Thorn and Misery - Chapter 22
The next morning, Murtagh joined Galbatorix for breakfast in the dining hall, which had been thoroughly cleaned overnight. The many long tables had been returned to their usual positions around the dance floor, which had been meticulously polished. All the scuff marks from the night before had been removed, and the wooden floor shone so brightly that Murtagh supposed he could have seen his reflection in it, if he had bothered to look. Instead, he fixed his gaze on the head table, where the king was waiting, as usual.
Galbatorix remained mute all through the meal. When both he and Murtagh were finished eating, they sat in an awkward silence for a full minute before Galbatorix finally looked at Murtagh and asked, "When are you going to get my sword?"
Murtagh's heart sank. He had known all along that there was no chance of keeping a secret from the king. He knew there was nothing he could say, but decided to play innocent anyway.
"I – I don't know what you mean."
"Nice try, Murtagh," snapped Galbatorix. "Young Teresa is a pretty little thing, isn't she? But to carry daggers at a ball hosted by her king?" He shook his head and tutted disapprovingly. "Terrible form. And hiding a Rider's sword from me all these years?"
"She didn't know." Murtagh interjected suddenly. "Teresa didn't know it was a Rider's sword until I told her. She did nothing wrong."
"Even so," Galbatorix replied. " Whether or not she knew the truth about the sword, I find it hard to believe that her father, Lord Hector, did not make the connection. Orange, did she say the blade was?"
Murtagh nodded.
"Yes, that must be Kveykva. It belonged to Luca, Rider of Gretiem. They were a strong pair, human as he was. I would have liked to add them to my collection. Unfortunately, Luca and his dragon resisted my rule. They were of course killed, but Luca's sword was lost. Or at least, I thought it was.
"It seemed that Luca passed his sword down to his son before he died."
"What do you -?" Suddenly, comprehension dawned on Murtagh. "Of course."
"You understand correctly, Murtagh," Said Galbatorix. "Many years ago, Luca was the Lord of Furnost."
It all made sense now. It seemed that Teresa was the many-times great-granddaughter of a Dragon Rider. Remembering what Galbatorix had said, Murtagh, too, doubted that the Lord of Furnost didn't know. Though why he hadn't told his daughter the truth, Murtagh couldn't fathom.
"You will have to travel to Furnost to retrieve Kveykva, of course. That sword is rightfully mine, and I want it back," Galbatorix said. "The convoy bound for the southern cities departs in two days. I will expect you to accompany Teresa to Furnost and take back Kveykva."
"Why can't I fly? It would be much faster."
"It would, but I'm in no rush," said Galbatorix with a shrug. "At the moment, I'm rather more interested to see how you manage without my direct guidance. And I can see how good you are at following orders."
Brilliant, Murtagh grumbled to himself. Reduced to errand boy. Then he had a flash of inspiration. "What if there are spies?" He demanded. "What if I'm recognized?" Murtagh tried to make his voice sound apprehensive rather than hopeful. He desperately wished that Galbatorix had not accounted for this. Since coming to Uru'baen, Murtagh had nursed a secret hope: if news of him could just reach the Varden, he could -
Galbatorix sighed heavily and rolled his eyes. "When are you going to stop trying, Murtagh?" he asked. "Trust me, it isn't worth the effort. As I have already told you, you belong to me. And besides, what makes you think the Varden's efforts are any nobler than mine? Their pathetic rebellion has caused the deaths of thousands already." He smirked. "Trust me, you would only be their pawn if you went back – just look at what has become of your brother. Even now, I suspect there are dozens of groups that seek to influence him. At least with me, you know where you stand."
Murtagh winced at the mention of Eragon, but he had to admit that Galbatorix had a point. If he were to be anyone's slave, he would prefer it to be to one single person.
The king continued before Murtagh could reply. "In response to your question, I have already made plans for that eventuality. I can alter your appearance so that no one will recognize you." He smirked. "Don't worry, Murtagh. Word of your continued existence will not reach the Varden. It will not even leave this palace."
