Disclaimer
I don't own Eragon. If I did, this would be published.
Prologue.
Two figures dragged the old man into the cell between them. Galbatorix didn't deign to turn. He made the man wait. After all, he was king, and the man was only alive at his sufferance. After nearly minute he decided to take interest.
He smiled as he turned, although there was no humor in his dark eyes, and nodded.
For an all-powerful authority, trust was a difficult commodity, and not to be squandered where it was found. He could make people do anything, but it was preferable not to have to use force. When they served you of their own free will, they were worthy of trust. Slaves would resist when possible.
The two figures released their grip on the prisoner, kicking him as he sank to his knees so he sprawled across the cold stones of the cell door. There was no fight left in the old man. He barely had the strength to hold his head up. He had been beaten repeatedly and tortured to the extremes of what his body could survive. It was so like the cowards at the Varden to send an old man to do their dirty work.
"So are you ready to talk? Or must we continue with all this unsavory nonsense? We both know the outcome, so why subject yourself to the pain? You will tell me what I want to hear. You always do. Part of being human, no threshold for pain."
The old man lifted his head, his bleary, unfocused eyes meeting the kings dark ones. "I have nothing to say to you."
Galbatorix sighed. "Very well. Zakath, would you kindly remind our guest of his manners?"
The figure backhanded the man across the face, splitting his already swollen lip. Blood ran into his beard.
"Thank you Zakath. Now, perhaps we can dispense with this charade. You are a spy for the Varden, passing information about the dispersal of my forces and the state of things in my court. Not only that, but three days ago you attempted to kill Lord Meric. The attempt was amateurish, as is only to be expected, but in a way that's just as well for you. Had you not been so incompetent in your attempt, you and me would be having a very different talk."
"Why don't you kill me and have done with it?" The old man spat, a tooth coming loose and falling out of his mouth as he did so. His split lip leant his words a lisp, and he was already tremoring from exhaustion and pain. There was still defiance in his eyes, but it was tempered with defeat. The man was already broken.
"I could," the king conceded. He circled the old man, moving slowly, eying him as though sizing up an animal for purchase. "But all things in their time, eh? Besides, as a spy your head must be filled with such interesting truths, and it would be a tragedy to throw them away. Act in haste, repent at leisure, no?"
"What would you have me tell you, monster? That your people love you? That you are worshipped? Adored? You are not. Believe me when I say you are hated by even the meanest peasant. Your 'kingdom' is only fit for robber barons, beggars and fools. It is held together by fear, but only barely. Now it is breaking apart. You are not loved. You are a forgotten shadow, not a ruler. By not taking action you have lost whatever legitimacy, whatever shreds of loyalty the people once had for you. You have let your enemies liberate your lands all but unopposed, and shown yourself for the coward you are. You are of no consequence, nothing more then a pale shadow. People look to their lords for leadership, and the lords don't spare you a thought."
"Fascinating." Galbatorix replied, seeming quite unaffected by the old mans tirade. "Is that what you intended to tell Nasuada? Or that bastard Eragon?"
"I will tell both of them the truth, that you are a trapped rat out of options, and the scum is rising to the surface, as it always does. That everywhere in your empire there is anarchy, disorder, and corruption. That the streets crumble while the parasites suck the lifeblood from the people, that the peasants despise their lords and their lords despise you, that you are loathed for the exorbitant rents you demand from them in return for their own lands, and the conscription of their families to your 'grand army'. Oh I could tell them all that and so much more."
"Really? Do go on."
"I will tell them your so-called court is infested with sharks that would feast on your blood. That Urû'baen is a pit of liars, murderers and thieves, and worst of all backstabbing sycophants who whisper sweet nothings in your ear while plotting behind your back. That you are universally loathed, and you are a fool for believing they love you."
"You are indeed enlightened." Galbatorix replied, his own grin matching the spies. "But so very, very wrong. Yes they would see me dead, it is human nature to seek out weakness and exploit it. Yet they have not brought me down, as you will no doubt tell them too. This empire is mine by right of strength, and none can dispute it. I am king, and Rider. I do not simply call myself such, as others do. And they are responsible for the starvation, not me. People suffer in wartime, and when have I saught war? I even allowed Surda it's freedom. A tyrant, perhaps. But a fair one."
