Victims of Fate

A Tale of Murtagh and Thorn

Part 1

Murtagh panted and struggled to stay upright as Thorn's unsteady movements jarred him in the saddle. He held the pommel with his right hand, his left held to his temple. He had healed Thorn's injuries when the afflictions had been administered, but the residual pain he was feeling filtered into Murtagh's thoughts, thus becoming his own. His body screamed in protest at every movement; his exhaustion and battered state shared by his young dragon. The warm sensation of blood trickling down his face from the cut Eragon had inflicted reminded him that the mental damage done in his battle was not solitary. However, on the contrary, all his ailments were the least of his worries. This was the second time he had been sent out upon oaths to Galbatorix to fetch Eragon and Saphira, and this was the second time he would return empty handed. The thoughts of his and Thorn's punishment the previous time seeped into his thoughts, as did the memory of his own agonized screams being matched and surpassed by that of Thorn's. He cringed at the memory, yet was unable to push it from his thoughts.

A myriad of emotions flooded him then, some his own, some seeping in from Thorn; anxiety, aversion, regret, and most of all, fear. It was the strongest of the emotions, and it was purely his own. He felt a pitying growl emit from deep in Thorn's throat.

Please do not fret over this my Rider, Thorn said, the statement ringing through and shattering Murtagh's previous thoughts. You truly fought your hardest, and by some stroke of luck, Eragon bested you.

Luck? Murtagh replied, his fear swelling up again. Luck? You know as well as I do that Galbatorix will not accept 'luck' as an excuse. No. No, this time he will outdo his previous fit of rage, and I fear I bare not the will nor the strength to survive him again.

Please don't say such things, Thorn replied, a gruff undertone creeping through his retort. Besides, he needs you and as long as he does he will not kill you nor I.

There are worse things than death, Murtagh said, and the memory of his and Thorn's screams crept through him again, causing him to shudder. He leaned forward and patted Thorn's neck as he said, Fly slow my dragon, for the more time we are away, the more time we evade his torture.

Thorn didn't answer, merely rose fifty feet in the air and caught a draft. He spread his wings to their full length, let the draft catch them, and rode it, for this was surely a more leisurely pace.

The hours it took to traverse the distance between Surda and Uru'Baen felt like mere minutes to Murtagh as the giant black sculpture loomed just ahead of them. Murtagh hadn't spent a moment of the flight not immersed in his fears of facing Galbatorix a second time. His body had given up on protesting his pain and exhaustion, and he trembled with every effort of not collapsing. Thorn huffed a great sigh as he descended toward the building, slowly drifting against currents of air until he landed lightly at the base of the castle, rear legs first, then front. He flapped his wings a few times to stable his balance, then pulled them to rest at his sides.

Murtagh unbuckled himself from the saddle, swung a leg over and dismounted, much like dismounting his old horse, Tornac. He stopped, still facing the large, muscular shoulder of Thorn. The fear and fatigue overwhelmed him then, and he buried his face against Thorn's shoulder, his scales brushing Murtagh's face. He gritted his teeth in an effort to calm himself, his entire body still trembling. He could feel Thorn's sorrow and compassion as he snaked his head around and touched Murtagh gently with his snout. The touch helped him to composure, and he pushed away from Thorn, angling his face in a scowl. He was Galbatorix's resident Black Hand, and he would hate for his walking-dead soldiers to see weakness. He gritted his teeth as he entered through the giant stone doors, on each side of which was standing one of the aforementioned soldiers. They sneered as they watched him and Thorn enter, knowing full well that they had failed their mission… again.

He snaked his way down a long corridor, which was large enough for Thorn to follow. Thorn stood unusually close, Murtagh supposed for moral support. He growled low and deep at any soldier who offered a snide smirk at them, and a grin graced Murtagh's lips every time. He wound his way for several minutes, his heart racing against his chest. Just as the two of them were upon the open door of Galbatorix's throne room, a soldier stepped forward from his post. The man was only slightly taller than Murtagh, but his build, however, was much larger. The man sneered, showing his unattended and rancid teeth.

"Empty handed again, Darkheart?" the man scorned, using the name many soldiers graciously bestowed upon him. He despised it, for his soul was not tainted on his own accord.

Murtagh's fear and hatred and many other emotions all boiled into anger at that moment, and he never made an effort to restrain himself as he said, "Hold your tongue you miserable, maggot infested wretch!"

As he said this, he grabbed the soldier by the chest plate of his armor and threw him to the ground, his heightened strength making no chore of it. The man's armor clanked as he hit the ground and Murtagh spat at him. The man opened his mouth to verbally retaliate when he was halted by the booming voice from within the room calling, "Murtagh."

A shiver ran the length of Murtagh's spine when he beheld the sheer distain dripping from Galbatorix's word. He composed himself, straightened, and stepped over the soldier into the large, empty stone room. He heard Thorn growl at the soldier as he passed, and the faint scent of smoke met him, but he dared not look back.

