Then the dragons under Galbatorix’s command, the mad, howling, grief-stricken dragons, attacked Eragon’s mind and forced him to withdraw within himself to avoid being torn to pieces.
Behind him, Eragon heard Elva start to say something, but she had barely uttered a sound when Galbatorix said, “Theyna!” and she stopped with a choked gurgle.
“I stripped him of his wards!” shouted Murtagh. “He’s—”
Whatever Galbatorix said, it was too fast and too low for Eragon to catch, but Murtagh ceased speaking, and a moment later, Eragon heard him fall to the floor with a tinkle of mail and the sharp clink of his helm striking stone.
“I have plenty of wards,” said Galbatorix, his hawklike face dark with fury. “You cannot harm me.” He rose from his seat and strode down the steps of the dais toward Eragon, his cape billowing around him and his sword, Vrangr, white and deathly in his hand.
In the brief time he had, Eragon tried to capture the mind of at least one of the dragons battering at his consciousness, but there were too many, and his attempt left him scrambling to repel the horde of Eldunarí before they completely subjugated his thoughts.
Galbatorix stopped a foot in front of him and glared at him, a thick, forked vein prominent on his brow, the muscles of his heavy jaw knotting. “Think you to challenge me, boy?” he growled, fairly spitting with rage. “Think you to be my equal? That you could lay me low and steal my throne?” The cords in Galbatorix’s neck stood out like a skein of twisted rope. He plucked at the edge of his cape. “I cut this mantle from the wings of Belgabad himself, and my gloves too.” He lifted Vrangr and held its bleak blade before Eragon’s eyes. “I took this sword from Vrael’s hand, and I took this crown from the head of the mewling wretch who wore it before me. And yet you think to outwit me? Me? You come to my castle, and you kill my men, and you act as if you are better than I. As if you are more noble or virtuous.”
Eragon’s head rang, and a constellation of throbbing, swirling crimson motes appeared before his eyes as Galbatorix struck him on the cheek with Vrangr’s pommel, tearing his skin.
“You need to be taught a lesson in humility, boy,” said Galbatorix, moving closer, until his gleaming eyes were mere inches from Eragon’s.
He struck Eragon on the other cheek, and for a second, all Eragon could see was a black immensity littered with flashing lights.
“I shall enjoy having you in my service,” said Galbatorix. In a lower voice, he said, “Gánga,” and the pressure from the Eldunarí assailing Eragon’s mind vanished, leaving him free to think as he would. But not so the others, as he could see from the strain on their faces.
Then a blade of thought, honed to an infinitesimal point, pierced Eragon’s consciousness and sheathed itself in the marrow of his being. The blade twisted and, like a cocklebur lodged within a batt of felt, it tore at the fabric of his mind, seeking to destroy his will, his identity, his very awareness.
It was an attack unlike any Eragon had experienced. He shrank from it and concentrated upon a single thought—revenge—as he struggled to protect himself. Through their contact, he could feel Galbatorix’s emotions: anger, mainly, but also a savage joy at being able to hurt Eragon and watch him writhe in discomfort.
The reason, Eragon realized, that Galbatorix was so good at breaking the minds of his enemies was because it gave him a perverse pleasure.
The blade dug deeper into Eragon’s being and he howled, unable to help himself.
Galbatorix smiled, the edges of his teeth translucent, like fired clay.
Defense alone was no way to win a fight, and so, despite the searing pain, Eragon forced himself to attack Galbatorix in return. He dove into the king’s consciousness and grasped at his razor-sharp thoughts, trying to pin them in place and prevent the king from moving or thinking without his approval.
Galbatorix made no attempt to guard himself, however. His cruel smile widened, and he twisted the blade in Eragon’s mind even further.
It felt to Eragon as if a nest of briars were ripping him apart from the inside. A scream racked his throat, and he went limp in the grip of Galbatorix’s spell.
“Submit,” said the king. He grabbed Eragon’s chin with fingers of steel. “Submit.” The blade twisted yet again, and Eragon screamed until his voice gave out.
The king’s probing thoughts closed in around Eragon’s consciousness, restricting him to an ever-smaller part of his mind, until all that was left to him was a small, bright nub overshadowed by the looming weight of Galbatorix’s presence.
“Submit,” the king whispered, almost lovingly. “You have nowhere to go, nowhere to hide.… This life is at an end for you, Eragon Shadeslayer, but a new one awaits. Submit, and all shall be forgiven.”
Tears distorted Eragon’s vision as he stared into the featureless abyss of Galbatorix’s pupils.
They had lost.… He had lost.
The knowledge was more painful than any of the wounds he had received. A hundred years’ worth of striving—all for naught. Saphira, Elva, Arya, the Eldunarí: none of them could overcome Galbatorix. He was too strong, too knowledgeable. Garrow and Brom and Oromis had all died in vain, as had the many warriors of different races who had laid down their lives in the course of fighting the Empire.
The tears spilled from Eragon’s eyes.
“Submit,” whispered the king, and his grip tightened.
More than anything, it was the injustice of the situation that Eragon hated. It seemed wrong on a fundamental level that so many had suffered and died in pursuit of a hopeless goal. It seemed wrong that Galbatorix alone should be the cause of so much misery. And it seemed wrong that he should escape punishment for his misdeeds.
Why? Eragon asked himself.
He remembered, then, the vision the oldest of the Eldunarí, Valdr, had shown him and Saphira, where the dreams of starlings were equal to the concerns of kings.