Thorn and Misery - Chapter 11
Murtagh awoke with the dawn, stretched out beside Thorn's body. It was early April, and this close to the Hadarac Desert, the weather was already growing warmer. Even without that, Murtagh had Thorn's intense body heat to keep him comfortable at night. The soft, warm straw was even better than his bed, and after so long sleeping outdoors, it felt more natural to him.
Murtagh rose and stretched, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Thorn rolled over and got clumsily to his feet, narrowly avoiding tripping over his own wings.
This is ridiculous, he said when he was finally free of the confined space. My body…will not move when I tell it to. Lifting a massive, tree-like leg awkwardly, Thorn stomped it down again. His sharp claws became lodged in the soft, dewy ground, and he almost toppled over as he pulled his foot free.
"You should lie down," Murtagh said, the concern evident in his voice. He felt terrible. Thorn could barely walk in his new form, and there was nothing he could do to help.
Nonsense, said Thorn, stumbling clumsily over the soft ground. He had grown a further eighteen inches in the last few days, due to the lasting effects of Galbatorix's spell. I told you, I'm fine. I just need a little…practice. Besides, they're waiting for us.
Murtagh sighed heavily. "Unfortunately, you're probably right."
The pair rose set off towards the southern border of trees. Murtagh was glad to have discovered the shortcut. Now, instead of having to make the longer trek through the castle corridors, he could walk with Thorn and avoid having to talk to anyone.
Thorn paused when they reached the line of spruce trees. He made to push his way through, sending birds and squirrels rushing, panicked, from their treetop abodes. With a snort, the dragon extricated himself from the thick branches. Taking a great, flying leap, Thorn launched himself into the sky and glided over the crest of trees, waiting for Murtagh on the other side.
It was the first time Murtagh had seen Thorn take to the skies. Even though it had been but a few seconds, the sight of the dragon in flight took his breath away.
"Show-off," Murtagh said with smile, as he was left pushed his way through the thick undergrowth.
I cannot help the fact that I have wings and you do not, laughed Thorn, and they traipsed together back to the outdoor terrace. Thorn was still unsteady on his feet, but after a minute or so, he seemed to develop a rhythm that made walking in the soft grass easier.
Early morning had always been Murtagh's favourite time of day. The dewdrops on the long blades of grass refracted the dawn light, making the ground sparkle incessantly. The sweet morning air was cool, and felt crisp and clean on his throat at he inhaled deeply. Trees were just beginning to bud, their pink and white flowers hiding the nesting birds. It was a beautiful sight.
Murtagh and Thorn rounded the last corner, and saw that Galbatorix and Shruikan were waiting for them as usual, two blemishes on the perfect landscape.
Murtagh felt Shruikan's immense consciousness roll over him as they approached. You're awake, hatchling, he observed. Hurry up. I have much to teach you, now that you can fly like a proper dragon.
Yes, Master Shruikan, replied Thorn. Shruikan gave a superior sort of snort and the two dragons launched themselves into the air.
I will see you this evening, Murtagh, Thorn called back. Within moments, they were out of sight.
Murtagh stood for a moment, watching the spot on the horizon where Thorn and Shruikan had disappeared. He could not delay forever, though; after a moment Galbatorix sent a sharp shock of pain across their mental link. "Pay attention," he snapped irritably. It seemed the king was often irritable. "I asked you a question."
"What?" asked Murtagh, quickly shaking away the remnants of his pain.
"I said, would you like to visit the weapons stores today? It is time you chose a new dagger." Galbatorix leaned down and tugged Drac'ner from its boot-sheath. "I'm sure I can find you one that is just as fine as Drac'ner."
"Yes," replied, Murtagh, somewhat sullenly. "I suppose it is time." As much as he wanted a new dagger, Drac'ner had had sentimental value to him. Choosing another knife would be like throwing away his last memory of Tornac.
"Cheer up, Murtagh, I am giving you a gift," said Galbatorix, his tone verging on sarcastic. He slid Drac'ner back into his boot. "Don't tell me you still miss that old fool. What's done is done. More to the point, a dagger is a necessary weapon. You need another, and you need it soon. We will go to the armoury after breakfast."
