A/n: A special thank you to my betas. Readers, thank them because now you don't have to deal with my attrocious spelling! THANK YOU BETAS AND REVIEWERS! You know who your are.

Twenty-Six

Vengeance

It was pure turmoil inside and outside the castle. The southern half of the castle had collapsed, and while Shruikan's rants raged on, Eragon was forced to take a different route. Soldiers flooded the corridors; most of them were young and busy guiding flocks of frightened servants, women, and children to safety.

As he drew closer to the keep, Eragon saw King Orrin directing a crowd of nobles. He, too, was decked out in a shell of steel armor.

"Eragon!" Orrin cried, half furiously, when he saw Eragon. "That bastard dragon is destroying my castle! What are you doing inside? Nasuada's out there commanding Du Vrangu-whatever-the-hell-it's-called and the Varden. Hurry and go help her!"

The castle shook violently under their feet. "Nasuada's out there by herself?!"

"She was the first jump into action," said Orrin. "Go help her while we evacuate the innocent. I've already sent for the Urgals. I will join you shortly—"

Someone let out a loud chilling shriek. Eragon had never heard such an unsettling sound; it sent chills crawling up his spine.

"I'll meet you outside," he said, before rushing off.

---

The battlements were littered with broken bodies. Every archer, sentry, and guard had been slaughtered. Rivers of red spilled down the stairwells and over the open ramparts.

It was there, atop the northern half of the castle, that Murtagh found his enemy butchering the last of his prey. They were nearly instantly locked in combat, as king and rebel.

Murtagh was careful with his feet. One careless move and he would slip and fall to a gruesome death. He concentrated on the man before him in the thorny black armor, letting the anger burn deep within.

He would avenge those slaughtered men and every other unfair death since the Fall. But most importantly, Murtagh was determined to take vengeance for himself. The torture, the humiliation, the misery; none of it would go without retribution.

Galbatorix was laughing at him. His sick joy chorused through the blazing afternoon. They spun, interlocked in a furious clashing parry. Murtagh easily dodged a blow that would have cut his head clean off his neck, then dodged a swipe across the ribs.

Galbatorix was strong, but not strong enough to completely overtake Murtagh. He was still laughing madly when Murtagh realized that something was terribly off. Galbatorix did not use magic, though his soul reeked with the stench of dark enchantment, and he was not quite as fast as Murtagh remembered, if not a sliver inept.

"When did you get so slow, old man?" Murtagh spat. He blocked a violent slash.

Behind the visor, Galbatorix sneered, "Who are you to judge?"

Then, with unimaginable speed, he lunged at Murtagh, thrusting the blunt pommel of his blade into Murtagh's chest with an even more violent strength. The blow sent Murtagh spiraling across the battlements.

He was momentarily unable to breathe, choking on the red blood of another man. Something poked his spine. Turning his head, Murtagh stared into the wide, glossy eyes of a dead soldier. His eyes were wide with shock, mouth permanently frozen in an eternal scream. His Adam's apple had been torn out with blunt fingers, leaving a great gaping hole in the man's esophagus.

"You are afraid of death," Galbatorix scorned. "Scared spit dry!"

Murtagh stared into his eyes. They were black like endless holes, yet murky, and they lacked that cunning gleam. Murtagh did not understand it. The bully standing before him looked and acted like Galbatorix, but his eyes were so different. They were not the same eyes that haunted Murtagh's dreams.

"Who isn't?" he said angrily.

The brim of Galbatorix's lips twitched. "Let me show you, my Simple Simon, how swiftly death comes."

He lifted the black sword high into the blazing noon. As the blade sliced downward, Murtagh threw himself to the right. Instead, the blade skewered the dead man's torso, sliding effortlessly through his steely armor with a low clank.

Glowering, Galbatorix slowly withdrew his weapon from its fleshy sheath.

The corpse's chest arched upward, dead arms flailing limply at its side. When Galbatorix's sword came free, the body silently fell back into the red lagoon.

"You murdered them," Murtagh said, grabbing for the nearby sword of another fallen man. "They didn't even stand a chance."

Galbatorix mocked him with another howling laugh. "That's what your brother said the day you beheaded the bandit. Ah, yes, you remember, don't you Murtagh? You killed him without mercy, just I have done. Don't stoop to Eragon's level. It's demeaning."

"Demeaning!" Murtagh cried furiously. "Is it demeaning to me, or to you? You don't care about anyone but yourself. You slaughtered those men like they were livestock!" He thrust a finger at the man with the gaping red hole in his neck and then at Galbatorix's reddened fingers. "I don't tear people's throats out with my bare hands. You're as bad as the Unseelie."

Galbatorix seemed amused. "I am Unseelie, Murtagh," he said. "Unseelie simply means 'undesirable.' We are the evil ones. You see, long ago the world was divided into two courts. There was the formidable Court of the Unseelie."

