The dragons twisted and lunged until their tongues lolled out of their mouths, their tails drooped, and they gave up flapping and merely glided.
His mind once again closed to all contact, friendly or not, Eragon said out loud, “Land, Saphira; it’s no good. I’ll fight him on the ground.”
With a grunt of weary resignation, Saphira descended to the nearest flat open area, a small stone plateau set along the western edge of the Jiet River. The water had turned red from the blood pouring into it from the battle. Eragon jumped off Saphira once she alighted on the plateau and tested his footing. It was smooth and hard, with nothing to trip on. He nodded, pleased.
A few seconds later, the red dragon rushed by overhead and settled on the opposite side of the plateau. He held his left hind leg off the ground to avoid aggravating his wound: a long gash that nearly severed the muscle. The dragon trembled his entire length, like an injured dog. He tried to hop forward, then stopped and snarled at Eragon.
The enemy Rider unbuckled his legs and slid down the uninjured side of his dragon. Then he walked around the dragon and examined his leg. Eragon let him; he knew how much pain it would cause the man to see the damage inflicted on his bonded partner. He waited too long, though, for the Rider muttered a few indecipherable words, and within the span of three seconds the dragon’s injury was healed.
Eragon shivered with fear. How could he do that so quickly, and with such a short spell? Still, whoever he might be, the new Rider certainly was not Galbatorix, whose dragon was black.
Eragon clung to that knowledge as he stepped forward to confront the Rider. As they met in the center of the plateau, Saphira and the red dragon circled in the background.
The Rider grasped his sword with both hands and swung it over his head toward Eragon, who lifted Zar’roc to defend himself. Their blades collided with a burst of crimson sparks. Then Eragon shoved back his opponent and started a complex series of blows. He stabbed and parried, dancing on light feet as he forced the steel-clad Rider to retreat toward the edge of the plateau.
When they reached the edge, the Rider held his ground, fending off Eragon’s attacks, no matter how clever. It’s as if he can anticipate my every move, thought Eragon, frustrated. If he were rested, it would have been easy for him to defeat the Rider, but as it was, he could make no headway. The Rider did not have the speed and strength of an elf, but his technical skill was better than Vanir’s and as good as Eragon’s.
Eragon felt a touch of panic when his initial surge of energy began to subside and he had accomplished nothing more than a slight scratch across the Rider’s gleaming breastplate. The last reserves of power stored in Zar’roc’s ruby and the belt of Beloth the Wise were only enough to maintain his exertions for another minute. Then the Rider took a step forward. Then another. And before Eragon knew it, they had returned to the center of the plateau, where they stood facing each other, exchanging blows.
Zar’roc grew so heavy in his hand, Eragon could barely lift it. His shoulder burned, he gasped for breath, and sweat poured off his face. Not even his desire to avenge Hrothgar could help him to overcome his exhaustion.
At last Eragon slipped and fell. Determined not to be killed lying down, he rolled back onto his feet and stabbed at the Rider, who knocked aside Zar’roc with a lazy flick of his wrist.
The way the Rider flourished his sword afterward—spinning it in a quick circle by his side—suddenly seemed familiar to Eragon, as did all his preceding swordsmanship. He stared with growing horror at his enemy’s hand-and-a-half sword, then back up at the eye slits of his mirrored helm, and shouted, “I know you!”
He threw himself at the Rider, trapping both swords between their bodies, hooked his fingers underneath the helm, and ripped it off. And there in the center of the plateau, on the edge of the Burning Plains of Alagaësia, stood Murtagh.
INHERITANCE
Murtagh grinned. Then he said, “Thrysta vindr,” and a hard ball of air coalesced between them and struck Eragon in the middle of his chest, tossing him twenty feet across the plateau.
Eragon heard Saphira growl as he landed on his back. His vision flashed red and white, then he curled into a ball and waited for the pain to recede. Any delight he felt in Murtagh’s reappearance was overwhelmed by the macabre circumstances of their meeting. A unstable mixture of shock, confusion, and anger boiled within him.
Lowering his sword, Murtagh pointed at Eragon with his steel-encased hand, curling every finger but his index into a spiny fist. “You never would give up.”
