herself underneath his arm to hold him up.
"Just a few more steps," She breathed, clutching to his side.
He took a moment to make sure Lord Barrow's children were on Saphira's back as Arya ran up to him suddenly, saying,
"Where is the egg? And the Eldunari? We can't leave them!"
Murtagh frowned, but he didn't hesitate, and showed her the path to the treasure room with his mind, ignoring the strange feeling of her consciousness against his.
Save them, they did not deserve this, He said to her, and she gave him a determined look. She sprinted off, and Murtagh reached up a shaking hand towards Nasuada, who had climbed onto Thorn's back, and now gripped him as best she could through the slick blood, pulling him up on the dragon.
Murtagh grunted in pain and slumped forward in the saddle, his vision dancing with spots.
"Hold on," She whispered, holding her arms around his waist, adding pressure against his wound with her hand.
"We're almost out."
The castle was destroyed, and Murtagh saw charred remains as Thorn and Saphira passed the maze of rooms whose walls had been blasted away. Fleeing guards and servants streamed from the demolished building ahead.
It is good fortune that we sent Demelza away, Thorn thought, but Murtagh could only nod, his vision blurring.
He heard a rumble behind them and Thorn said,
The throne room has collapsed.
Murtagh wanted to laugh at that; he wasn't sure why.
Their company emerged from the citadel into Uru'baen, and Murtagh blinked through smoke that billowed from the destroyed throne room. There was a strange, muffled silence, and sounds echoed dimly through the fog. He wondered if his ear drums had ruptured in the blast.
Then he noticed a flicker of movement, as the door to Lord Barrow's mansion opened, and the bald man knelt with his arms outstretched, tears streaming down his face as his children ran into his embrace.
Barrow looked at Eragon, and then he looked at Murtagh, and he nodded, and Murtagh tried to nod in return, and then the nobleman and his children disappeared inside.
"Murtagh…" Nasuada said softly, as she swung her leg over Thorn and slid down to stand on his foreleg.
"Can you get down?"
Murtagh swallowed through the dry coating on his throat, and he let go of Thorn's neck spike, swinging his heavy leg over the dragon's back, and leaning on Nasuada as she helped him to the ground. He collapsed against Thorn's belly the moment his feet touched the stone.
His head leaned back, and his misty eyes were raised to the heavens, where, far above the hovering smoke, the sky was awash with orange and yellow and pink, a painting of color that clung to its beauty despite the destruction below.
He felt his heart beating sluggishly, and heard the wheezing of his breath in his head.
Was he dreaming? Was this a trick of the mind? Was he, perhaps, still chained in a cell and tormented by the Mad King? Given a glimpse of a future he could never hope to have? Surely this was not real. Surely he was not now looking upon the sky as a free man. Surely his chains could not be gone.
"Murtagh, wake up," Nasuada's voice was saying again, and she was shaking his shoulder, "Wake up, you have to heal yourself."
Murtagh blinked foggily, and his gaze drifted to her. Her face hovered in front of him, blotting out the bright light, the tendrils of her hair brushing against him.
"Come on, heal yourself," She said, her eyes pouring determination into him. His breath shuddered, and he raised one quivering, blood splattered hand to touch a strand of her hair, just to make sure she was real.
"Murtagh, please…" She pleaded again, and her voice took on a note of panic. She put her hands on either side of his neck, holding his head up.
"Stay awake, stay awake, heal yourself. The Eldunari–you have to–"
Thorn's head swung back to him, and Murtagh felt warm breath on his neck, and a push of energy into his limbs.
"I'll get Eragon–" Nasuada said hurriedly, starting to stand. But then Murtagh grasped her hand, and she stopped, and looked down at him. He was able to lift his head, his weakness bolstered by the flow of energy from Thorn.
"It's–it's okay… it's alright…"
He swallowed and blinked down at his blood-soaked torso. Then he tore the hole in his tunic wider, and held his gedway ignasia over himself, reciting spells of healing, remembering their words as the fog lifted somewhat.
He healed himself, and the heavy sluggishness of his heart seemed to abate slightly. He had to draw on the Eldunari to heal Thorn, who brushed his snout against Murtagh's shoulder.
You are alright, my partner? Thorn murmured, and Murtagh could only nod, all his mental energy focused on his task. Nasuada stood close, her hand resting on his back, ready to catch him if he fell.
When Thorn's wing was repaired and his wounds healed, he felt steadier. The Eldunari had fed life back into his limbs even as he worked.
Murtagh turned to Nasuada.
"Let me help you," He said.
"You're pale as a death, Murtagh. I'll be alright, don't waste the energy."
"It's the blood," He breathed, "I just lost too much blood. I'll be alright soon. Let me help you."
Nasuada grimaced, but he could tell she needed the relief. He lifted his hands to her collarbone, and tore a bit of her tunic to expose the wounds there.
"Sorry," He murmured, but she shook her head in dismissal, as he closed his eyes and began to heal her. When he'd taken from her as much pain as he could, and healed the wounds he knew how to heal, he severed his connection from the Eldunari.