The old man chuckled again, but the king continued pacing, ignoring the old man. "This is my kingdom, I can do as I will. And no matter how much any of them hate me, they fear me far more, whatever you think. The Varden are outnumbered, out-maneuvered and out-generaled. When this storm blows over I will still be on my throne, even more strongly entrenched then before. And even if by some mirical they did succeed, what difference would it make? This empire has existed as long as there have been humans, and will continue forever. The Empire goes on, my clever friend, no matter who runs it, and you can no more stop it then kill me."
"You are not fit to lead the Empire, mad king."
Galbatorix shrugged again. "Mad? All kings are mad. It's the only way to cope with the power, with being constantly alone. Am I mad because I see what I want and take it? Am I mad because I do not allow what other people think prevent my own ambitions? Is it a madman who has brought this kingdom from a state of constant warfare and terror into civilization? Mad? I think not."
"I tell you only what I see. If you do not like it, then all you can do is kill me."
Gallbatorix shook his head. "Come now, we both know that's not true. I could break open your mind and take what I wanted. I could make you serve me as I did to Eragon's Half-Brother, and make you dance like a puppet on my string. I could give you back to my torturers and let them practice their art some more. I've kept you alive for three days. I could keep it up for years. Decades, if I so chose. Do not underestimate the torments I can devise and inflict if I feel the need. Now, tell me about your about the people you left behind. Tell me about your insignificant rebellion."
The old mans head dropped. He lapsed into silence.
"Oh do speak up while you can, my stubborn friend. This farce has ceased to be amusing."
"I am no traitor."
"Not yet, but you will be before the sun rises tomorrow, if that's any consolation. By the time we're done, I have no doubt I'll be sick of the sound of your voice." He stopped pacing, resting his hand on the hilt of his blade. "Sicker, anyway."
"I will tell you nothing. Do your worst."
Galbatorix met his eye for a second, the gestured to Zakath. The figure drew his sword, a blade of bone with a skeletal dragon carved into the hilt, and placed it against the spies left ear.
The old man screamed as the figure removed his ear with a single, smooth stroke. Blood flowed freely through his fingers as he clutched the ruined hole on the side of his head. He didn't stop screaming as the figure took the severed ear and squeezed it to a pulpy mess, then threw the remaining leaking ruin aside.
Galbatorix resumed his pacing, his slow, measured footsteps echoing hollowly on the stone floor. "Now where were we? Oh yes, you were telling me nothing I didn't already know. You were reminding me that those around me are untrustworthy. How I have surrounded myself with fools and traitors and those who are loyal now could be traitors tomorrow. How I have bought loyalty through fear and fear inspires treachery. Please, don't insult us both. I have been running this empire for over a hundred years; I have the measure of everyone in court. I know them better then they know themselves. You speak in vagaries meant to inspire paranoia. I am nobodies fool. How does anyone know whom to trust or whom to kill? Tell me that, and then, when you are done, tell me all about the Varden. Tell me what little ploy you have put your hopes in now."
The old man slumped against the wall, his bloody hand pressed up against the side of his head. Dredging up strength from the recesses of his soul he found the strength to remain silent. Instead he spat at the king.
Galbatorix stopped again. "Must we take this to its logical conclusion? I had hoped you would see sense before I ran out of patience, but evidently I was wrong."
With that Zakath rammed his sword trough the man's back until it emerged through his ribcage. Blood pumped through the ragged wound, at first in a huge gush that dwindled as shock set in. The old man gibbered through the pain, his eyes glazed over. It was doubtful a single coherent word would escape his lips before his body finally succumbed to shock, and he died. His arms convulsed as his muscles contracted, and his lips moved as sounds gurgled out of his lips.
And then it was over, the old man dead, his secrets taken with him to the grave.
Galbatorix shook his head. "What a waste. He died to preserve secrets I already knew." Zakath sheathed his sword as the king spoke, not bothering to wipe it clean, then inclined his head.