A chill crept along Eragon’s spine, for he recognized the scene from his premonition while rafting the Az Ragni to Hedarth: A man sprawled in the clotted mud with a dented helm and bloody mail—his face concealed behind an upthrown arm. An armored hand entered Eragon’s view and pointed at the downed man with all the authority of fate itself. Past and future had converged. Now Eragon’s doom would be decided.
Pushing himself to his feet, he coughed and said, “Murtagh…how can you be alive? I watched the Urgals drag you underground. I tried to scry you but saw only darkness.”
Murtagh uttered a mirthless laugh. “You saw nothing, just as I saw nothing the times I tried to scry you during my days in Urû’baen.”
“You died, though!” shouted Eragon, almost incoherent. “You died under Farthen Dûr. Arya found your bloody clothes in the tunnels.”
A shadow darkened Murtagh’s face. “No, I did not die. It was the Twins’ doing, Eragon. They took control of a group of Urgals and arranged the ambush in order to kill Ajihad and capture me. Then they ensorcelled me so I could not escape and spirited me off to Urû’baen.”
Eragon shook his head, unable to comprehend what had happened. “But why did you agree to serve Galbatorix? You told me you hated him. You told me—”
“Agree!” Murtagh laughed again, and this time his outburst contained an edge of madness. “I did not agree. First Galbatorix punished me for spiting his years of protection during my upbringing in Urû’baen, for defying his will and running away. Then he extracted everything I knew about you, Saphira, and the Varden.”
“You betrayed us! I was mourning you, and you betrayed us!”
“I had no choice.”
“Ajihad was right to lock you up. He should have let you rot in your cell, then none of this—”
“I had no choice!” snarled Murtagh. “And after Thorn hatched for me, Galbatorix forced both of us to swear loyalty to him in the ancient language. We cannot disobey him now.”
Pity and disgust welled inside of Eragon. “You have become your father.”
A strange gleam leaped into Murtagh’s eyes. “No, not my father. I’m stronger than Morzan ever was. Galbatorix taught me things about magic you’ve never even dreamed of…. Spells so powerful, the elves dare not utter them, cowards that they are. Words in the ancient language that were lost until Galbatorix discovered them. Ways to manipulate energy…Secrets, terrible secrets, that can destroy your enemies and fulfill all your desires.”
Eragon thought back to some of Oromis’s lessons and retorted, “Things that should remain secrets.”
“If you knew, you would not say that. Brom was a dabbler, nothing more. And the elves, bah! All they can do is hide in their forest and wait to be conquered.” Murtagh ran his eyes over Eragon. “You look like an elf now. Did Islanzadí do that to you?” When Eragon remained silent, Murtagh smiled and shrugged. “No matter. I’ll learn the truth soon enough.” He stopped, frowned, then looked to the east.
Following his gaze, Eragon saw the Twins standing at the front of the Empire, casting balls of energy into the midst of the Varden and the dwarves. The curtains of smoke made it difficult to tell, but Eragon was sure the hairless magicians were grinning and laughing as they slaughtered the men with whom they once pledged solemn friendship. What the Twins failed to notice—and what was clearly visible to Eragon and Murtagh from their vantage point—was that Roran was crawling toward them from the side.
Eragon’s he
art skipped a beat as he recognized his cousin. You fool! Get away from them! You’ll be killed.
Just as he opened his mouth to cast a spell that would transport Roran out of danger—no matter the cost—Murtagh said, “Wait. I want to see what he’ll do.”
“Why?”
A bleak smile crossed Murtagh’s face. “The Twins enjoyed tormenting me when I was their captive.”
Eragon glanced at him, suspicious. “You won’t hurt him? You won’t warn the Twins?”
“Vel eïnradhin iet ai Shur’tugal.” Upon my word as a Rider.
Together they watched as Roran hid behind a mound of bodies. Eragon stiffened as the Twins looked toward the pile. For a moment, it seemed they had spotted him, then they turned away and Roran jumped up. He swung his hammer and bashed one of the Twins in the head, cracking open his skull. The remaining Twin fell to the ground, convulsing, and emitted a wordless scream until he too met his end under Roran’s hammer. Then Roran planted his foot upon the corpses of his foes, lifted his hammer over his head, and bellowed his victory.
