A/N: Okay, to clear up a misunderstanding that is completely my fault for being sleep deprived, this fic is not going to end for a long time. Why? Because one: I can't end it here and now. (Too many empty plot-holes) And two: I like Murtagh and Nasuada way too much to end it now. Anyways, it was two in the morning when I wrote that author's note.

And also, "Simple Simone" is a children's poem out of Mother Goose. I ha

Anyways, thanks reviewers! You brightened my day!

Thirteen The Epitome of Evil

With Thorn at his heals, Murtagh followed the winding stairwell through the depths of an endless black void. As the ventured further away from the sun, the darkness grew heavier, and the sharp cold that stung Murtagh's eyes, penetrating his cloak and scarf, increased to an arctic chill. The air was stale, sullied by odor of rotten corpses, haunted by the lingering essence of a thousand terrible sins. Time stood still in a vast, eternal night, abandoned by the warmth of life. The very concept of hope seemed only a fragmented memory, drowned amid a vast sea of despair.

I feel as if I am walking through death, Murtagh thought bleakly. He tightened his grip on the hilt of his sword in one hand, and the lantern's wire handle in the other, with fingers cold as stone. The oil lantern helped guide the way down the stairwell only a little, its dull yellow glow casting playful shadows on walls. If ever there was an underworld, then surely this was it.

Murtagh began to wonder what sort of monster awaited him at the end of the tunnel. Even the Riders of old were unable to exterminate it. So what made him so sure he could kill it when so many had failed?

Doubt is as formidable an enemy as the Empire, said Thorn. His ivory claws clicked against the onyx stairs. Keep warm thoughts close your heart, and it will never fail you.

My thoughts are never warm, Murtagh replied. His stomach suddenly heaved, squirming with protest at the sudden, horrendous odor seeping through the woolen scarf. It was as if he were standing among a battlefield of decayed bodies, baked beneath a blazing sun. What is that smell?

The tunnel has ended.

Swallowing bitter bile, Murtagh took a step forward.

Crunch.

Freezing water spilled into his boots. The stairs ended abruptly at the edge of a black lake, stretching across a giant cavern into a haze of blinding shadows. The water's surface was encrusted with a thin sheet of ice.

Murtagh pulled his feet out quickly. As he did so, his foot touched something: a bleached white skull. Now what? He asked, searching the darkness, but his eyes could not pick out where the lake ended. Murtagh was sorely aware of the numbness clawing at his soaked feet, but he paid no heed.

This is an underground sinkhole, said Thorn. It has no bottom, but there is a wide bank on the other side with an ironclad door. I can fly us across.

Murtagh turned and as he did, a giant pair of long, curving claws reached up out of the inky waters, seized him by the shoulders, and wrenched him backwards into the icy waters.

Murtagh hardly had any time to react, stunned momentarily by the water's arctic chill. Murtagh struggled to get free, his sword was lost and he was unable to use the ancient language under water. Wiggling his arms frantically to his belt, Murtagh finally managed to find his hunting knife. Fumbling in the darkness, he thrust it into the monster's bony wrist.

The monster gave and ugly hiss and dug its claws deeper into Murtagh's shoulders, squeezing the air out of his lungs. Searing white pain shot through his collarbone and ribcage. Murtagh choked on pain and water. Then the monster recoiled, letting him drift into a nightly chasm, vanishing as if it had never existed. Murtagh tried to move but his arms and legs were heavy as lead, the marrow in his hollow bones had frozen.

Murtagh's lungs begged for air.

His heart throbbed in his ears, and he could do nothing about it.

Sinking into a sullen twilight, as death slowly reached out to him from the abyss with long crooked fingers, Murtagh heard—or thought he heard—the sound of a bells and a cackling laughter. Slipping into unconsciousness, he remembered Galbatorix's jester; his crude, stone-cut face, pasted white and streaked black across wild eyes. He chanted snidely:

Simple Simone went a poaching,

For to catch some game.

