1A/N: Aw! Thanks reviewers! I'm so glad you liked Chapter 13. It's nice to know that all the hard work I put into it paid off! Okay, so I lied. We won't find out what Vrîend'dräco in this chapter. I was going to, but I had some major writer's block…

But you can still keep reviewing!

Fourteen


Escape

Pain.

That was all Murtagh was aware of. Burning, mind numbing pain. He lay in an eagle spread, unable to move as hot irons and cherry red pincers pressed against his bare chest and arms, cauterizing tissue and muscle. An unseen force pressed his limbs against the table, rendering Murtagh immobile. He would have screamed, but his tongue was numb and hanging limply behind his teeth while the dungeon master stroked ruby embers with an iron fork.

Galbatorix leaned over him, his shrill black eyes dancing in the hearth's crimson glow. Then he whispered in Murtagh's ear, "You have failed me." Murtagh flinched at the sound of his own bones cracking, shooting hot, scathing white pain through his knee. "Will you fail me again?"

The strain on his knee increased. Murtagh remained silent, despite his anguish.

Galbatorix sneered. "Then to the grave with you!"

The table lurched, flinging Murtagh into the hallow mouth of a black abyss among a sea of half rotten corpses. The dead watched Murtagh enviously with hallow eyes, clawing at him with skeletal fingers, their gowns and tunics were muddied with dirt and blood, and the flesh half hung off exposed bones. Still unable to move, Murtagh squeezed his eyes shut while the dead tried to tear the life from him.

They whispered things in his ears, calling out his name with ghostly voices in unintelligible choruses. A giant skeletal dragon suddenly rose up out of the corpses, flames licking its yellow frame.

"Murtagh!"

Murtagh jerked upright, terror chilling his insides. Someone touched his arm, which startled him, and without thinking he jammed his elbow into Eragon's ribs. "Hey!" Eragon gasped. "What was that for?"

It took Murtagh a moment to realize that the nightmare had ended, and that he was sitting the cavern on the bank with Thorn and Eragon. It was a dream? But it had seemed so real, he thought, confused. His heart still raced and his thoughts were garbled and unclear— they swam around in his throbbing head like a school of confused fish.

Just a dream, said Thorn.

"Are you all right?" Eragon asked, watching him with concern.

Murtagh gritted his teeth. "Well enough." But it was a lie. His whole body ached, his stomach felt ill, his cloths were drenched in water and blood, and his knee felt like it had been smashed.

Eragon seemed hardly convinced. He said quickly, "Are you injured badly?"

"Well I'm not dead."

"Seriously Murtagh. Nasuada will have me stuffed and mounted on her wall if I let you bleed to death. Are you hurt?"

"I think I may have busted my knee." Murtagh let Eragon heal his knee and the stinging lacerations striped all down his shoulder. When he was finished, Murtagh's shoulder was smooth and unmarked except for a few jagged black stains where the cuts had been. Murtagh would have done it himself, but his energy was short and there was no heat or light to manipulate. "Where is Nasuada?"

"Taking care of your monster."

"It's not dead!"

"No," said Nasuada, suddenly emerging out of the shadows. "Your blade went right through its skull." She sat next to him, pressed a hand against his cheek, frowned, and began patting his cloths. "Come, let's get you out of those cloths," she said quickly. "You're soaking wet!"

Murtagh hastily pulled away as she began untying his cloak string. "It's alright," he told Nasuada, embarrassed. "I'm not cold."

"Don't be silly, Murtagh."

Just let them help you, Thorn chided. You couldn't do it half frozen anyways.

But I'm not cold.

Well, of course not, smarty pants. That was what you wanted when you cast the spell: To not be cold. Only instead of warming yourself, you made it so you could not feel the cold itself.

I messed up the spell! He shuddered the thought of all the things that might have gone wrong instead. And Galbatorix! Had this happened when Galbatorix was his master…he pushed those thoughts away.

It could have been worse, Thorn agreed. You could have blown yourself up casting too strong of a spell.

I should fix this.

No! Thorn cried. Wait until your brain isn't so jumbled before you start using magic.

But how will I sever the barriers when we leave? I can't leave them up forever.

Eragon has already taken care of it. Besides, it's not healthy to warm yourself too fast, especially with magic.