“What now?” demanded Eragon, turning away from the battlefield. “Are you here to kill me?”
“Of course not. Galbatorix wants you alive.”
“What for?”
Murtagh’s lips quirked. “You don’t know? Ha! There’s a fine jest. It’s not because of you; it’s because of her.” He jabbed a finger at Saphira. “The dragon inside Galbatorix’s last egg, the last dragon egg in the world, is male. Saphira is the only female dragon in existence. If she breeds, she will be the mother of her entire race. Do you see now? Galbatorix doesn’t want to eradicate the dragons. He wants to use Saphira to rebuild the Riders. He can’t kill you, either of you, if his vision is to become reality…. And what a vision it is, Eragon. You should hear him describe it, then you might not think so badly of him. Is it evil that he wants to unite Alagaësia under a single banner, eliminate the need for war, and restore the Riders?”
“He’s the one who destroyed the Riders in the first place!”
“And for good reason,” asserted Murtagh. “They were old, fat, and corrupt. The elves controlled them and used them to subjugate humans. They had to be removed so that we could start anew.”
A furious scowl contorted Eragon’s features. He paced back and forth across the plateau, his breathing heavy, then gestured at the battle and said, “How can you justify causing so much suffering on the basis of a madman’s ravings? Galbatorix has done nothing but burn and slaughter and amass power for himself. He lies. He murders. He manipulates. You know this! It’s why you refused to work for him in the first place.” Eragon paused, then adopted a gentler tone: “I can understand that you were compelled to act against your will and that you aren’t responsible for killing Hrothgar. You can try to escape, though. I’m sure that Arya and I could devise a way to neutralize the bonds Galbatorix has laid upon you…. Join me, Murtagh. You could do so much for the Varden. With us, you would be praised and admired, instead of cursed, feared, and hated.”
For a moment, as Murtagh gazed down at his notched sword, Eragon hoped he would accept. Then Murtagh said in a low voice, “You cannot help me, Eragon. No one but Galbatorix can release us from our oaths, and he will never do that…. He knows our true names, Eragon…. We are his slaves forever.”
Though he wanted to, Eragon could not deny the sympathy he felt for Murtagh’s plight. With the utmost gravity, he said, “Then let us kill the two of you.”
“Kill us! Why should we allow that?”
Eragon chose his words with care: “It would free you from Galbatorix’s control. And it would save the lives of hundreds, if not thousands, of people. Isn’t that a noble enough cause to sacrifice yourself for?”
Murtagh shook his head. “Maybe for you, but life is still too sweet for me to part with it so easily. No stranger’s life is more important than Thorn’s or my own.”
As much as he hated it—hated the entire situation, in fact—Eragon knew then what had to be done. Renewing his attack on Murtagh’s mind, he leaped forward, both feet leaving the ground as he lunged toward Murtagh, intending to stab him through the heart.
“Letta!” barked Murtagh.
Eragon dropped back to the ground as invisible bands clamped around his arms and legs, immobilizing him. To his right, Saphira discharged a jet of rippling fire and sprang at Murtagh like a cat pouncing on a mouse.
“Rïsa!” commanded Murtagh, extending a clawlike hand as if to catch her.
Saphira yelped with surprise as Murtagh’s incantation stopped her in midair and held her in place, floating several feet above the plateau. No matter how much she wriggled, she could not touch the ground, nor could she fly any higher.
How can he still be human and have the strength to do that? wondered Eragon. Even with my new abilities, such a task would leave me gasping for air and unable to walk. Relying upon his experience counteracting Oromis’s spells, Eragon said, “Brakka du vanyalí sem huildar Saphira un eka!”
Murtagh made no attempt to stop him, only gave him a flat stare, as if he found Eragon’s resistance a pointless inconvenience. Baring his teeth, Eragon redoubled his efforts. His hands went cold, his bones ached, and his pulse slowed as the magic sapped his energy. Without being asked, Saphira joined forces with him, granting him access to the formidable resources of her body.
Five seconds passed….
Twenty seconds…A thick vein pulsed on Murtagh’s neck.
