Chapter Fifty

Forebodings

Tranah was crying when they brought Morzan back to his cell. The big rider heard her through the haze of pain clouding his brain, and for a moment he made a feeble attempt to reach toward her. But it only lasted for a second before he slumped back down again, and let the guards take him back into his cell, where they dumped him on the floor and locked him in.

For a long time he lay on his back, listening to his own ragged breathing and occasional groans, drifting in and out of consciousness. But no matter if he woke or drifted in darkness, the pain went with him. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he could still hear Sadron's voice. Benion! Helinniel! Eruanna! Anariel! Benion! Helinniel! Eruanna! Anariel! Say their names, say their names, say their names, say…

'Idün…' he whispered.

Awareness of a kind returned to him, and he rolled over and dragged himself into a corner, where he curled up, shuddering and trying to pull the ragged remains of his tunic back over his chest. The pain that provoked was so intense that he retched, and he forced himself to sit still, frightened to move again. His entire chest burned, and a line of pain traced its way from his ear to his jaw, making the eye on that side water uncontrollably. Somehow, though, it did not distress him as much as it should have. The part of his mind that housed his personality had all but shut itself down, and he barely remembered anything. All he was aware of just then was an overwhelming tiredness; a longing to go to sleep and escape from the pain, and from this place. But he could not sleep, could not escape, could not be free, and he stayed where he was, whispering Idün's name, again and again.

Eventually he did sleep – a shallow, pain-filled doze which tormented him with dreams of Idün, lying somewhere in the rain, her yellow eyes fixed on the sky. He could hear her mental voice, talking to itself. Morzan. Morzan. Please gods, forgive me. Morzan…

He woke up with a horrible start, gagging at a sudden pain in his throat, as if he were choking on something. He coughed and moaned, and subsided again, panting. When he had calmed down a little, he took stock of his surroundings. He was in his cell, in the corner, and the torches were still burning. Had a new day come? Had he slept, or fainted? He didn't know. He was hungry and thirsty, and his injuries ached and throbbed mercilessly, as if a dozen red-hot pokers were sticking into him. He pulled the ragged remains of his shirt aside and stared dully at his chest, still not quite able to grasp what had been done to it.

At least a dozen burns were spread over his chest, many of them so severe that the flesh had actually turned black and charred from the touch of the hot metal. Watery blood had soaked into his shirt and crusted on his skin, and the stench of burnt flesh, skin and hair filled his nostrils, making him gag again. He turned away, dull shock thudding into his stomach. It was real. It was all real. Idün was dead and he was a prisoner, doomed to be slowly tortured to death.

But for some reason, this thought filled him not with despair, but with rage. He braced his hands against the wall behind him and slowly got to his feet, gritting his teeth at the pain this caused. Once he had found his balance, he lurched toward his cell door, steadying himself by gripping the bars.

'Tranah!' he hissed. 'Tranah, are you there?'

After a few seconds of silence, her voice echoed back from the darkened confines of her cell. '…Morzan?'

For some reason, the sound of it chilled him. 'S'me, Tran,' he said. 'You… you all right?'

He saw movement from the other cell, and a dark shape appeared, moving slowly toward the door. Agonisingly slowly. It reached the bars, and Tranah's face appeared, just above the floor. She had dragged herself there, he realised.

'You all right?' Morzan said again.

Tranah's face was pale beneath the bruising. 'My legs… my legs are broken,' she said in a low voice. 'They… visited me… while you were… away.'

'What about Vander?' said Morzan.

Tranah shook her head. 'I don't – don't know. Morzan, did…? Are you…?'

'I'll be all right,' said Morzan. 'Tran, are they gonna kill us?'

'I don't know,' said Tranah. She shuddered and sobbed. 'It's all gone to hell,' she said, her voice cracked and shaky, totally unlike what it had been before. 'All of it. They're desperate. Vrael doesn't care any more. About what happens. It's all just… revenge now. For no reason.'