"But then, why did you introduce me to your people last night?" Murtagh inquired."I thought I was supposed to be a secret."
"The courtiers invited to that party were either my trusted allies or people who needed…" he paused, choosing the right word, "convincing of my authority. They were all spelled as they entered this room - once they return to their homes, they will be unable to speak of you to any but those who were also in attendance last night." Galbatorix pressed his already thin lips together in a tight line. "You will remain unknown to the Varden until the…opportune moment."
Murtagh shuddered. He hated when Galbatorix mentioned his actively fighting against Eragon and the Varden.
"Now, if that's all cleared up, I have something I wish to show you. Follow me." The king led Murtagh out of the dining hall and down a corridor to the left. After several minutes, they took another left into a narrower, windowless hallway. Murtagh followed the king past many closed doors and down a set of stone stairs to the very end of a long, dark corridor that was lit only by torches. With a sinking feeling, Murtagh realized where they must be.
"The dungeons," said Galbatorix. "Correct."
Murtagh had only ever seen the outside wall of the dungeons, because it was through that exit that he and Tornac had been able to escape Uru'baen. He had seen the corridor that led to the prison rooms, though. Murtagh wondered suddenly if Galbatorix was going to lock him in one of the tiny, filthy cells.
Imprisonment did not seem to be the king's intent, however. When they reached the heavy iron door that protected the only indoor entrance to the dungeons, Galbatorix signalled to the muscled, brutish guards. They let them both in without a word.
They found themselves in a round stone room lit with yet more torches. There were two possible paths now. Judging by the echoing screams and sobs that reverberated down the hall to their left, Murtagh assumed that that was where the prison cells and interrogation chambers lay. The path on the left was silent. Galbatorix strode swiftly down that hallway, and was a dozen steps ahead of Murtagh before he realized the king had moved at all. He had to jog to catch up.
The hall was growing steadily darker as the light from the round chamber fell further and further behind them. The stale air was hot and reeked of unwashed human and sewage. A light scuttling at Murtagh's feet: rats.
Galbatorix said nothing, but his pace quickened. Murtagh followed suit.
Just when he thought he could bear the stench and the heat no longer, they came to what appeared to be a blank black wall. It was so dark that it took Murtagh a moment to see the faint yellow light around the edges. It was not a wall after all, but a door.
As far as Murtagh could make out, there did not appear to be a handle, or even a keyhole.
It was only due to the light from behind the door that Murtagh was able to just make out Galbatorix lifting his hand. He heard the king mutter, "Ladrin," and the door swung inward.
Murtagh was stunned at what he saw. Instead of another dark, narrow corridor as he had expected, Murtagh found himself in a wide, well-lit chamber full of people. They were all large, burly men in full battle gear. At first, Murtagh did not realize that half of them were missing limbs.
Beside the wall stood a man with his left arm severed at the elbow. Blood spurted heavily out of the grisly wound. He was chatting animatedly with his companion, who appeared to be missing several of his fingers. Another soldier walked over to join them. He had a long, wicked gash down his leg from the hip to knee.
All around the room were men with similar injuries: This one's back had been slashed open horizontally. That one's arm stuck out at a bizarre angle. Several were missing eyes.
And yet, they were all talking and laughing, as if they hadn't a care in the world.
In the middle of it all stood the Twins.
When the two sorcerers noticed Galbatorix, they strode over and bowed together. They did not acknowledge Murtagh; indeed they acted as if he wasn't there at all.
"This is a project the Twins and I have been working on for some time now," explained Galbatorix "However, this will be the first time we have done any formal tests."
Murtagh could only stare around the room, utterly dumbstruck.
One of the Twins beckoned, and a hulking man appeared at their side. He had a wide, pockmarked face set with a lopsided mouth, and his nose appeared to have been broken at least twice. He had the fearless look of a man who had seen too many battlefields.