A minute…
A minute and a half…Involuntary tremors racked Eragon. His quadriceps and hamstrings fluttered, and his legs would have given way if he were free to move.
Two minutes passed….
At last Eragon was forced to release the magic, else he risked falling unconscious and passing into the void. He sagged, utterly spent.
He had been afraid before, but only because he thought he might fail. Now he was afraid because he did not know what Murtagh was capable of.
“You cannot hope to compete with me,” said Murtagh. “No one can, except for Galbatorix.” Walking up to Eragon, he pointed his sword at Eragon’s neck, pricking his skin. Eragon resisted the impulse to flinch. “It would be so easy to take you back to Urû’baen.”
Eragon gazed deep into his eyes. “Don’t. Let me go.”
“You just tried to kill me.”
“And you would have done the same in my position.” When Murtagh remained silent and expressionless, Eragon said, “We were friends once. We fought together. Galbatorix can’t have twisted you so much that you’ve forgotten…. If you do this, Murtagh, you’ll be lost forever.”
A long minute passed where the only sound was the hue and cry of the clashing armies. Blood trickled down Eragon’s neck from where the sword point cut him. Saphira lashed her tail with helpless rage.
Finally, Murtagh said, “I was ordered to try and capture you and Saphira.” He paused. “I have tried…. Make sure we don’t cross paths again. Galbatorix will have me swear additional oaths in the ancient language that will prevent me from showing you such mercy when next we meet.” He lowered his sword.
“You’re doing the right thing,” said Eragon. He tried to step back but was still held in place.
“Perhaps. But before I let you go…” Reaching out, Murtagh pried Zar’roc from Eragon’s fist and unbuckled Zar’roc’s red sheath from the belt of Beloth the Wise. “If I have become my father, then I will have my father’s blade. Thorn is my dragon, and a thorn he shall be to all our enemies. It is only right, then, that I should also wield the sword Misery. Misery and Thorn, a fit match. Besides, Zar’roc should have gone to Morzan’s eldest son, not his youngest. It is mine by right of birth.”
A cold pit formed in Eragon’s stomach. It can’t be.
A cruel smile appeared on Murtagh’s face. “I never told you my mother’s name, did I? And you never told me yours. I’ll say it now: Selena. Selena was my mother and your mother. Morzan was our father. The Twins figured out the connection while they were digg
ing around in your head. Galbatorix was quite interested to learn that particular piece of information.”
“You’re lying!” cried Eragon. He could not bear the thought of being Morzan’s son. Did Brom know? Does Oromis know?…Why didn’t they tell me? He remembered, then, Angela predicting that someone in his family would betray him. She was right.
Murtagh merely shook his head and repeated his words in the ancient language, then put his lips to Eragon’s ear and whispered, “You and I, we are the same, Eragon. Mirror images of one another. You can’t deny it.”
“You’re wrong,” growled Eragon, struggling against the spell. “We’re nothing alike. I don’t have a scar on my back anymore.”
Murtagh recoiled as if he had been stung, his face going hard and cold. He lifted Zar’roc and held it upright before his chest. “So be it. I take my inheritance from you, brother. Farewell.”
Then he retrieved his helm from the ground and pulled himself onto Thorn. Not once did he look at Eragon as the dragon crouched, raised its wings, and flew off the plateau and into the north. Only after Thorn vanished below the horizon did the web of magic release Eragon and Saphira.
Saphira’s talons clicked on the stone as she landed. She crawled over to Eragon and touched him on the arm with her snout. Are you all right, little one?
I’m fine. But he was not, and she knew it.
Walking to the edge of the plateau, Eragon surveyed the Burning Plains and the aftermath of the battle, for the battle was over. With the death of the Twins, the Varden and dwarves regained lost ground and were able to rout the formations of confused soldiers, herding them into the river or chasing them back from whence they came.
Though the bulk of their forces remained intact, the Empire had sounded the retreat, no doubt to regroup and prepare for a second attempt to invade Surda. In their wake, they left piles of tangled corpses from both sides of the conflict, enough men and dwarves to populate an entire city. Thick black smoke roiled off the bodies that had fallen into the peat fires.
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