Don't own Inheritance.

Chapter 9

The citadel towered above Urû'baen, like a great lance thrust up to scrape against the sky by a titan in the world's creation. Made of black stone in ages past before the time of men, or even elves, it dominated the landscape for miles around, atop the cities great cliffs so that it could be seen on the Horizon from as far as The Spine.

It had been the seat of the kings of humanity since they first settled in Alagaësia. It had always been dark, Made of dark granite, but once the kings had tried to disguise this fact, hanging colorful pendants and banners, and growing flower gardens around the walls. Once. But Galbatorix didn't see the need. Power wasn't something you had to flaunt, honor and justice weren't won with pretty flags, and beauty was relative. To him, the austere walls and Spartan, functionality of the place was far more beautiful then what the other kings had done. And who would argue with him?

If the structures rulers occupy reflect their regard for the ruled, then the fortress spoke volumes. It's entryways were heavily guarded, and it's gates were locked with heavy iron portcullises. Lookouts were stationed on it's towers, and it was garrisoned extensively, by the Domiavard as well as conventional soldiers. It appeared a dark, grim place, every inch harder then the cliffs it was built on.

Beneath the citadel was a maze of passageways and tunnels, underground caverns and rooms that had never seen the sun, the work of thousands of years of excavating the stone bedrock. They stretched beneath the entire city, and perhaps one could walk among them forever, never again finding the way to the surface.

Murtagh's eyes had not adjusted to the darkness. He didn't know if this was a lesson or something else, but Galbatorix had ordered him to follow, and so he did, groping ineffectually and stumbling in the murk. The weak, cold light the lantern Halec was holding gave was enough to ensure you did not bump into walls, but details were lost on him, blurring into indistinct shapes, and he could barely make out the lean figure of the king ahead.

Somehow Galbtorix picked his way through the maze of tunnels and passages with unerring skill, never so much as making a misstep or wrong turn. Murtagh couldn't tell how deep they were or which way they were going, and wards built into the walls by a thousand paranoid rulers meant he couldn't sense anything with his mind. He would be surprised if he could even use magic.

They might have been walking an hour or an eternity, but all Murtagh could ascertain was that they seemed to have been walking a lot further then would take them to the dragonhold. He wanted to ask, where they were going but whenever he worked up the courage to ask he would catch a glimpse of the King's steely countenance and keep quiet.

At first they'd been cells, and rooms, occasionally cages, and those terrible dark robed figures who slinked around, conducting their vile trade, but then the had come to a long passage that branched off into a new one every dozen steps, empty and featureless, that had seemed to stretch forever.

The passages were a mix of cut passages and unworked stone that glistened with damp. Passages ended abruptly or bled into each other, and seemed to follow no ryme, or reason. Murtagh knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that if he was alone he'd never find his way back.

At last they stopped and walked into a room, it took a moment for Murtagh's eyes to adjust to the bright light but when he did he felt nauseous.

The room was long, quite narrow, and simply laid out, illuminated by a couple of wall mounted brands. There was a central aisle, with cages on either side. Not cells, as one might expect, but what were essentially pens, fashioned from metal bars. They were too low for their occupants to stand, and their floor was covered with grubby looking straw, thick with lice and other parasites. Each contained the still breathing remains of a prisoner in various states of abuse, and the smell of the place was hideous.

Galbatorix strode past without so much as passing a glance at them, his face a mask of flesh and bone. Halec went with him, not seeming to care about the people, caged in like animals and tortured. Several of them were cradling stumps instead of limbs, had been blinded or forcibly muted. Some had been branded with the traitors mark, or other, equally painful looking disfigurements. One towards the end had been castrated, blinded and lost his feet and his hands.

There was a bitter taste in Murtag's mouth. Morbid curiosity made him wonder what they had done that had led to such inhuman treatment. They had been made into something less then animals, tortured for simply the sake of torture. Were they rebels, simply people the king didn't like, political opponents, criminals or nothing but people who'd been in the wrong place at the wrong time? Why had the king ordered this? Simple cruelty? Galbatorix didn't seem to delight in their suffering, but neither did he feel any empathy, simply ignoring them as though they weren't there.