Galbatorix brandished an iron-dressed hand at the ruined city. Smoke filled the sky, burnishing the heavens with fiery banners of blackened crimson. The atmosphere seemed to have caught on fire. "And then there is you, the weak Seelie."

"You're crazy," Murtagh said.

"So it is the true nature of things," Galbatorix said. "Before the Gray Folk invented their ancient language, there was only free magic. It was magic that turned men into monsters. Crazy magic. It was unpredictable. There was no limit to its influence, and humans could use it whenever they wished with nothing but a simple desire."

There was a great roar and a thunderous crash. A tower to the west had fallen. It's stony remains lay shattered on the ground like broken glass under the blanket of a great cloud of dust. Shruikan loomed over the helpless city, a giant mountain of inky black scales and polished white teeth and claws.

Murtagh, Thorn's voiced echoed from afar. Murtagh, the Varden don't know what to do. Shruikan's too big.

Tell Nasuada I'm taking care of Galbatorix, Murtagh replied. If I kill him, the link between him and Shruikan will be broken and we should be able to defeat Shruikan too. Just tell Nasuada to hold on a little while longer.

But—

Murtagh saw his adversary grin wickedly. He reflexively severed his mental connection before Thorn could finish.

"Even if you do destroy this body," Galbatorix said. "I will subsist."

"You're not immortal," Murtagh said. "Even you can't live forever."

"Oh, but can't I? Who are you, Murtagh, to define the laws in which I can and cannot exist? I taught you dark secrets, yes, but even you cannot fathom what power I have harnessed!"

Galbatorix hefted his broad black sword up with little effort. "Come, let us test the boundaries of immortality. No matter the outcome, you will not walk away unscathed."

---

Nasuada managed to run her sword through the scaled belly of Unseelie. It gave a ghastly shriek before falling to the ground, twitching and spurting a fountain of black from its punctured underside.

The Unseelie were stronger, faster than she had imagined. All around her men were being mercilessly ripped to pieces. The Ra'zac had made their presence as well, weaving in and out of the shadows with ethereal stealth; they cleaved Nasuada's soldiers in half with their mighty swords.

It was only with the aid of Saphira and Thorn that Nasuada was able to protect her little dragon. Without them, she would have been forced to take him somewhere safe instead of taking command of her army.

It's awfully nice of you to help, she told them, as Saphira bit off the head of an Unseelie. She spat out the head with a disgusted snarl.

Eragon says he is coming, said Saphira, still disgusted at the taste of the black blood. He said to help you until he gets out of the castle. Half of the building has collapsed and he's just come across the Unseelie.

Shruikan loomed above, stomping on the castle and city like a mean child trampling a helpless toy. If only there was a way to put a stop to his tantrum.

Thorn swept his tail through the air, mauling several Ra'zac in the process. I know what you're thinking, Thorn said. Well, forget it. Unless Murtagh kills Galbatorix, there is no way to stop Shruikan. If he does not finish soon, I will be forced to leave you here with Saphira.

Nasuada ran her blade through another Unseelie that had gone after Garth. I think I might feel better if you were with him.

Thorn's reply was lost as the south tower came crumbling down. It hit the ground, exploding a giant cloud of dust and particles that hungrily swept overt the city. Unable to see through the dust, Nasuada tripped over Garth. Strong hands caught her. She was yanked up into rough, unkind arms.

Someone grabbed her wrist. Steel fingers snaked over her mouth. She couldn't see who, or what, it was that held her, lifted her off the ground. She did not understand the words he whispered in her ear, and the world was black and gone before she could think on it any further.

---

The war between master and reluctant pupil raged on furiously. Parry after parry, Murtagh lifted his sword and repelled Galbatorix's sleek blade. The whole world could have crumbled into nothingness and still the violent ballet would have continued.

All that mattered was vengeance. Murtagh was determined to have it. Galbatorix would pay for his cruelty. Only his life could recompense for Murtagh's suffering, for his humiliation, and most importantly, for the Varden's trust that had been so brutally snatched away. Galbatorix would pay because it was his fault that Murtagh could not comfortably court dear Nasuada.

By the great divine gods, he would have his vengeance!

Faster and faster their parries became. The chorus of clanging steel grew louder and more frequent. Murtagh found himself blocking and striking with as much unnatural fleetness as his wretched adversary. It seemed that he could not slip up, and it was not long before he saw his lethal opportunity.

Murtagh swiftly knocked Galbatorix's sword away and thrust his own blade deep into his chest. The double edge slid straight through his black armor, crushing his spine with a sickening crunch and puncturing the vital, pulsing tissues. A geyser of hot red liquid spurted from his shattered sternum.

Slowly, Galbatorix fell, his chest arched towards the scorched sky. His neck was craned back at a most unnatural angle. His eyes were glazed with horror. His mouth hung open. Arms groping at his side, he fell ever so slowly into a glistening ruby pool. There was a quiet splash and then Galbatorix moved no more.

---

A/n: Booya! This took forever to write and I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did.