'I killed that elf's family,' Morzan said in a faraway voice. 'At Osilon. He told me. Vrael let him do this. For revenge. He kept on saying their names… over an' over again… like a prayer or a spell.'

'I don't regret it,' said Tranah. 'And I never… never will. It was right. What we did. They can… kill me, but they can't… take that away from me. Not ever.'

'They never gonna make me go back,' said Morzan, his words suddenly feeling clumsy and alien in his mouth. 'He gonna rescue us, Tran. Gonna get us out of here. He'll kill Vrael.'

'It's our only hope,' said Tranah.

Morzan closed his eyes. 'Please come, sir,' he murmured. 'You gotta come.'

Galbatorix and the rest of the Forsworn were reunited at Kírtan, as planned. They had left the majority of the buildings in the settlement untouched, and while the combined armies made camp in and around them their leaders packed into the late Queen's banqueting hall and enjoyed an impromptu celebration.

The mood among the Forsworn was triumphant, and justifiably so. Every single one of the attacks had gone almost exactly to plan. There had been no significant losses on their side, and the elves had been thoroughly and decisively defeated. With the survivors, including Islanzadí, humiliated and left in no doubt of their new position, the race that had once been Alagaësia's most powerful had been neutralised.

They ate, drank and talked, sharing stories of the conquest with each other and with Durza, Nar Kvarn and the various human generals who joined them. The atmosphere was cheerfully raucous, with plenty of laughter and jokes, and even the ever-expressionless Durza finally deigned to share a few tales with his comrades.

Only Galbatorix failed to enter into the spirit of things. He sat at the head of the table, unsmiling and brooding, and gave short replies to anything that was said to him. He let the celebration wash over him, and ate very little. In the end, he quietly left the table in the middle of the feast and slipped out of the building, unnoticed.

The night air outside was cool and still, smelling of leafmould and woodsmoke. Galbatorix walked a short distance away from the banqueting hall and stood alone, watching the moon rise. He could hear the voices of his friends behind him, and, beyond that, the sound of the camp. There were plenty of other celebrations happening in Kírtan that night, but not a single elf in Alagaësia would be feeling at all celebratory. Galbatorix thought of this, and quickly realised that he didn't care. When he had killed other riders it had often given him some pangs of guilt, but now, when he had all but destroyed an entire race, he felt nothing at all – neither guilt nor satisfaction. All he felt was an odd sense of… peace, as if he had finally done something he had been trying to do all his life.

He heard someone coming, and turned to see Roland limping toward him.

He turned away to look at the moon again, and let the old rider come to stand beside him.

'Not in the mood for feasting?'

Galbatorix silently shook his head.

'It's all right, you know,' said Roland. 'To celebrate, I mean. Quite honestly, you've earned it. We all have.'

'And what are we celebrating, Roland?' said Galbatorix. 'The fact that we're all alive, or the fact that we won?'

'Both, of course,' Roland said immediately. 'Yes, war's an ugly business, there's no denying that. But we went into this with our eyes open, and we all knew what it meant. Surely you know that.'

Galbatorix sighed and fiddled with his beard. 'I'm not having second thoughts, Roland. You're right. We did what we had to do. But the war's not over yet. Far from it.'

'So?' said Roland. 'That's no reason to be gloomy, lad. We're going to win. We were right when we speculated that the elders wouldn't know what to do. They've been outled, outmanoeuvred and outfought, and they must know it by now. And with Islanzadí out of the way, the dragons gone and the dwarves in retreat, they've no significant allies left.'

'Yes. I know. And I know I should feel safe, but I don't. I feel… I have a bad feeling.'

Roland chuckled. 'Always the pessimist, eh, sir? I wouldn't worry if I were you. A little paranoia is only natural, especially after what we've been through.'

'It's not paranoia,' Galbatorix said, with unexpected sharpness. 'It's something else. A foreboding.'