Making his way rather slower then the other two, Murtagh tried not to see the prisoners on either side of him. He wished he could block them out like the king seemed too, but he was horribly aware of every figure he passed. They did not cry out, or even beg, but looked at him with hollow, dead eyes of those who had lost all hope, in utter silence. Murtagh doubted they even saw him.

The door at the end of the room was unlocked, and Halec was searching for the correct key on a great ring when Murtagh caught up. Galbatorix was pacing patiently, his eyes fixed on the door, occasionally passing over the prisoners as though he didn't see anything, or absent-mindedly adjusting his cloak.

With a triumphant noise, Halec found the correct key, and the incessant jangling of the keys sliding into each other stopped. Flexing his thick shoulder against the door, he braced his legs and pushed. The door creaked open to reveal another corridor, and the two vanished into it, Halec allowing Galbatorix to take the lead. Murtagh swallowed, then followed behind, wishing he could have just stayed in bed, or, failing that, stayed with Tarrascus and continued his lesson. Even his particular brand of insanity would be preferable to this mind-numbing exposure to the King's cruelty.

The Tunnel curved, and twisted, and soon Murtagh had lost sight of them and was trudging forward alone. It's particular shape distorted sounds, so that Murtagh could barely hear them when they were a few steps ahead.

The tunnel widened, and Murtagh started as he realized how far behind he'd dropped. Hurrying ahead, he shivered, as he realized how cold the tunnel was getting. He hurried onwards, totally alone, until he heard the faint scrape of a boot against stone. Stopping and sinking into a fighters crouch he stared around, trying to see what had moved. But there was nothing but the murk.

Sighing, already half convinced he had imagined it, he ran his hand through his hair (which he absentmindedly noticed was clammy with perspiration despite the cold), and turned to continue forward.

Then he saw it, a shadow in the shadows, sliding along, a man's shape in mottled grays and a shapeless cloak, barely more than a vague hint of texture in the murk…

The figure of a tall, lean man peeled back the hood of his cloak and stopped midstep. He turned and stared directly at the young Rider, his maroon hair in thick braids, his mouth open to reveal serrated, triangular teeth. But that alone wasn't what made Murtagh whimper. The look the stranger gave sent Murtagh a shiver soul deep. It was it's eyes, they were ancient, knowing and so, so cold. They stripped away the layers of lies and identity and delved deep into the core of who he was. They knew him.

The stranger held his gaze for another moment, then turned abruptly on his heel and strode away, into the eternal night, without saying a word. It was a long time before Murtagh found it within himself to move.

When he caught up, the king took in his ashen face and shook his head. "I see you met Zakath. He has that effect on most people." His voice was cold, but seemed almost amused. "He's a shade." He continued, before Murtagh could ask "And very good at what he does.

"And what does he do?"

"Kill people." Halec answered, slapping him on the back hard enough to make him wince.

Galbatorix was already moving ahead again, and just when Murtagh was beginning to think they would be walking forever, they stopped.

"Here." Galbatorix said.

At first, Murtagh didn't know what he meant, then he noticed a slight indent in the worked stone. Reaching out to touch the wall with his fingertips, he felt a ridge. Then he realized it was a disguised doorframe, hidden in shadow.

Halec elbowed him aside, slipped his hand along the frame and pushed. There was a harsh, grating sound, then a light. They were looking along yet another tunnel. It was softly lit by fat candles set in recesses, that made Murtagh's eyes itch uncomfortably as they adjusted to the new atmosphere. The tunnel ended in a series of metal rungs that climbed to a trapdoor.

Halec went first, and lifted the hatch, followed by the King, and then Murtagh, far less confident then the other two.

A man was manacled to the wall, suspended by his arms. He was unconscious, which was probably for the best. Nearby stood a brazier steeped with glowing coals. Cruel-looking irons were heating in it, a few already cherry red. Other tools of the torturers trade were laid out on a gore splattered bench, that made Murtagh feel weak just to look at. All serrated edges and barbs, tools designed not only to cause pain, but to permanently disfigure.

Murtagh shuddered at the thought. He'd killed, but not like this. Never like this.