Galbatorix sat in his high-backed throne, the dragon wing shape of it casting his features in shadow. He was strumming his long, witch-like fingers on the arm of the chair, and his rings clanked, the sound echoing throughout. A chill ran through Murtagh again, but this time he managed to conceal it. He warily approached the few stone steps that elevated the King's throne, daring not meet the eyes of Galbatorix. He observed the large, walking-dead soldiers on both sides of the throne. He went to kneel, but hadn't realized exactly how worn he was, for both knees buckled, and he fell on all fours at the base of the steps. He panted, fighting his weariness, but didn't move to right his position.

"My lord," he greeted, his voice gruff and worn out.

"'I shall bring them to you', you swore," Galbatorix stated in an icy voice, his frustration clearly audible. "'I shall never disobey your orders again', you swore."

Galbatorix let his statements sink in, and sink they did. Murtagh knew he'd sworn so in the ancient language, and his oaths were binding. And he truly had attempted with all his might, this time.

"I am sorry, my King," Murtagh managed, his voice breaking. "Truly, I attempted with all my ability. Somehow, he has become stronger than we-"

"Silence!" Galbatorix hissed, not loudly, but quiet like a whisper, which inflicted more fear than a shout would.

Murtagh clenched his teeth and fists, and continued to stare at the ground beneath him.

"I shall be the judge of that," Galbatorix said, and the sound of leather brushing armor came to Murtagh as Galbatorix rose from his seat.

Murtagh dared to look up at Galbatorix, and the face he saw made him wish he hadn't. The King's face was set in an angered scowl, and his height gave him the appearance of a giant who had been wronged. The aged man slowly pulled off his gloves of leather, and threw them into his throne as he descended the few stairs to Murtagh. Murtagh's fear spiked, knowing that whatever the King had in mind would not end well.

"Rise," Galbatorix hissed again through angrily clenched teeth, his voice never rising.

Murtagh struggled to push himself to his feet, and even when he had, he didn't meet the eyes of his King. His fists clasped so hard that he briefly registered the pain of his fingernails digging into his palms, but threw off the sensation as Galbatorix raised a hand. It took all of Murtagh's composure to keep from flinching away.

To Murtagh's surprise, the touch was gentle. Galbatorix stroked down the side of his face with four fingers, studying the young Rider. This scared Murtagh even more, for he didn't have the slightest inkling as to Galbatorix's intentions.

"Your father was such a loyal servant to me," Galbatorix said, his voice still so low that only he and Murtagh could hear. "I find it a pity that his eldest son is such a disappointment."

Galbatorix growled the last word, and with it, he penetrated Murtagh's mind with such force that he gasped out loud. Out of habit he threw up his mental barriers, and Galbatorix swept them aside none-to-gently, like a newly sharpened blade through parchment. Murtagh grinded his teeth and slammed his eyes shut as the pain of Galbatorix's mental probe became overly unbearable. Galbatorix sifted through Murtagh's memories of the battle, pausing on the moments when Saphira had nearly driven them into the ground. Still taking no care to be gentle, he continued to the end, when Murtagh had had his mental struggle with Eragon, and ultimately failed. Galbatorix withdrew from Murtagh's mind suddenly, and, no longer bearing his physical and mental torment, he fell to the ground.

Galbatorix growled in frustration, turning away from the fallen Rider. Murtagh remained on the ground, panting and trying to force himself to cope until he was in private. He could feel Thorn's anger at Murtagh's pain, his empathy, but the dragon didn't dare move from where he stood. Galbatorix turned back and leaned down, taking amusement in Murtagh's anguish, and drew Zar'roc from its hilt on his hip. Murtagh made no effort to stop him as he slowly walked away and seated himself in his throne again, staring a condescending gaze at Rider and dragon. As Murtagh struggled to his feet on shaking limbs, the King leaned to his right and whispered a few words to his soldier. As the soldier grinned, Thorn growled, baring his teeth in anger.

What? Murtagh thought to him, not having heard Galbatorix's statement.

He says you are to be flogged, Thorn thought back, controlling his reaction at the flared look from Galbatorix. Forty lashes.

At the prospect of having to endear any more pain, he nearly screamed, but contained himself.

And what of you? he asked the crimson dragon.

I am to be imprisoned in the hold for ten moons with no food or water.

Murtagh cursed to himself, and managed to stand upright, his body still protesting.

Galbatorix didn't speak again, only motioned with his finger, and the soldier stepped down from the throne and took Murtagh's arm in a vice-like grip and dragged him from the room, stumbling. Thorn obediently followed.

They reached the hold first, and Thorn hesitated as the soldiers who guarded it opened the large door.

"You want him to suffer more lashings, go ahead and fight us," one of them spat.

Thorn went from staring at Murtagh with a concerned air, to seconds later snarling at the soldiers, plumes of smoke gliding from his nostrils.

It's all right, my friend, Murtagh said wearily to Thorn. I'm stronger than you think. I'll be alright. You conserve your strength.

Thorn looked back at him with curved eyebrows that said millions of words about his sorrow. You take care of yourself, Bjartkala, Thorn replied as he turned and entered the hold.

