A/N: Okay, two things. First, I'm sorry it took me so long to get this chapter up. Life is crazy right now. I'll do my best to keep my posts within a week. Second, I can't believe I wrote this...I've never written this much angst in my life. Well, I hope you like it...cuz here it is; the only way I could write it. Enjoy.

Disclaimer: Don't own it.

Warnings: Major angst here...definitely not for the kiddies.

Oath Under Evil
Chapter 4
By: StriderX

The air shutters in a delirious shutter as the last of Galbatorix' voice slithers across the withered stone; even the torchlight recoils from the deafening shriek not unlike sharpened steel drawing against glass. In the corner of my eye, I see Murtagh wince painfully, but I pretend not to notice. The forced barriers forming around his mind are enough to tell me how hard he is trying to hide it.

The bleak, dreary tunnel seems to angle smaller and smaller, the deeper we trudge into the palace. A thought slowly creeps in between our bond that neither of us can stop.

It's like we're shrinking—being backed into a corner with no chance to turn back. The road is shutting; we're running out of time. Our hearts are pounding in our chests—I can hear the echoing thump hanging in the stale are between us. Mine is strong and booming, like the rich pounding of a war drum sounding for battle. Murtagh's is flickering and stertorous, like the fluttering beats of a bird's wounded wing.

I reach to calm him, but his mind is already blocked with iron bars more formidable then even the black walls of Urû'bean's armory.

My heart glows with pride at the strength of the boy; his power seems to grow inhumanly at the setting of every sun. But yet, though his mind is strong, it wounds me to admit, he is still no match for the sadistic lunacy of Galbatorix' skill. What worries me more: Murtagh is aware of this just as clearly as I.

'Together, young one,' I whisper through the hair's breadth crack in his mind.

'Together,' he mimics; our voices dancing around each other into an unbreakable cord of a friendship's strength.

Soon, an ominous door of deep wood and painted metal looms into view before us; like the gates of Hell it stands void of color on strident black hinges, staring down at us with its ornate carvings of the King's conquests in mocking jest. It stands nearly a full tail higher then me; ten men of Murtagh's height could stand shoulder-to-foot and only just graze the top. Whether we have journeyed downhill or the ceiling has hoisted up through the length of the tunnel, I am still not sure. Even the most logical of equations become blurred and dizzied in the murky fog of the misted walk.

In the very moment our feet touch the single step leading up to the door, hinges screech in the voice of a Ra'zac as the devil's doorway inches open on its own accord. I wince; the painful rasp of the rusted hinges like hornets in my ears.

After many painful moments of standing in impatient silence, the massive door skids to a stop and locks into place against the obsidian wall painting the entire cave-like room. Before us is a sight that would be shocking to anyone innocent enough to have been spared such a vision thus far. But not us; nay, our breath does not so much as hitch. For here, here is a place we have seen too many times to find ourselves shocked or awed. Here, is a place we have most unaffectionatly named Hell.

And King of it all, sitting on his abomination of a throne decorated with the blood and bones of my ancestors, is Galbatorix. Clothed in dyed leathers ripped with garish silver studs and spikes lining the seams, his light skin glows sickly in the dull light of the chandelier hanging high above. Protruding from a neck bulging with trained muscles and furious veins is his head, bald and tattooed—oh, how easy it would be to knock his head from his shoulders like a rock from a tree branch. His eyes, as black and empty as tar pits sit deep in angled eyes molded like an elf's from the power of his equally black dragon. His features are tight—annoyed even—but remain expressionless. That is a sign not welcome. Thin lips curl in a snarl when his teeth part to speak.

"My loyal servants," he spat maleficiently in a tongue reeking with deep undertones of ferocity and power. "You have failed to bring me the dragon Saphira and her Rider," my blood chills at the falsely kind note carried in his words.

Beside me, Murtagh steps forward to stand near a meter in front of me. I do not move. As much as it pains me, this is a burden only he can bear; all I can do is lend him the strength to hold back the sweat pooling under his skin and shivers running through his nerves. "I tried," Murtagh begins darkly; his voice steady and confident despite the sheer terror I know vibrates within him. "and I failed. They are much stronger they we had anticipated."