'Well, if it's any comfort, I've no doubts of my own,' said Roland. 'You've never led us astray before, and I don't believe you ever shall. I have complete faith in you.'

'I wish you didn't,' said Galbatorix. 'I'm not a god, Roland.'

'No, but you are a leader, and a far greater one than this country has known in a very long time,' said Roland.

Galbatorix laughed softly. 'No I'm not.'

'Oh, but you are!' said Roland. 'You cannot be serious, sir. Look at everything you've done. This land has changed more in the last few years than it has in the last hundred years, and it's all thanks to you. Everything that's happened has been because of one person alone, and that person was you. Yes, we've helped you to do it, but without you we would never have come into existence. It was you who rebelled, you who survived, you who dared to fight back against an order that intimidated other men to the point that not one single rebellion had ever lasted longer than a few months, if they even began at all. It was you, sir, and you alone who showed us the way. I have spent more than eighty years of my life, actively working for a group that I knew full well was responsible for the death of my grandfather and the destruction of my faith, and I would most likely still be doing so if it had not been for you. You set me free. You set us all free. You showed us that we had the strength in us to fight back against the wrongs we saw in the world, and that is why we follow you and will continue to do so until death.' He spoke quietly and passionately, in a very different voice than his normal one, and, much to Galbatorix's surprise, the absolute conviction in his words made a lump form in his throat.

'Thankyou, Roland,' he said gruffly. 'I mean… I never thought I would live to see something like this. When I first set out to fight back, I was alone, and I never imagined that anyone else would want to join me. Ordinary humans, maybe, but not other riders, and what would be the point of mortal humans fighting riders? I didn't think I had any chance. All I wanted to do was find some way of getting to Vrael, so I could kill him. I just wanted the chance to fight him again. I didn't care if I died doing it. In fact, I almost hoped that I would. When things were bad, I'd distract myself by imagining what it would be like. I had it all planned, in my head – what it would be like when I finally got to him. We'd fight each other in Ilirea, in the elders' chamber where he sentenced me to death. No magic, just our swords. I'd let him drive me back for a while, let him think he was winning, and then when he raised his sword to kill me, I'd rush him, stab him right through the heart and watch him die there on the floor.'

'And how did the fantasy end?' said Roland.

Galbatorix smiled sadly. 'Then the guards would rush in and catch me. But I wouldn't care. I saw it in my head. I just laughed while they dragged me off to the gallows. Because it didn't matter what they did to me now.'

'Strange that your plan included your own death,' Roland observed.

Galbatorix shrugged. 'Like I said; I didn't care. I wanted two things: revenge, and death. But in that order.'

'And is that still how you feel?'

'Well, after that I found Shruikan, and then Morzan joined me, and I started to see things differently. Realised I could start a real rebellion instead of just trying to fight alone. I know I'm not quite right in the head sometimes…'

'You always seemed perfectly stable to me, sir,' said Roland. 'I am aware that you have nightmares from time to time, but there's nothing unusual about that, especially after what you've been through. I wouldn't pay any heed to those lies about your sanity. They're merely propaganda.' He sighed and shook his head. 'And, indeed, what sane man could possibly want to challenge Vrael? Put it out of your head, sir. You are the leader this country needs, and has needed for many a long year.'

'And if I lead you in the wrong direction?' said Galbatorix. 'What then?'

Roland hesitated. 'I do not believe that will ever happen, sir. Truly. There is no need to worry about things like that; the odds are that they won't ever be a problem.' He glanced over his shoulder at the banqueting hall. 'We should probably go back to the others. Eat, drink and be merry, for who knows what tomorrow will bring, as the old saying goes.'

Galbatorix shook his head. 'You go. I'm going to go and get some rest.'

'Very well. But I'd advise that you stay close.'

'I'll sleep by Shruikan,' Galbatorix said briefly. 'See you in the morning.'

