Eragon stabbed, and Murtagh used his shield to deflect the attack. Three more times Eragon stabbed, but Murtagh stopped each blow, and when Eragon drew back his arm to strike again, Murtagh countered with a backhanded cut at his knee, which would have crippled him had it landed.
Seeing what Murtagh intended, Eragon altered his swing and stopped Zar’roc an inch from his leg. Then he countered with a cut of his own.
For several minutes, they exchanged blows, trying to disrupt each other’s rhythms, but to no avail. They knew each other too well. Whatever Eragon attempted, Murtagh was able to thwart, and the same was true in reverse. It was like a game where they both had to think many moves in advance, which fostered a certain sense of intimacy as Eragon focused on divining the inner workings of Murtagh’s mind and, from them, predicting, what Murtagh would do next.
Right from the beginning, Eragon noticed that Murtagh was playing the game differently than the previous times they’d fought. He attacked with a ruthlessness that heretofore had been lacking, as if, for the first time, he wanted to defeat Eragon, and quickly too. Moreover, after his initial outburst, his anger seemed to vanish, and he displayed only a cool, implacable determination.
Eragon found himself fighting to the limit of his abilities, and though he was able to hold Murtagh off, he ended up on the defensive more than he would have liked.
After a while, Murtagh lowered his sword and turned toward the throne and Galbatorix.
Eragon kept his guard up, but he hesitated, unsure whether it was appropriate to attack.
In that moment of hesitation, Murtagh leaped toward him. Eragon stood his ground and swung. Murtagh caught the blow on his shield, and then, instead of following up with a strike of his own as Eragon expected, he slammed his shield against Eragon’s and pushed.
Eragon growled and pushed back. He would have reached around his shield to slash at Murtagh’s back or legs, but Murtagh was shoving too hard for Eragon to risk it. Murtagh was an inch or two taller, and the extra height allowed him to bear down on Eragon’s shield in a way that made it difficult for Eragon to keep from sliding back across the polished stone floor.
At last, with a roar and a mighty heave, Murtagh sent Eragon stumbling away. As Eragon flailed and struggled to regain his balance, Murtagh stabbed at his neck.
“Letta!” said Galbatorix.
The tip of Zar’roc stopped less than a finger’s-breadth from Eragon’s skin. He froze, panting, not sure what had just happened.
“Restrain yourself, Murtagh, or I shall do it for you,” said Galbatorix from where he sat watching. “I dislike having to repeat myself. You are not to kill Eragon, nor is he to kill you.… Now, continue.”
The realization that Murtagh had just tried to kill him—and that he would have succeeded if not for Galbatorix’s intervention—shocked Eragon. He searched Murtagh’s face for an explanation, but Murtagh remained stubbornly expressionless, as if Eragon meant little or nothing to him.
Eragon could not understand. Murtagh was definitely playing the game differently than he ought to be. Something had changed in him, but what it was, Eragon could not tell.
In addition, the knowledge that he had lost—and that, by all rights, he should be dead—undermined Eragon’s confidence. He had confronted death many times before, but never in such a stark and uncompromising manner. There was no question of it; Murtagh had bested him, and only Galbatorix’s mercy—such as it was—had saved him.
Eragon, do not dwell on it, said Arya. You had no reason to suspect he would try to kill you. Nor were you trying to kill him. If you had, the fight would have gone differently, and Murtagh would never have had the chance to attack you as he did.
Doubtful, Eragon glanced over to where she stood by the edge of the pool of light, along with Elva and Saphira. Then Saphira said, If he wishes to rip out your throat, then cut his hamstrings and make sure that he cannot do it again.
Eragon nodded, acknowledging what they had said.
He and Murtagh separated and again took up their positions opposite each other while Galbatorix looked on approvingly.
This time Eragon was the first to attack.
They fought for what felt like hours. Murtagh did not attempt any more killing blows, whereas Eragon—to his satisfaction—succeeded in touching Murtagh on the collarbone, although he stopped the blow before Galbatorix saw fit to do so himself. Murtagh looked unsettled by the touch, and Eragon allowed himself a brief smile at Murtagh’s reaction.
There were other blows that they failed to block as well. For all their speed and skill, neither he nor Murtagh was infallible, and without an easy means to end the fight, it was inevitable that they would make mistakes and that those mistakes would result in injuries.
The first wound was a cut Murtagh gave Eragon on his right thigh, in the gap between the edge of his hauberk and the upper part of his greave. It was a shallow cut, but exceedingly painful, and every time Eragon put his weight on the leg, blood surged from the wound.
The second wound was also Eragon’s: a gash above one eyebrow after Murtagh landed a blow upon his helm and the edge of it drove into his flesh. Of the two wounds, Eragon found the second by far the most aggravating, because blood kept dripping into his eye, obscuring his vision.
Then Eragon caught Murtagh on the wrist again and, this time, sliced all the way through the cuff of his gauntlet, the sleeve of his tunic, and a thin layer of skin to the bone beneath. He failed to sever any muscles, but the wound seemed to pain Murtagh a great deal, and the blood that seeped into his gauntlet caused him to lose his grip at least twice.
Eragon took a nick to his right calf, and then—when Murtagh was still recovering from a failed attack—he moved around to Murtagh’s shield side and brought down Brisingr as hard as he could upon the middle of Murtagh’s left greave, denting the steel.
Murtagh howled and jumped back on one leg. Eragon followed, swinging Brisingr in an attempt to batter him to the floor. Despite his injury, Murtagh was able to defend himself, and a few seconds later, Eragon was the one who was hard-pressed to remain on his feet.
For a time, their shields resisted the relentless pounding—Galbatorix, Eragon was pleased to realize, had left intact the enchantments upon their swords and armor—but then the spells on Eragon’s shield gave way, as did those on Murtagh’s, which was apparent from the chips and splinters that flew every time their swords landed. Soon afterward, Eragon cracked Murtagh’s shield with a particularly heavy blow. His victory was short-lived, for Murtagh grasped Zar’roc with both hands and struck at Eragon’s own shield twice in quick succession, and it split as well, leaving them equally matched once again.
As they fought, the stone beneath them grew slippery with smears and splashes of blood, and it became increasingly difficult to keep their footing. The massive presence chamber returned distant echoes of their clashing weapons—like the sounds of a long-forgotten battle—and it felt as if they were the center of all that existed, for theirs was the only light, and the two of them were alone within its compass.