"Now," Nasuada said, fitting a warm cloak around his neck. "We have determined that your monster's head is too big to carry back to Surda. So, we will have to improvise."

"Improvise?"

"We figure that if we bring the Varden back a set of those nasty claws, it should paint a fairly ornate picture."

Murtagh nodded, rubbing his temples sorely. His head pounded relentlessly.

"And," Eragon added, "It will save us time and energy. So, are you ready yet? Roran and Saphira are waiting outside that door. We should try to get out of here as soon as possible."

"Almost finished," Nasauda said. Taking up Murtagh's belt and scabbard, she fitted them around his waist. He could faintly see the outline of a playful smirk. "Can't have you walking around with your pants at your knees, can we?"

"But would you be pleased?"

Nasuada blinked with surprise. Sudden embarrassment flooded her fair features. Eragon turned away and busted out laughing. Even Thorn was slightly surprised.

"What…did you say?"

"I said, 'Would you be pleased?'"

"Maybe if she could see in the dark," Eragon laughed.

Nasuada glared at him, and Murtagh was sure that her face had gone red all over. "We should be going."

"Nasuada!"

"What?"

"Don't you think Murtagh deserves an answer? Since you've obviously questioned his manhood?"

Nasuada watched him for a moment. Then tossing her back, she turned on her heal saying, "If you must know, Arrogant, I happen to think that you are forgetting who is liege lord and who is vassal."

Eragon bowed his head, though the smile still remained. "I apologize, My Lady. I could not help my teasing."

Murtagh stood there and watched her go, feeling empty and humiliated. His skull throbbed even more vigorously, and every inch of him ached. I wasn't being serious, he scowled silently.

Thorn touched his arm gently. Don't worry about it, he said. You're exhausted and cold. Come ride with me.

With a weary sigh Murtagh clambered into the saddle. I think if my head didn't feel as someone a stick of Orrin's dynamite off the side of my skull, then I would have killed him.

For a moment, I assumed Nasuada would do the job for you.

For a moment, I hoped she would. He let the conversation die and slowly fell into a half sleep, lulled by Thorn's slow, rhythm. He was woken when Nasuada climbed into the saddle. "You look cold," she whispered in his ears, wrapping herself in his cloak.

"How long was I asleep?"

"Only a few minuets." She reached back and took his hand. "Oh, you are cold. You're hands are like ice!"

Folding his arms around her waist, Murtagh drew her in closer— so close that he could

smell the scent of roses clinging to her ambiance. It filled him with sudden warmth, and a sense of soporific tranquility. "You smell good," he said quietly, half dazed. His thoughts were sticky, like half hardened tar. Then the warmth faded and his vision blurred slightly, meddling light and darkness into one gray, muddle fusion, and made his stomach knot up as if someone were wringing the juices out of his insides.

Murtagh, of all things to say—

Nasuada looked at him with worry. "Are you feeling all right?"

"No." A bolt of sharp pain exploded through his skull, down his neck, and through his shoulder. All his muscles went rigid, frozen at the joint. His arms trembled. Something was wrong. Thorn stopped moving and said something, but his words sounded drown out, like a shout uttered underwater.

Then all at once, it ended. Nasuada shook him by the shoulders. "Stop," he managed quietly.

"Are you ill?" she asked. She still held his shoulders firmly.

Yes, Thorn said sharply He is. And—

The sound of iron clad-boots and men shouting suddenly rang down the corridor. The faint flicker of yellow shimmered at the end of the tunnel.

Eragon cursed, mounted Saphira, and drew his sword. "Blow out your lanterns," he told them.

They blew out the lanterns and waited in the dark. The soldiers neared without knowing Thorn and Saphira awaited them in the dark. They were several feet away when both dragons leapt forward, spewing long torrents of orange fury. The men shrieked as their armor heated to a passionate crimson, baking them alive. Plowing threw the fallen soldiers, Thorn and Saphira scurried down the corridors until a white light appeared at the end. Its shimmer grew until at last they reached the end, and, with growing acceleration, leapt off the ground and took the air.

They had escaped.

A/N: Not too happy with this chapter, but oh well. What's new? Anyways, this has nothing to do with Murtagh's scar. Just thought I'd make that very clear.

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