"Waste not." Galbatorix said quietly. "Drop this off in the cavern, will you? Shuriken has begun to develop a taste for human flesh." Grasping the corpse under the armpits, the other figure turned and departed back into the shadows of the catacombs, dragging the corpse behind it.
"Walk with me." The king said, turning and leaving the dungeons. Zakath fell into step beside him, his mail surcoat clinking like blood money changing hands, the red wool of his cloak swishing against the plain stone of the floor.
The pair wandered the labyrinthine halls beneath the citadel, working their way slowly back above the ground. Eventually the shadowy murk gave way to the grey halls, and they emerged into the lower levels of the citidel. As they walked, Galbatorix turned to survey Zakath. The lower half of his face was covered by red cloth, masking all his features below his eyes. That which could be seen was framed with long maroon braids. What skin that could be seen was grey, like a corpse that had been left to rot underwater, and his red eyes flickered with bestial cunning. His long fingers rested on his blade, as he waited for instruction with the easy patience of a born predator. He would wait all day or all week, it made no difference.
"I have another task for you," the king said at last as they made their way up a spiral staircase towards the keep, his voice as calm and emotionless as the ocean.
"Lord Kantor has finally seceded to the enemy. I do not want to end the war so soon, but neither do I want the Varden to get too powerful. Replace him. You will find him on his estate, near Belatona. Give his heir the usual choice." The shade nodded his head once and departed. The king watched him go for a second, and then resumed the climb of the staircase, loosing himself in his own mind.
He thought briefly of the old spy, and shook his head. The man was a fool. There were close to twenty spies in the citadel at all times, each of them hoping to find the kings secrets. Galbatorix had long since isolated them all, and controlled them all the more powerfully in that they didn't even know it. Every scrap of information they found he gave them, and through this he controlled what his enemies thought of him. Controlling knowledge was important. And then the old man had found something out he shouldn't have, and tried to kill one of the few people in the castle Galbatorix actually needed.
He shook his had as he thought again, this time about the people the man had given his life for. The Varden were useful to the Empire. They helped keep it united, and served to isolate the discontent and rebellious from the rest. It was a pity they couldn't have simply remained that way, but they were suffering from delusions of power and sought to attempt to topple him. Why not try to overthrow the very gods too?
Even so, they were still useful. A rebellion served to cut the weakness and corruption from his empire, much as a chirgeon used a scalpel to remove infection. And it gave him the window he needed to institute changes. He was a king, but forcing people to change seldom has any lasting effect. They must be willing to change. Even total power had to be exercised with caution.
He chuckled darkly. The Varden thought to overthrow him and return peace. They were fools. Change is not so easily undone. The work of a century takes a long time to die. Even if they overthrew him tomorrow, things would never be the way they were again. And he had no intention of dying anytime soon, come what may.
The Varden. They called themselves freedom fighters, but they didn't even realize what that was. They were fools who held on to their idea of an idealized world that had never existed, and held him to blame for every ail they could imagine. They had made him into a beacon, a focal point for every wrong in the world. If they could but see as he did.
Finally he thought of Eragon, but briefly. His enemies had staked all their hopes on one rider, little more then a boy, who had received only customary training. No doubt it was an interesting study into the art of self-delusion, but a far cry from a threat. He had personally killed more Riders then he could be bothered remembering, and Eragon would be given one last chance to join him before becoming another notch on his sword. He was beginning to stop caring about controlling a second generation of riders.
Eragon. The very name was ironic. Rebirth, it meant in the old elvish tongue, before they discovered the ancient language. An ironic name for a boy dedicated to restoring the past. Apparently the Varden's hero, and a rebel. Galbatorix thought of his own past and chuckled. At first he'd seen similarities but time had eroded them. The boy was a pale mirror.
Galbatorix continued to the throne room, crossed the length and opened a door leading to his personal chambers behind the throne. Taking a moment to appreciate the austere simplicity, he relaxed, removing his sword and walking over to the window, where he spread his arms and looked up at the clear sky. It was going to be a beautiful day.
So there we are. Please review, because this is a long story and I need all the advice I can get. Plus, you know, encourages me to write.