A mantrap caught him by the leg

And gave poor Simone pain…

Something grabbed at Murtagh's tunic, dragging him down with obstinate speed…or was it pulling him up, away from the clutches of death?

Simple Simone…

"Katrina should be around here somewhere," Roran said, staring down the empty corridors. Every now and then they came to a small cavern, empty except for old bones. The more bones they saw, the more Roran began to panic. "You don't think they…" he gulped. "You know?"

"No," said Nasuada. "They were using her as live bait to capture you. Sort of like the way lions are hunted and killed. They wouldn't have killed Katrina."

"And," Eragon added, "Have I not scryed her every night since we left Surda?"

"But what if the Ra'zac took Katrina with them? What if we failed? What if—"

Nasuada reached up tugged Roran's collar gently. "You men are all alike," she told him. "Always worrying. Always asking, 'What if this?' 'What if that?' We women much are stronger than you think."

"Arya said something like that," said Eragon.

Nasuada turned and eyed him sharply. "I was agreeing with you," Eragon said quickly. Then he frowned suddenly, his eyebrows met, and he inclined his head with thoughtful concern.

"What's wrong?" Roran asked.

"They found Gonoszság Skämd. well, it sort of found them. Murtagh was dragged underwater, and Thorn had to get him out."

Anxiety clawed at Nasuada's stomach. And here I was, lecturing Roran! She regretfully ignored the feeling, and said calmly, "Underwater?"

"Thorn says it, the monster that is, lives in a sinkhole and it took them by surprise."

"But Murtagh's a Rider," said Roran with some impatience. "A measly element like water shouldn't be a problem for Galbatorix's all-powerful-apprentice, right?"

"Do you feel how cold the air is? Think about how cold it must be below ground. That water must be freezing, and if Murtagh is all wet he could go from Murtagh the Rider to Murtagh the Popsicle."

"Is he conscious?" Nasuada asked, shooting Roran a narrow glance.

"Somewhat."

"Then he'll have to suffice for now. He will have to stand on his own until he slays Gonoszság Skämd." She had to force the words out of her mouth, leaving a sour taste at the tip of her tongue. Nasuada would have liked nothing more than to help.

Eragon looked at her as if she had spontaneously turned into a toad. "You don't want to help him?"

Nasuada smiled weakly. "It isn't about wanting to," she said softly. "This is something Murtagh has to do alone. He would be angry if we rushed to his aid this very moment."

"Katrina!"

Both Eragon and Nasuada exchanged glances. They rushed forward until they found Roran in the corner of a small cavern, crouched low over a limp figure. "She's still alive," he whispered, stroking Katrina's cheek. Her dress was dirty and ragged. She hung flaccidly against the wall, suspended by thick chains. Eragon touched the cuffs binding Katrina's swollen wrists, muttered a few words, and Katrina was released.

Breathe! Thorn commanded, gently pressing the heel of his giant foot into Murtagh's stomach.

Murtagh coughed, spitting out the water that had flooded his lungs. His throat and lungs burned. He rolled over, shaking violently, gasping for air. When Murtagh caught he his breath at last, Thorn laid his sword down.

Arm yourself, said Thorn, glancing towards the sinkhole. His ochre eyes burned like pools of liquidated fire in the veil of darkness. It is hungry.

Murtagh followed his gaze, but only saw darkness. He shuddered suddenly and groaned. Every muscle and tendon in his body ached painfully, his head throbbed, and his bones rattled with an unbearable cold. The cold was so crippling, so unbearable, that he considered giving up on his ambition to kill Gonoszság Skämd.

Forcing those thoughts aside tried, Murtagh to summon a spell to warm his chilled body, but the words of the ancient language were jumbled up, almost unintelligible. Then he gave up. His thoughts were too clouded, his sensibility numb. I can't do this, Murtagh thought dismally, teeth chattering so loud it hurt.

You must, said Thorn. The Varden and the dwarves expect it of you.

Maybe if I was warm and dry, but not…not like this. It's so cold!

But what will Nasuada say? She will be very disappointed if you come back empty handed.