'Good night, sir,' said Roland. 'And sleep well.'

But Galbatorix had already melted away into the night. He passed through the camp, unseen and unheard. It made him smile a little when he saw people stare straight at him without seeing him. I am the Shadow that Walks, he thought.

He walked on toward the edge of the camp and out into the forest, toward the clearing where the dragons had settled down for the night, muttering his old catchphrases to himself. 'I am the shadow that comes in the night, I am the fear that lurks in your heart, I am the one with the hole in his heart, I am the King who rules over the dead, I am the Great Betrayer.'

Shruikan had sensed him coming. The black dragon suddenly reared out of the darkness, his golden eyes shining in the moonlight. 'Glad you could join me, Shadow that Walks.'

Galbatorix halted. 'You heard me?'

Shruikan snorted. 'Of course. You and your stupid little titles.'

'You've got a title as well, Storm Dragon,' Galbatorix pointed out mildly.

'One other people gave me without asking,' said Shruikan. 'And I don't use it. One name is more than enough for anyone.'

'Yes, I suppose you're right,' said Galbatorix, as he untied the hammock he'd left fastened to Shruikan's saddle. 'We humans are a bit strange like that. Would you like me to take the saddle off?'

'Leave it,' said Shruikan. 'I don't really feel it. Are you going to sleep now?'

'Yes, I'm just going to hang up my hammock over there, if that's all right by you.'

'You're feeling unhappy again,' said Shruikan. 'Aren't you?'

'Yes. It's probably just tiredness…'

'What is it? Are you missing Skade again?'

Galbatorix paused in the act of fastening the hammock to a handy tree. 'Yes. Always. But it's not just that. I feel… uneasy. Like there's something hanging over me.'

'Ignore it,' said Shruikan. 'You can't be afraid of something that isn't real. And if it is real, then you still shouldn't be afraid of it, because you can fight it.'

Galbatorix finished securing the hammock. He unfastened his swordbelt and put White Violence on the ground in its sheath, then sat on the hammock and took off his boots, setting them neatly side-by-side beneath him. 'You're right, Shruikan,' he said. 'I just need to calm down. I've had too much on my mind.'

'Rest, then,' Shruikan said, his rough voice almost gentle. 'I'll keep watch.'

Galbatorix stripped off his robe and folded it under his head as a crude pillow, and lay back with White Violence lying across his chest, gripping the hilt with one hand. 'Good night, Shruikan.' He sighed deeply and let himself relax, and as the tension slowly left his body he realised just how keyed-up he had been. Roland was right; he'd been overdoing it. And there was still so much to do…

Eventually, he slept.

And dreamed.

He dreamed of Vrael. The old elf was standing in the elders' chamber, exactly as he had been the last time Galbatorix had seen him, his pale eyes like two chips of ice as he stared at him with awful condemnation. How dare you? he whispered. How dare you?

White Violence was in Galbatorix's hand, and he screamed and charged at Vrael with all his might. The white blade hit him in the face, and he instantly died, his body gushing blood as it fell to the floor.

Galbatorix stood over him, sword in hand, and laughed. I've done it, he thought. I've done it. He's dead. He's dead. I did it, Laela, I did it!

Galbatorix?

He looked up and saw her there, standing beyond Vrael's corpse and watching him. He walked toward her, his hand outstretched. Laela! he called. Laela!

Laela did not move. But the instant his hand touched her she shied away from him, screaming in pain. NO! Don't!

Laela, I- he looked at his hands, and suddenly realised they were covered in blood. I didn't mean to-

Laela's face filled his whole vision, tears running down her muzzle. Galbatorix, what have you done? she whispered.

Laela-

I'm sorry, she said. I have to go. Don't be afraid.

Then she was gone, and the space all around him was dark. Laela! Laela, come back! He ran through the darkness, looking for her, but he couldn't see where he was going.

But then Shruikan was there, dragging him back. Don't be a fool, he said. She's gone.