Murtagh ate quickly, hardly tasting the food. When he finished, Galbatorix lead him through several side passages, avoiding the halls packed with Galbatorix's fawning servants. Murtagh had learned early on that Galbatorix cared little for his subjects, and preferred to avoid them whenever possible. Their route to the armoury was considerably shorter when they were not stopped every other step by people asking how they could serve their king.
Murtagh knew the way to the armoury already, but today he and Galbatorix approached it by a route opposite the one Murtagh had previously followed. Rather than taking the main southern corridor, as Murtagh had once done, they descended a narrow, seldom used spiral staircase, lined with the burnt-out stumps of torches in wrought-iron brackets. As they passed, Galbatorix waved his hand wordlessly and the torches sprang to life, the tongues of flame casting deep shadows into the corners of the dusty stairs. Murtagh heard the telltale skittering of mice as they scurried away from the light.
With Galbatorix's soft murmur of, "Deyja," the skittering stopped and the stairwell was silent once more.
The two of them rounded a final corridor and the doors to the armoury came into sight. Unlike many of the other doors in the castle, these were of heavy iron, designed to keep safe the fortune in weapons concealed behind them.
The guard stationed at the doors sunk to his knees in a deep genuflect as Murtagh and Galbatorix approached. "Announce me," the king ordered shortly, and the man immediately complied, throwing open the doors.
"His Imperial Majesty," the guard said loudly, his voice carrying over the chatter inside the room, which abruptly fell silent. Galbatorix entered, followed closely by Murtagh.
Though Murtagh had visited the armoury on several occasions, he had not grown immune to its splendour. Hundreds upon hundreds of different weapons were hung all around the cavernous room. There was a wall entirely dedicated to wicked-looking polearms: deadly spears, lances and halberds that had been crafted by the Empire's master smiths. On the opposite wall hung swords of every size and shape. Full suits of plate armour and chain mail lined the long room, like soldiers standing at attention. It was not so much an armoury as a collection of rare and wondrous art.
The many servants that had been in the armoury cleaning departed quickly as Galbatorix and Murtagh entered, leaving the room empty except for a stocky, muscular man with sparse salt-and-pepper hair and a round, ruddy face. He approached them calmly, and Murtagh was surprised to see the man did not sink to his knees before the king; instead they clasped hands after a short bow.
"What can I do for you today, Majesty?" the man asked.
"My apprentice has need of a dagger," answered Galbatorix.
"I'll show you to our finest knives immediately, sire," said the older man. He led them to the back of the armoury, where dozens of daggers were laid out on silk cushions.
"Take your pick Murtagh," encouraged Galbatorix. "I'll leave this decision up to you."
Nodding, Murtagh surveyed his options. They were all beautiful, and they would all serve their purpose, but he was looking for something special.
Passing over many of the daggers, Murtagh halted when he came across one of the boot-knives, laid out on a red cushion. The hilt was plain, wrapped in black wire, which stood out among the showy gold and silver of many of the other knives. A small multi-hued opal was set into the pommel. Picking it up, Murtagh examined the dagger closely. The tempering was smooth, the tapered blade simple and elegant. Placing the cross-guards on his finger, Murtagh was impressed to see that the dagger was perfectly balanced. Running his thumb across the tip, he checked the edge, wincing slightly as the razor-sharp blade sliced cleanly through the skin. A smear of his blood stained the polished steel scarlet.
"I'll take this one," he said, turning back to Galbatorix and the armourer.
"An excellent choice," agreed the king.
"His name is Argedauth," said the other man, "though you are free to change it if you wish." He pulled a cleaning cloth from his pocket and handed it to Murtagh, who wiped the blade clean and slid it into his right boot, where, until recently, Drac'ner had always resided.
Galbatorix nodded his approval. "I am glad you are satisfied, Murtagh," he said, then turned to the armourer. "I'm afraid we must take our leave. My student and I have other things we must attend to." He gave Murtagh a stern, pointed glare.