Thorn, how can I kill it? It lives underwater and I can't even see. And that thing killed so many…even the old Riders couldn't slay it. How can I expect to succeed alone when so many others failed?

There was a loud crunch, the sound of ice being split in two. Thorn growled. You won't have to fight it underwater, he said. Blood-thirst and hunger is enough to draw it out of its errant sanctuary. And you will not have to fight alone. I will be right here with you.

Despite his body's pleas, Murtagh pushed himself to his knees. Thorn was right; giving up would solve nothing. This was something he had to do if he wanted to prove himself to the Varden…for Nasauda. "Let me feel no cold," he muttered in the ancient language, finally able to locate the words. Murtagh felt the cold retreat from his body, as if the spell were sucking the icicles from his veins. He was neither cold, nor warm, yet he still trembled fiercely. His muscles still ached, his head vibrated, his bones rattled desperately…it was as if he were still suffering from the symptoms of freezing, yet without feeling the cold itself. And Murtagh could not think why it was so.

Gripping the hilt of his sword, Murtagh forced himself to his feet. The water swirled. A low, venomous snarl ricocheted off the glazed waters. The sound made Murtagh's skin crawl. I can do this, Murtagh thought, waiting silently in the dark. It was there. He knew it was there. And although Murtagh was blind to surroundings, he could just imagine the epitome of evil— a demonic beast wrought from all the twisted sins in the world, with matted brown hair, long curling horns, and black lips curled back in a nasty snarl, revealing myriad rows of pointed, yellow teeth. He saw it in his head, slowly creeping out of the hellhole from whence all evil came. Reality, though, was much more frightening. All he could see was the wickedness reflected in those slanted red eyes. Those eyes bore into his mind like hot irons against tender flesh. And that smell! That sordid reek of rot and death! Murtagh clapped a hand over his mouth, his eyes and nose stinging from the stomach-wrenching odor.

It comes! Thorn suddenly shoved him out of the way. Without question, he hurtled himself towards Gonoszság Skämd, tackling it with all his strength. Dragon and beast brawled, jaws interlocked in a contest of bestial strength.

Scrambling to his feet, Murtagh fumbled for his sword. He heard the snarls, but he couldn't tell which was Thorn and which was Gonoszság Skämd. Where are you? Murtagh demanded, unwilling to risk accidentally killing his dragon. Thorn!

As if in answer, Thorn belched a wild river of fire, showering Gonoszság Skämd in crimson embers. Seizing the opportunity, Murtagh manipulated the flames, directing stroking the conflagration, wrapping the blaze all around Gonoszság Skämd until it was consumed in a giant firestorm, creating a nightmare's vision of a most hellish demon.

The monster howled with rage, and then with a sweltering set of claws it lashed out at Murtagh. He ducked reflexively and stabbed right beneath the monster's arm, digging his blade into the beast's massive torso, probing for the heart of all of sins. Gonoszság Skämd shrieked, furious. It struck at him again, but Murtagh dodged, yanking out his sword from an unholy sheath. He cut, jabbed, and parried in a maddened frenzy, dodging blows and striking whenever possible with feverish zeal. His mind worked in a haze, his hands and feet seemed to move on their own, driven by only his will to succeed.

Thus it went on for what seemed to be forever, until Murtagh stumbled. His knees gave in and he fell back. Gonoszság Skämd came upon him like a cat pouncing on a helpless mouse. Murtagh saw it coming, summoning up the last of his strength, he plunged the sword between the monster's eyes. Murtagh was enveloped in the monster's hot, reeking breath.

Murtagh choked.

Then an unseen force pulled him back, dragging him backwards across the stone floor. And the last thing he remembered were those evil red eyes, and that horrible, horrible stench.

A/N: Finally! A crappie ending, but I don't really care. At least now I can finally wrap up Helgrind and we can head back to Surda soon...one more chapter. Anyways, I think in the next chapter we'll finally get to see what Vrîend'dräco is…maybe.

Happy Valentines Day! I did have something planned for V-day, but I think it'll be a little late…oh well, thanks again Reviewers!