Thorn sent a questioning tendril of thought.
We cannot take anymore from them, Murtagh responded, still standing close to Nasuada, his arms held against hers. They don't belong to us. They are free.
So are we, Thorn responded, a deep, thrumming joy emanating from him. Murtagh couldn't quite manage a smile, but he nodded.
"Are you alright?" Nasuada asked, brushing a strand of hair away from his face. He met her eyes.
He only nodded, his head still swimming in disbelief.
Around them the city's stunned silence began to abate, and voices called back and forth in the smoke. Varden soldiers were helping Uru'baen servants crawl from the wreckage. Castle guards were laying down their arms and surrendering, or just wandering into the crowd and disappearing. Mansion doors opened and nobles peeked through their windows. He saw Eragon slumped against Saphira, looking as exhausted as he felt. The gray clouds still trailed from the citadel, and Murtagh squinted over the ruined city, a lump in his throat.
Free, The word echoed in his mind.
But then he noticed a glare from a passing soldier, a shriek of fear from a woman crawling out of the wreckage when she saw Thorn, a tense whisper between two dwarves across the square.
A darkness settled on him, and he turned back to Nasuada, who had, apparently, also been gazing around the city, trying to understand how they had gotten here.
"Nasuada…" He whispered, and the name felt somehow both heavy and light, "We have to go."
Her gaze turned to him, already tear filled, and her brow furrowed angrily.
"Don't say that. You don't–"
"Nasuada–"
He pleaded, quieting her.
"When the dust settles," He murmured, "People are going to start pointing fingers. They will be angry. And they are right to be angry."
Her mouth opened to protest, but he continued quickly,
"...and I know… I know you would–you would stand up for me. I know you would tell them…" He hoped he was guessing right; that she would vouch for him, defend him against the onslaught of furious accusations that was sure to come.
"...but if Thorn and I stay any longer, then you are going to get caught in the middle. You are going to have to choose between defending us, and doing what's best for yourself–for the people."
Murtagh's own throat was constricting, his voice threatening to break. He didn't want to leave her. Not now. Not after all they'd been through.
"...and that is not a choice I can force you to make."
"If–"
"–the people need you, Nasuada. They need a queen."
The word seemed to stop whatever protest was on her lips. Murtagh saw it as clearly as writing on a scroll. Alagaesia would need a leader, and it had to be her. And she could not win the hearts of the people if she were also trying to defend the honor of the man who'd wreaked havoc on them for months. He would not hurt her any more. This was his bravery, and his selflessness–to let her go, when all he wanted was to hold her.
Nasuada's chin trembled, her eyes looking away, her frame unsteady. He held onto her arms, fearing she might fall, fearing he might fall.
"It's not fair," She whispered, and he gave her a small, sad smile. Fair? Who could say. Was it fair that he was alive, after everything he'd done? Was it fair that one madman had caused so much suffering? Was it fair that Ajihad and Brom and Hrothgar and so many others had not lived to see the end of the war they had spent their lives fighting?
They stood in silence for a long time then, and held onto each other's arms like they were anchors. Murtagh saw Arya emerge from the rubble, her hair burnt, her skin blotched with grime, a chest cradled in her arms, and the Eldunari floating behind her. Murtagh smiled.
Then Nasuada was looking at him, and he saw the decision made in her eyes, a solemn determination. She understood. He and Thorn had to go.
Nasuada placed her hands on either side of his face and searched his eyes.
"You saved me," She whispered, "You saved Eragon, and Saphira, and the Varden, and everyone in this city and all of Alagaesia, and all the dragons. Never forget that. Never forget who you are."
There was a great welling in Murtagh's his heart, a feeling that he could not be close enough to her, a feeling that if he spent his whole life just sitting in her presence, that would be enough.
Then she said,
"Make us invisible."
He frowned.
"What?"
"Cast a spell. Make us invisible."
He did it without thought, glancing around for some danger as they disappeared. He saw nothing except the smoke and the survivors, but when he looked back to ask her what was wrong, suddenly she was kissing him.
His hands loosened, and his breath caught, and he nearly stumbled. His brain went blank for a few seconds, a pleasant buzzing in his ears.
It was brief, and simple, but when she pulled away and looked him in the eyes, he was breathless.
"I will see you again," She said, a hard determination in her eyes. His whole body was suffused with warmth, and he thought his chest might burst from how fast his heart was beating.
He stared at her for a moment, bewildered, caught between a frown and a smile. When he kissed her back, it was gentle, and quiet. A promise with no words.
Then he brushed her hair back from her face, and in the ancient language he said,
"I will see you again."
He gazed at her for as long as he could, feeling Thorn's steady support behind him, but aware of nothing else in the world as the two of them clung to each other.
Then, finally, he stepped back from her, knowing he had to leave now, or he would never be able to.
He hurried over to Thorn and stripped away the concealing spell that held the Eldunari. He lowered the heavy bags to the floor.