Roland appeared, pointing at him. The boy is insane, he said. See him?

He ran back, said Shruikan. Can you hear him?

And Galbatorix heard. He heard it all at once, from everywhere. Screaming. It filled his ears, high and horrible and animal, and he tried to blot it out but could not. It's there! he cried. It's there! I can't see it!

You did it, Vrael's voice whispered. The bones say you did it. Wash the blood away, boy. I'm waiting.

The screams grew louder, and he could smell them as well as hear them – a foul, burning stench. And, somewhere among it, he could hear the faint snatches of a voice. HELP ME! HELP!

I come, he said.

The day after the torture, Morzan woke up cold and shivering. He sat up, and his burns instantly sent pain thudding into him. He sat still, shuddering, not daring to move again. The injured side of his face had stiffened, and it hurt to blink. He kept the eye on that side half-closed, and peered around at his cell, hoping someone had brought him some food and water while he was asleep. Sure enough, there was a small jug sitting by the door. He swung his legs off the bench provided and walked the three paces it took to get to it as slowly and carefully as he could, wincing with every step. Bending over to pick up the jug proved too painful, so he sat down next to it and picked it up. It was full of water, and he eagerly lifted it to his lips. The instant the water touched his tongue, he gagged and spat it out. He stared blankly into the jug, and groaned. Sea water. They'd brought him sea water.

The petty cruelty of it nearly made him want to cry. He put the jug down and stared over at Tranah's cell. He couldn't see her, but he thought he could hear her breathing. Other than that, and the sound of the rain falling outside, the dungeon was quiet. Were they going to hurt him again, or would they just leave him to die from hunger and thirst?

He examined his burns again. If anything, they looked even worse than they had the day before. They'd partially scabbed over during the night, but one or two of them had cracked open when he'd inadvertently disturbed them, and were leaking a watery fluid. He had been taught about wounds during his training, and he knew that the chances of them becoming infected were very high. And even if that didn't happen, large patches of flesh would almost certainly die and slough away, making the healing slower. If he recovered, he would be badly scarred for the rest of his life. But the scars on his body would never torment him as much as the scar on his heart.

Morzan closed his eyes. Maybe they'd kill him. He didn't particularly care. Idün was dead. Without her, his life was no longer worth living. But he didn't want to die by execution or starvation. He wanted to die on his feet, with his sword in his hand. He wanted to die knowing his enemies had been defeated.

He gritted his teeth. They hadn't beaten him yet, and nor had they broken his spirit. He would not give up. He would fight on, for Idün's sake. So that he could avenge her before he died. 'I'll get those sons of bitches,' he muttered aloud. 'For you. I'll kill them. I swear.'

He picked up the jug of seawater. Perhaps he couldn't drink it, but he knew what else it could be useful for. He braced himself, and poured the cold liquid over his chest, splashing it onto the burns as thoroughly as he could.

The pain that followed was simply indescribable. He actually blacked out for a few seconds, and when he woke up he found himself lying on his back, the shattered remains of the jug on the floor beside him. His chest felt as if it had been doused in boiling oil; agonisingly painful to the point that it made his vision blurry. Still, he did not cry out. His face stretched itself into a rigid, silent snarl, and he pounded his fist on the floor until the pain slowly receded, leaving him shuddering in relief.

After that he made himself get up, and paced back and forth in his cell, trying to limber up a little while he waited for something to happen.

After what felt like an hour or so, he heard footsteps coming down the corridor. His heart started to flutter. This was it. He moved to stand close to the door, pressing himself against the wall in the hopes of remaining unseen. The instant anyone opened the door, he would attack – even if it was Vrael himself.

The footsteps halted outside his cell, and he quickly saw who it was. A human woman, accompanied by two guards. The woman took a key from her belt and unlocked the door. Morzan tensed.