Galbatorix gestured to the man. "Aidan here has kindly volunteered to be one of the first to test my theory."
At Galbatorix's nod, Aidan yanked up the hem of his left sleeve to reveal several inches of bare, hairy forearm.
"Cut his hand off."
Murtagh staggered. "What?"
"You heard me."
Murtagh glanced uncertainly from Galbatorix to Aidan and back again. Neither said another word, until Galbatorix suddenly reached forward and smacked Murtagh about the face. Murtagh reeled at the force of the blow, but managed to stay on his feet. "Do it, Murtagh!" Galbatorix shouted. His voice echoed around the stone chamber, and several of the other men looked round. Some, having just noticed their king, attempted to make clumsy bows. Galbatorix ignored everyone but Murtagh.
Knowing there was nothing else he could do, Murtagh tugged Argedauth from his boot and brought the razor-sharp blade swiftly down onto Aidan's exposed wrist.
Murtagh brought his arm up just in time to protect his face from the hot spray of blood. There was a wet, sickening crunch followed by a muted thump as the severed appendage fell heavily to the floor, the thick, stubby fingers twitching for a moment before going still.
Aidan turned to Murtagh and grinned broadly, looking dazed but otherwise unhurt. He gave Murtagh a mocking, haphazard salute with the stump of his left arm, out of which blood still spurted.
It was perhaps the most horrifying thing Murtagh had ever seen.
And yet, it fascinated him.
"They do not feel pain," he wondered aloud. He had to commend Galbatorix for his ingenuity.
"Of course," responded Galbatorix. "If a soldier is wounded in battle, but not killed, he can go on fighting where before he would have fallen, incapacitated by the pain. I have left them with enough feeling for them to be able to function, but not enough that minor hurts will have an effect on them. It only works if the wound is not fatal, however." Galbatorix gestured to the far corner, and for the first time, he saw the pile of dead bodies: the failed experiments. One of their bellies was cut. There was a broken neck and a pierced heart, and another's head was cut off almost completely. It was attached to the dead man's body by only a few thin strands of skin and sinew.
Murtagh could still see some holes in Galbatorix's theory.
"You guessed right Murtagh," replied Galbatorix, reading Murtagh's thoughts. "If left unchecked long enough, the wound will haemorrhage and the soldier will die. Which reminds me." Galbatorix turned to where Aidan was still standing, and with a soft, "waise heill" and a wave of his hand, the skin on the stump of his arm sealed over and the bleeding stopped.
"I'm looking at ways of advancing the clotting of the blood," the king continued, " so that the wounds won't bleed as much. The Twins appear to be close to isolating the weakest point in the head. A few more months yet, perhaps, and they will be ready for use in battle. There is too the added," he paused, searching for the appropriate word, "oomph of seeing a man you thought you killed rising up from the dead and laughing as he slits your throat."
Murtagh shuddered. The whole concept was too disgusting, too unnatural, too brilliant, even to consider. He was suddenly reminded of something his teacher, Tornac, used to say: an army that's terrified out of their wits is an army that's as good as beaten. Galbatorix was applying the concept of fear to his advantage.
"Why do you do it?" Murtagh asked Aidan. "Why volunteer for this?"
"We were well paid fer it, yer lordship," the soldier responded. "His Majesty gave us enough gold to ensure our families' will be well-fed an' comfortable fer generations." He nodded to Galbatorix.
"But surely there are better ways of making money," Murtagh pointed out.
"There may be, yer lordship, sir, but this 'un's fast an' easy," replied Aidan. "We're retired soldiers, the lot of us. None of us suited fer farm work. Besides," he said, gazed bemusedly at his ruined arm. "Nobody really needs both hands, anyway."
A/N: I think I'm liking the adjustments so far. As my previous readers might notice, I deleted almost an entire chapter in here. Looking back, I realized it was completely unnecessary. Not sure why I put it in there in the first place.
- Miss Maddie