"Please see these get back to Eragon," He said to Nasuada, and she nodded, her chin high but her lips trembling.
Murtagh hesitated a moment, his hand on Thorn's leg, and then he nodded to her, and he climbed onto Thorn's back, his heart hurting and also full to bursting. Thorn swung his head toward Nasuada, his large eyes blinking at her. Murtagh sensed something passing between them but Thorn kept the words from him.
Nasuada nodded to Thorn and said,
"I will. You look after him."
Thorn rumbled in agreement, as Murtagh strapped himself into the saddle and looked back down at Nasuada.
He couldn't say anything else, and neither could she. They only stared at each other for one more moment, fixing the memory in their mind's eye.
Then Nasuada took a shuddering breath, and nodded. Murtagh lifted his hand and severed the spell of invisibility around her, so it covered only him and Thorn.
Despite him being invisible, Nasuada somehow kept eye contact with him as Thorn crouched low, spread his wings, and launched himself from the ground. Murtagh continued gazing at her as his dragon climbed into the sky, the smoke swirling away from the gust of his mighty wings.
When Nasuada daughter of Ajihad was just a speck in the rubble below, Murtagh finally took his gaze from her, and watched the rising billows of smoke merge with the rolling white clouds. The city of Uru'baen stretched out beneath him, and the morning sun shot its first rays through the cracks in the darkness, like a chalice of golden light pouring itself down to earth.
The sky was awash with color, and Murtagh's face was bathed in warmth as the wind blew through his hair and the land spread out below him. He closed his eyes, and he smiled.
Murtagh sat against Thorn's belly, his knees pulled up, a small fire crackling in the darkness.
They were a little north of Woodard Lake, on the fringe of the spine, in a quiet forest glen hidden from the outer world.
After their final brief meeting with Eragon near the river, Thorn and he had flown northeast, keeping high in the clouds so as not to be spotted by anyone below. They'd landed around sundown, started a fire, and hunted with magic. Thorn was not comfortable leaving Murtagh's side to hunt on his own, and both of them had been starving.
They'd camped near a small brook, and had both washed away the grime of war in crisp, clean waters. Now they sat under the stars, and Murtagh picked at the last of the rabbit meat that he'd cooked for himself.
You are alright? Thorn questioned from beside him, his head resting on the soft ground. Murtagh smiled, melancholy but calm.
I'm alright. You?
I am not all-right, but I am some-right. And for now that is enough, I think.
Thorn opened one smirking eye at him, and Murtagh smiled again. He felt so strange, so unmoored. Great happiness and great sadness both tugged at him. He was angry, and yet content, terrified, and yet certain of himself.
He kept expecting to wake up and realize that it had all been a dream, but here he was–in the woods with Thorn, sitting over a campfire, at peace.
He had skryed Demelza, pooling a little bit of the creek water into a hole and leaning over its reflective surface. He wanted to make sure she was okay–that she'd made it out of the city and to Tirendal. The world around her had been blank white, and the shapes of the people nearby were indistinct, but Demelza was smiling, and her red curls hung about her face gently.
"Alright then, you try it," She was saying with a laugh, and she was clearly looking at someone she loved. Murtagh smiled.
Friend-Demelza is alright, Thorn had concluded, as Murtagh ended the spell, not wanting to invade her privacy anymore. He nodded, and leaned back on his knees.
"Yeah."
He had scryed Garren, too, who was riding a horse through the countryside, and Lord Barrow, who was in his sitting room with his children, shaken but alive. He scryed Tornac his horse, and found him with another group of horses on the outskirts of the Varden camp, and finally he'd scryed Nasuada–too weak to resist the urge–and saw her sitting in her tent in the camp, her handmaiden tending to her as she took little bites of food, her gaze distant.
Murtagh sighed, content to know that she was alright, and he ended the spell, promising himself he would never do that again. It wasn't right to spy on her without her knowledge.
His mind was continually drawn to her, though–the thought of holding her, the feeling of her kiss, the way she looked at him–not with hate, but with… No. He couldn't let himself believe that.
Nasuada had been shaken, and emotional. And he had just saved her life. She had kissed him because she was grateful. He shouldn't make more of it than it was.
Do not let your heart be burdened by it, Thorn advised, sensing Murtagh's melancholy. You have promised to see her again, and you will.
You believe so?
I do. I, at least, am not content to live a life of solitude for the rest of my years. Someday we will go back, when the world has set itself on a new path, and time has made the past dull enough. Friend-Nasuada was right–you saved Alagaesia. Eragon and the Elders may have cast the spell, but without you it could not have hit its mark. It may take the two-legs some time to forget the Oath-breakers atrocities, and forget our part in them, but even a fire-scorched forest will grow green again.
Murtagh smiled. Thorn and his metaphors.
He looked into the crackling fire, and tried to settle on contentment–to choose that feeling, above his anger and sorrow. He raised his gaze to the stars.
What are we going to do tomorrow? Where should we even go?
Thorn hummed.
Wherever we wish.