The instant the door started to open, he grabbed hold of it and wrenched it open, his other hand striking straight for the woman's face. But she had been prepared for this. She ducked out of the way, and raised her right hand. Yellow magic hit Morzan in the chest, and he staggered backward and hit the wall, slumping down it and landing on the bench. The guards immediately hurried in and restrained him, snapping manacles around his wrists and attaching them to the legs of the bench, preventing him from getting up again. The woman stood by and watched, and once they had done she said; 'Thankyou. You can leave now.'

'Yes, my Lady,' said one of the guards. 'We'll be just outside if you need us.'

The woman nodded and stood aside to let them out. Once they had exited the cell, she locked the door behind them and pocketed the key. The guards left, presumably returning to their posts at the end of the corridor, and once they had gone the woman moved to stand rather awkwardly by the wall opposite Morzan.

Morzan wrenched at his chains. 'Let me up, dammit!' he snarled. 'You try anything on with me, I'll bite you to death, you godsdamned coward!'

The woman held up a hand as if trying to shield herself. 'I'm not going to hurt you,' she said. 'I'm… my name's Lalla. You're Morzan, right?'

'Morzan Drasborn,' Morzan growled.

Tense silence followed.

'I've… been sent to question you,' Lalla said awkwardly, almost apologetically.

Morzan spat. 'I'll tell you nothing,' he said, using the ancient language.

Lalla glanced quickly at the door, and leaned forward toward him. 'You've got to help me!' she hissed. 'Please!'

Morzan looked at her blankly. 'What?'

'I don't want to do this,' said Lalla. 'He's out of his mind!'

'Who is?'

'Vrael. He's got all the riders from Ilirea here. He's going to leave the country. Take us with him, and the elves.'

'Which elves?' said Morzan.

'All of them. He's running away, don't you see? He's building boats. As soon as the elves get here…'

Morzan blinked. Vrael, running away?

'I don't want to go,' said Lalla. 'It's cowardice. And I don't want to hurt you, Morzan. I swear.' She spoke in a low, urgent voice, using the ancient language. 'Please, you've got to help me.'

'How'm I supposed to do that?' said Morzan.

'I don't know,' said Lalla. 'It's madness. Vrael ordered me to try and make me tell you everything you knew about the Betrayer. By any means. I can't. I won't. But if I don't do what Vrael says, he'll lock me up too. Maybe kill me. I don't know what to do.'

'Why d'you care?' said Morzan.

'You're the Betrayer's first follower,' said Lalla. 'Everyone knows that. You're his friend. If he finds out I did anything to you, he'll kill me. Vrael's mad, keeping you here. As soon as the Betrayer finds out, he'll come here to save you. He'll kill us all.'

'Then get me out of here,' said Morzan. 'If you help me, Galbatorix won't kill you. I'll tell him you helped me.'

'I can't,' said Lalla. 'I've taken oaths. Everyone has. If I let you out, if I help you in any way…' her face was a mask of agony.

'Then run away,' said Morzan. 'Leave. Find Galbatorix and tell him what you know. He'll set you free.'

'I can't go. If Vrael catches me-,'

Morzan leaned toward her as far as his chains would allow him. 'Listen,' he rasped. 'You wanna die? You wanna end up like me?' He held his arms out so that she could see his chest. 'You want this to happen to you?'

Lalla closed her eyes. 'No,' she whispered.

'Then go to him,' said Morzan. 'It's your only chance.'

'But he's mad,' said Lalla.

'He's not,' Morzan said fiercely. 'You say that again and I'll kill you. He's a great man. He set me free. He wants to save us from Vrael. You want to keep working for Vrael? You want to stay his slave? You want to die?'

'No,' said Lalla. 'But… I don't know where to find him.'

Morzan hesitated.

'I won't tell anyone,' said Lalla, still using the ancient language. 'I won't tell anyone what you told me. I swear.'

'Kírtan,' Morzan said at last. 'He's at Kírtan.'