The snarl on Galbatorix' face is open now; his dagger-like teeth glistening under the pale light. Much to our greatest misfortune, the King is clever; clever enough to know the game Murtagh is attempting to play. "You tried? Or you let them defeat you?"

Murtagh shrugs nonchalantly. "I told you would try and capture Eragon and Saphira…I tried…they won," not even a flicker in his sky-filled eyes betrays his lie…

…but it is not enough. Galbatorix shakes his head as a mocking smirk twists his already psychotic features. "I am surprised at you, Murtagh," he speaks; voice dripping with malice. "I had expected you to fight me in some way, but not in a way so foolish! Do you truly believe that I do not know what happened in The Burning Plains?" I can feel Murtagh's heart beat rising…or is that mine? "Did you really think that I would not know about how you told Eragon the truth; how you stole his sword; or…more still, how you held him and the Blue Dragon at your complete mercy and then willingly let them go?" he snorts a laugh as leather-clad fists tightens and wicked eyes narrow.

Oh no….not again.

The instant Galbatorix' glare locks with Murtagh's, a mental scream rips over our bond and tears into my heart. Outwardly, my Rider clenches his fists until the scarred skin under his gloves turns white at the knuckles. For a long moment, no one makes a sound, but the utter silence is deafening. A vein bulges in Galbatorix' neck; Murtagh refuses to take a breath as he begins to tremble under the pressure. I send waves of strength over our bond, but Galbatorix is blocking me. Under all of the King's power with naught to fight with but his exhausted mind, Murtagh screws tight his tearing eyes and bends his knees low; battling with every power to remain on his feet.

I can barely stand to watch such torture, but for Murtagh's sake, I know I cannot turn away. I feel my Rider growing weaker by the moment. No matter how strong I may believe him to be, no one—not even he—could withstand the mental ambush stabbing scarred wounds like the arrows of a thousand archers. As the demonic grin spreads across Galbatorix' features and he stands from his black throne, Murtagh's body finally gives in over his will.

Collapsing to his knees with a resounding crash of silver armor against the cold stone below, Murtagh grasps his head in pure desperation as a strangled cry rips from his throat. Still, Galbatorix is not satisfied. Even as I glare at him through crimson eyes burning in rage and anguish, the King's grip tightens and twists around Murtagh's consciousness. Locked in the maniacal battle, he descends from his lofty throne.

Memories of the first day I met Murtagh come rushing back to me when he stops to stand just inches before the boy. In a last, savage act, his head twitches on his neck as he blasts a bolt of unadulterated agony through Murtagh's stumbling defenses. My Rider falls to his back; writhing in his torment with steaming tears racing down his face to mix with the blood dripping from his nose and broken lip.

I cannot take anymore of this!

In a single moment flashing by as unpredictable as lightening, a fierce roar mixes with hate and gushes forth from my mouth; spewing smoking sparks of growing fire everywhere in sight. With a violent step, I place my forefoot protectively over Murtagh and crouch down low over him; snarling at the wicked King still standing with a smirk twisting his features.

"Quite right, Dragon," says he in a growl that would make me shiver if not for my wrath. He looks between my legs and shakes his head with condescension at the sight of Murtagh blearily attempting to remain conscious. I lower my head to shade my Rider from his view. Galbatorix refocuses his attention on me and continues: "he has had enough, for now. Get out of my sight, and let this be a lesson I will not teach again," his voice grew low and threatening. "The next time the two of you try to slither out of your oath, I will kill him."

I do not answer; I don't trust even my thoughts to try. Just the thought of Galbatorix…killing my Rider; it is as if a part of my soul has been burned to crisps and left for ashes. In silence while the King saunters back to his throne, I nudge Murtagh with my nose and help him to stand; albeit wobbly. My young Rider wraps a trembling arm around my muzzle and nods graciously as I pull him up.

He is trying to ignore what he just went through; that, I understand. Our bond is weak now as his eyes flutter and heart skips. We waste no time squeezing through the mountainous door before it is open even more then a splinter. I know not the hour, but surely the sun must be setting soon. Though tonight, even in the cover of moonlit darkness—I fear—no rest will be found for either of us.

TBC

A/N2: And there you have it. Hope you liked it, please leave a review before you go, hope to see you next time!

Strider