Murtagh's stomach leaped. He had almost forgotten how little progress he was making in learning magic. Galbatorix had been furious with his failure the previous evening, though he seemed since to have mellowed.
It was strange, Murtagh thought, how Galbatorix's moods were constantly changing. One minute he was cool and distant, and then the next he was gentle, almost kind. At the smallest provocation, he would spin into a rage. His temper was completely unpredictable, but one thing was sure: the king definitely kept Murtagh on his toes.
"Until next time then, Majesty," replied the man, bowing again. Galbatorix turned and headed back across the armoury to the main doors.
About the middle of the room, Murtagh spotted a large metal door that he had not noticed on their way in. "What's in there?" he asked.
"Those are some of my greatest treasures," said Galbatorix with a small smile. "I believe I would like you to see them."
Murtagh was confused. He did not understand why Galbatorix would want him to see what were surely just piles of gold or jewels. Nothing like that could amaze him, not after the marvels of the armoury.
They made for the door, and upon closer inspection, Murtagh was surprised to see that there was no lock, or even a handle.
"This door is spelled so that none but myself can open it," explained Galbatorix, and he placed his palm on the spot where the lock should have been. The door glowed bright for a second, and then swung inwards to reveal a wondrous sight.
Hundreds of Rider's swords.
Murtagh gaped. He knew that, after the fall of the Riders, Galbatorix had taken several of their swords into his possession, but he had no idea that he had so many. The chamber was set up like a sort of treasure room, swords of every imaginable colour hanging beside their matching scabbards. Their hues ranged from dull brown and grey to vivid yellow, violet and emerald, even a bright, shocking magenta. Light from the flameless lanterns caught and reflected on the gemstones in the hilts of the swords, making the whole room sparkle.
Wandering along a row of blades, Murtagh read the names engraved on small plaques beneath each of them: they were beautiful, deadly combinations of art and weapon.
One sword near the door caught Murtagh's eye. The blade was a deep, shining blue, and the gem in the pommel glittered in the lantern light. Leaning closer, he read the name engraved on the bronze square beside it: Undbitr. The sword seemed familiar to him, though he was sure he had never seen it before.
"You recognize the colour, don't you?" said Galbatorix softly. "Of course, you're thinking of the wrong Saphira."
At the mention of the name, Murtagh remembered meeting up with the three of them – Eragon, Saphira, and Brom – and how he had saved Eragon from the Ra'zac but had been forced to watch as Brom succumbed to his wounds. How he had learned, shortly after Brom's death, that he had been none other than Brom the Dragon Rider. How Eragon's Saphira had shared her name with Brom's dragon. But surely, that could only mean –
"You are correct, Murtagh," said Galbatorix, interrupting his thoughts. "This sword belonged to the man who killed your father."
Murtagh felt hot with anger at the mention of Morzan. He had hated the man ever since he was old enough to understand what hate was.
"I had long since completed my training with the Riders by the time Morzan and Brom came along, of course," said Galbatorix. "But your father told me later that Brom was quite besotted with him when they were boys. Pathetic, really – he followed your father around like a lovesick puppy. Brom never did follow Morzan to me, though – a pity. I could have used a Rider of his strength. No, he had to go and kill my most loyal ally." Galbatorix shook his head. "Such a waste. But I don't need Morzan anymore. Not when I have you, Murtagh. You, who have the potential to outstrip his accomplishments by far."
Murtagh shifted uncomfortably where he stood. When the king made no move to stop him, he edged away and heading to the other end of the chamber, as far away from Galbatorix as possible.
At the head of the room, on its own stone dais, lay a single sword, resting on a black velvet cloth and surrounded by flickering candles. It was icy blue, almost as pale as the sword Galbatorix had used during their practice duel. The hue was so cold it made Murtagh shiver.
Unsure if he were allowed to proceed, Murtagh glanced back to Galbatorix, who still lingered in the doorway. In response, Galbatorix nodded, and gave Murtagh a slight push with his mind. Murtagh complied, and leaned closer to the blade.