The nickname Thorn used was one he'd come up with to counter the soldiers'. It meant Bright Eyes. He said it was so because even with their entrapment and virtual slavery, Murtagh's character never changed. While his body and mind belonged wholly to Galbatorix, his true identity shown through in his bottomless eyes. Like a brilliant star in the heavens, Thorn had said. Shining bright, never changing.

Murtagh fought back tears as the doors to the hold were shut and bolted and he was dragged away by the large soldier. In any other situation, he would have fought until his lungs collapsed for Thorn, but he knew his efforts would be in vain.

For a pass of time that Murtagh didn't care to count, he was dragged down long hallways, usually struggling to keep his weak legs from giving way with each step. At length, the two of them entered a room, which Murtagh plainly recognized, and his stomach threatened to throw its contents.

On each wall hung different instruments of torture and punishment, from irons used for scalding prisoners, to different knives and swords. Murtagh shuddered as the soldier led him to the far wall, slamming his back to it. The man never met his eyes as he unbuckled Murtagh's mail and undershirt and threw them to the ground with a resounding clank. Murtagh shuddered at the sudden cold as he stared at the floor. Without saying a word, the soldier took Murtagh's non-fighting hands and raised them above his head and shackled them into manacles. The restraints were hanging from the ceiling from chains spaced about three feet apart from each other.

This would have been strange to anyone else, for lashings were usually given on one's back. But Murtagh knew perfectly well the reason for this. Galbatorix wanted the scar on his back, given by his father, to be as clear as the day he'd received it. It was cruel, but Murtagh expected nothing less of their great King. Giving the lashings on the chest would also inflict quite a bit more pain, for the muscle wasn't protected with the likes of the spine. Again, cruel, as expected.

Murtagh took a deep breath as the soldier stepped back and retrieved the whip from a hook on the wall. It was wound in a hoop, and as the soldier took the handle, it unraveled at his feet. Again, in any other situation, Murtagh would have used his magic to free himself, kill the guard, and release Thorn and flee. But alas, he was held by the oaths of Galbatorix, and if he did any such thing, he would face the wrath of the King, and this seemed a much more acceptable fate.

The guard procured a vile from a pouch in his belt, which held a yellowish liquid. Murtagh knew well what it was, for he'd seen it before, when he had been punished for his insubordination the first time. It was a poison Galbatorix's alchemists had concocted for torturing those of magical talents. The liquid inside need only to be applied to any wound, and it prevented the victim's wounds from healing by means of magic. It forced prolonged suffering, and usually a break in the victim's sanity.

The guard poured a hefty amount onto his leather glove, took the whip, and smeared the liquid the entire length of the leather. He grinned his stupid grin as he did so.

"I just want you to know," he said as he stepped forward, "I'm going to thoroughly enjoy this."

Murtagh resolved himself to stare at the ground, biting his lip in frantic anticipation.

Be strong, my Rider, Thorn's voice said, calm and collected, yet worry edged it.

Panic struck Murtagh.

Thorn, no! Sever your connection with me! You have your own ails to worry about, I don't want you to endure mine as well! Please, I…

His thoughts were broken as the first snap of the whip cracked against his chest. It was so unexpected that he bit down hard, right into his lip, and yelped a gasp of agony. He heard Thorn whimper for him in his thoughts.

Please, Thorn! You should not have to endure my pain as your own. I haven't the…

His thoughts misted over with a cloud of agony at the second snap, like the morning fog after a rain. Then the third came, and the fourth, fifth, sixth. He attempted to expel Thorn from his thoughts every time, but the dragon refused.

I am not leaving you, Murtagh Bjartkala, so stop trying to make me. Thorn's thoughts stopped as he let the next wave of pain subside.

Murtagh would have tried to reject him again, but the strikes were becoming more frequent, and quite a bit more painful, so coherent thoughts escaped him. But he never cried out, never showed weakness to his tormentor. At ten, his thoughts were misting, at fifteen they became ever more unreadable. But Thorn never left him. He talked him through, and at twenty-five, Murtagh became panicked and disoriented.

Easy, Bjartkala. Listen to my voice. You are strong. Stronger than Eragon even, for you endure more than he. He has not the strength to remain sane in a situation such as ours.

Thorn knew his speaking was helping, for Murtagh returned a warm appreciation. His agony prevented him from speaking in return, but he shared all his positive emotions with his dragon.

At thirty-five, he started to envision the things he loved; Thorn, long unsaddled rides on Tornac, the good times he'd had with Eragon, and Alagaesia's cloudless night sky when viewed from the lower atmosphere on the back of Thorn. This troubled Thorn, for if he was envisaging positive thoughts, that meant he was having trouble grasping the current.

Steady Murtagh, only four more, he coaxed, one more strike having passed. Just breathe.

Murtagh took his advice and steadied his breathing to the best of his ability as the final four whippings tormented him. As the last slashed across his chest, Murtagh gave in, his body shaking and shivering and his thoughts completely unsettled. He barely discerned the guard unshackling him, dragging him to an empty cell, throwing him to the stone floor. He hardly recalled the scream that issued from his lips as the force sent a shockwave of agony throughout him, making his whip marks throb. He never realized when he passed out.