A man was standing in the corner, his back to the new arrivals. He turned slowly as they came up the ladder, and Murtagh realized he was cleaning his knuckles with a piece of cloth. The man was short, heavyset, but powerfully built. He wore the traditional black leather garb of a torturer, complete with the integral skullcap and eyemask. His chest was bare and sheened with sweat from his labors. He bowed awkwardly when he spotted the king, but Galbaorix didn't seem to notice.

Moving across the room in a few, quick, strides, he took the prisoners chin in his and forced him to look at him. When he didn't react Galbatorix closed his eyes and muttered something. Abruptly his eyes blinked blearily open.

"Please…" The man choked out desperately. His voice hoarse and soft, pathetically weak. Galbatorix didn't even seem to hear him, simply dispassionately examining him as though looking over a slab of meat.

"Do you know why I am doing this, Tabar?" He asked softly.

Murtagh started as he realized the identity of the prisoner. He had met Marcus Tabar, the governer of Dras-Leona, and found it impossible to reconcile the image of the proud, haughty man with the defeated shell that hung before him. He remembered what the King had said a week ago, and shuddered. He supposed he should feel satisfied, knowing a monster was being killed, but if anything he felt worse. This was not justice.

The twisted mockery of a man was stuttering something, trying desperately to form words, but Galbatorix shook his head.

"You are here because you are a monster who cannot control his urges. All men are base, but most learn to restrain themselves. But you, even basic control is beyond you. You're not part of the solution Marcus, you are the very thing I hate about humanity. You are weak."

Marcus tried to reply, tried to form some sound, but Galbatorix shook his head. "Goodbye, Tabar." He said coldly, and with an easy, flowing movement, he drew his sword.

The sword was of medium length, made in the straight bladed, single-edged, archaic style of the hill tribes on the Empires northern borders. At first glance it was a simple thing, while the scabbard was white calfskin and gold, the blade was plain and devoid of ornamentation. However, one who looked closely would change their assessment.

The pommel was a large white diamond, glistening and many faceted, weighted with white gold to counter-balance the weight of the blade. The grip was virgin leather, unstained by sweat or blood, and there were ripples in the smoky dark steel where the metal had been folded on itself again and again, an impossible amount of times. The actual edge was separate, and so sharp it could cut a falling leaf in twain, made of another material then the rest of the sword.

The blade was a work of art, beyond the skill of even the greatest elven smiths of the age to make, or even understand how to make.

Galbatorix did not flourish it. He knew what a sword was for, and it was not for flourishing. Instead he drew it back, and drove it through the lord and into the wall up to the hilt. There was a spray of blood, and the body convulsed a few times before hanging limp, the light having fled his eyes. The nobleman didn't scream. He didn't even have the strength left to do so.

Galbatorix removed the sword, and gave it a hard flick, red droplets flying off it in a wide arc, then wiped it clean on an already bloody cloth. When he was satisfied he replaced it in its sheath and turned to Murtagh. "That is how we deal with traitors in the Empire. People who do not give our cause it's loyalty, and instead seek their own profit at the expense of others." His intent was plain. Murtagh swallowed and nodded, trying to quell the rising bile in his throat.

Galbatorix cocked his head. "You have something to say, Murtagh?"

Murtagh opened his mouth, and then closed it. Just the same, Galbatorix seemed to understand.

"You think me brutal? Cruel? Callous? Sometimes I think it would be easier to give up on you then educate you Murtagh. I do not hide behind paid executioners. I do not order death lightly. When I do, I make myself feel it. I have killed. In my life my sword has known little rest. And I have never forgotten what death is. I will never let myself. If you can't watch the light leave a mans eyes, feel him as he dies, see his fear, his desperation, then maybe he doesn't deserve to. Remember that. Death is not something I enjoy. But I have been given power."

Murtagh sneered, recovering his composure. "He wasn't a good man. But you made him what he is, then when he wasn't useful you tortured him and killed him. We're all just pawns to you, aren't we? We're not even people."