It was of middling length, and quite broad. The hilt was long, wrapped in alternating silver and black wire. A small tongue of fire was etched just below it, in stark contrast to the chill inspired by the colour. Reaching out tentatively, he traced the symbol with his thumb.
His grey eyes wide, Murtagh turned back to Galbatorix, whose face remained expressionless. His voice, however, was heavy and downcast, as if it pained him to say the words. "You guessed correctly Murtagh. This is Reona. Once, a long time ago, she was my sword." With one hand, Galbatorix motioned around the room at the other blades. "Now she rests here, with others of her kind. Reona is all that is left of Jarnunvosk, who was once my dragon.
"Jarnunvosk hatched for me when I was ten years old. For decades we were inseparable, closer than any dragon and Rider had ever been. We were exploring the Spine with two of my companions and their dragons when a group of Urgals ambushed us in the night. The cowards tried to run, and were slain. Jarnunvosk and I were the only ones who stayed to fight. It was a bloody battle. We thought we had killed all the Urgals, but a stray arrow pierced my Jarnunvosk through the heart. I was without the arts to save her, and she perished in my arms." Galbatorix's voice, normally low and smooth, cracked at that.
"With what little strength I had left, I built a funeral pyre for her. It sapped my energy, and for days after I could only sleep.
"I have little memory of the weeks that followed. I stayed in the Spine, scavenging for food, though I could find little to sustain myself. I could not think; I had nothing with me but Reona. In time I came to use her as a hunting weapon, gutting the occasional deer for my supper. I had forgotten the use of fire, so I at the meat raw. I lived like a beast, eating when hungry and sleeping when tired. I survived on my instincts alone.
"Jarnunvosk was gone, and my cowardly companions had left me for dead. I was alone in the wilderness. Eventually, I became so hungry that I attacked anything I came upon. Even the Urgals avoided me. I am ashamed to admit that I went mad in there, alone and friendless.
"My one saving grace was Reona. She kept alive my last shred of hope that I would be able to leave that cursed place and rejoin the Riders. I clung to the dream that I would find them, that they would give me another dragon, and that I would be able to begin anew.
"I found them, or rather, they found me.
"It was a farmer that saved my life. I never knew his name. He nursed me back to health until the Riders arrived. They did not need me to tell them what had happened. They took me in, sheltered me, and for a time, my life was good.
"But then, those foolish bastards denied my request for a new dragon. I had only one hope that kept me alive over the months, and they destroyed it. One of their leaders, Oromis, seemed to think there was something wrong with me. I nearly had the others convinced, and then he came along and wrapped them around his little finger.
"It matters not, though. Oromis and his dragon are both long dead.
"The Elders abandoned me after that. I was alone again, and it was their fault. Just as it was their fault that Jarnunvosk was killed."
Murtagh had been so entranced by Galbatorix's story that he had not noticed as the king crept up behind him, silent as a cat. He jumped as Galbatorix rested a hand on his shoulder.
"Don't you see, Murtagh?" Galbatorix said. "It was all their doing. For years I had asked for further instruction, to be taken deeper into the realm of magic, but the Elders refused. Had they not been so ignorant of magic's true potential, had they taught me what I knew I was ready to learn, I could have had the power to save my Jarnunvosk.
"Instead I have only Reona."
Galbatorix gazed down at the sword on the raised platform. He stroked the blade fondly, and then, to Murtagh's astonishment, drew his wrist sharply across the edge.
Crimson blood spattered along the blade, dark flecks on the pale surface. Showing no hint of pain, Galbatorix knelt, and said, "A parting gift, my friend. You are the Reaper; it is your due. May you rest peacefully, until I see you again."
Murtagh was unsure of what to do. Galbatorix knelt in a silent, almost prayerful state for a few moments, hands folded reverently. He then rose, blood still trickling from his wrist. Making no effort to stem the flow, he simply strode to the door and left the room without another word.
Murtagh followed. It was the only thing he could do.
A/N: Added a good-sized chunk about Brom's sword, since it seemed likely that Galbatorix would have retrieved it. I think I'm liking how the adjustments are turning out so far.
- Miss Maddie