"Do you think I like this?" Galbatorix said softly. Murtagh swallowed, he'd gone quiet, that was usually a bad sign. "I never wanted the Empire. All I wanted was vengeance, and justice. And I got it. But someone had to pick it up, and I did. But once you do, you can never put it back down. I hate this whole country. I hate every inch of it. My very soul screams to leave and go back North, back to Inzilbêth. My homeland. My heartland. But I can't. I never will be able to." He slammed his fist into the stone wall, in a frightening act of passion, and his dark eyes blazed. Dust trickled down from the ceiling, and Halec and the torturer backed away slowly, afraid to draw his attention.

"I killed the riders. All of them. And if you knew them as I did, remember them as I can you would not be so quick to judge me for that. And I threw King Argenost onto the street and watched the people tear him apart. And then who was left to rule, but I? Should I entrust it to someone else? Should I leave it to tear itself apart? No. I could never be that weak. So here I am, after all this time, a leftover from that sad page in history. And here I will be until I die."

"Once I could call myself honourable with a straight face. I could say I was a good man, that I did what was right." He roared. "But I have killed that part of myself, for the sake of all the people who live in this Empire, knowing they would hate me for it! And who are you presume to judge me?"

Murtagh swallowed, waiting for the inevitable punishment, but it didn't come. Instead Galbatorix grabbed him with an arm like a steel cable, and forced him to look at Tabar's remains.

"I imprisoned him at my own will. And why shouldn't I? I know everyone's guilt or innocence at a glance. I can see their darkest secrets, what they hide, what they pray no one will ever know. I can tell right away. Why give them a trial? I already know the truth. Who is better qualified then me?"

Murtagh was swallowing nervously, but Galbatorix didn't let go. "See him? Do you? Do you see the governor of Dras-Leona, or just a corpse? Well let me tell you what I see. I see a man who was very, very fond of children. Loved them in fact. Had a few dozen in his castle. And he had things in his tower that made all of these toys look like nothing. Perhaps you'd be interested in the contents of the box we found under his bed. What did they do? What did the children do to deserve that?"

Murtagh opened his mouth, but no sound came out.

"Some people cannot be saved. No redemption, no change of heart. Some people are incorrigible monsters. And the rest are just monsters who have trained ourselves not to show it." Galbatorix growled, his voice beginning to loose its ferocity but retaining a hard edge.

"See Ernst over there?" He asked, gesturing to the torturer, who backed away when he did. "I know all about him. He took this job not because it's a job, or noble reasons about wanting the guilty to suffer, no, he took it because he likes hurting them. Doesn't matter to him what they did or who they are, he likes the power that comes with making others suffer. He knows the breaking strain of bones, tendons, skin. He knows exactly how far he can push them. And he loves it. If there was any justice, he'd be hanging up next to Marcus. But there isn't, because monsters are more useful then heroes, so he gets to do what he loves every day."

Galbatorix turned and pointed at Halec, who closed his eyes. "Do you know, he might have a son. Or a daughter. I say might, because he left the mother, his wife, a maid in Drakenmoor castle, when he deserted the lords guard. He's never tried to find her, he left her alone, bearing his child, all because he could get slightly better pay working here." Halec winced, but didn't seem overly bothered. Murtagh suspected it was mostly for their benefit. "Funny, he's killed and murdered countless others, several who were pleading or totally innocent, or children, and that's the only thing he feels any guilt for."

Then Galbatorix fixed his terrible stare on Murtagh, and the Rider felt his knees go weak. It was the shade, all over again, only this time it was not the unknown that frightened him, but a very real threat.

"Shall I tell you about yourself, Murtagh?" Galbatorix said quietly. "Do you want me to tell you all the dirty little things you've done?"

Murtagh desperately shook his head.

Galbatorix seemed satisfied. "I thought myself honourable once. Good and noble. But there is no honour, just like there is no good, or gods. There is no justice but the justice we take. There is no greater purpose but the one we build for ourselves. If you're unable to defend yourself, die and get out of the way of those who can. Steel and strong arms rule this world, nothing else. I do what I think is right, but only because I don't let anyone else tell me different, and kill anyone who disagrees. I rule because I don't let myself have any enemies, and I am ruthless with the ones I get. I rule because I am stronger then anyone else. Don't ever believe any different." With that he swept past, gesturing to Murtagh to follow. "Now come with me, and we'll complete the nights work. Grow up, and see the world for what it is. And if you ever think about betraying me again, I'll give you Marcus's place."

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