DISCLAIMER: I DON'T OWN ANYTHING!


Eragon and Arya burst into the throne room, swords in hand, as they prepared for the fight of their lives. The hopes of the people that had died – Brom and Oromis deaths still slashed a cold, torturous path through Eragon's mind when he thought about them – had never died with them, but had passed on to those still living to carry on their aspirations. The hopes of the now living – Arya, Nasuada, Orik, Murtagh, Roran, Katrina – had been inextricably intertwined with the fates of the two Riders. The hopes of those yet unborn – Roran and Katrina's son, the children Eragon knew Murtagh and Nasuda wished to have, the children he wished to have with his beloved elf – had been taken on by those that already walked the world, those that would and could lay down their lives in the pursuit of a better tomorrow.

Hopes. Hopes were what gave the Riders strength. The hopes of yesterday, today and tomorrow pushed them forward. Did Galbatorix ever have hopes? Did he once know the power of aspirations as the wind at his back? Eragon absently wandered as he saw his mortal enemy in the flesh for the first time.

The king drew his black blade. Although he was nearly two hundred years old, he did not look a day above twenty. His eyes were dark pools devoid of emotion; his mouth set in a thin, crimson line that asked no parley and expected no quarter.

Eragon plunged into the flow of magic. The time has come. Outside, Saphira and Greeni battled against Shruikan. Tooth against claw, claw against scale, Shruikan fought with undying ferocity and held his own against his two opponents. Eragon closed his mind, heard Saphira's last be safe, little one fade and spoke the seven words Brom had whispered to him as his final blessing. He knew he was taking a risk – he had no idea what the words would do. But he knew they were powerful, and he relied on them to do something to stop Galbatorix.

Almost instantly he felt the drain of magic. Eragon staggered. The spell needed power. He tapped into the vast reserve he wore on his finger – Aren, another of Brom's gifts. Arya looked at him concernedly. He straightened up, restoring his strength with the gems in the belt of Beloth the Wise, nodding her a wordless reassurance.

A swirl of pure energy cascaded around Galbatorix. Despite the enormous amount of magic in Aren, it was being drained alarmingly fast. Eragon used the enchanted communication bracelet he wore to contact Murtagh. Now. It is happening. Take the Eldunari. Fly. He shielded his mind from Galbatorix again, trusting Murtagh to fulfil his role in the plan.

When the magic of Aren was nearly completely depleted, the spell's tug on his mind finally ended. Eragon sighed in relief and let out a breath he didn't know he was holding; he had feared that the spell would kill him. Galbatorix growled in frustration. "Shur'tugal, deyja!"

Eragon stiffened. The king must have been angered beyond belief to try something so crude. Still, Galbatorix had so much more power than him. He was relief when the spell invoked nothing more than a slight shiver than ran down his back. Galbatorix's eyes bulged with frustration and anger. "Kveykva!"

Nothing more than a few sparks shot out of his fingertips; Galbatorix let a volley of dreadful oaths fly. Then he bellowed with rage.

"BROM! YOU WILL PAY FOR THIS!"

The king erupted in a litany. "In life, you and the spirit of your pathetic dragon haunted me. In death, now you still continue your fight from beyond the grave? Fool is the one who said Brom would fail in life in all but one endeavour, for it seems he succeeded in everything but keeping himself and his dragon alive!"

Eragon was elated, but he showed no emotion on his face – Galbatorix had lost the ability to cast magic! He offered up a silent prayer to Brom. Arya gripped his hand in hers. "Waíse ramr, fricai Eragon." Be strong, friend Eragon. He mentally blanched. Friend? He pushed those thoughts aside and murmured, "Wiol ono, Arya." He mentally contemplated an attack while the kind ranted, but was quickly dissuaded when the king suddenly swung his blade in a deadly arc that would have had his head had he been closer.

Madness burned in Galbatorix's eyes. He charged, twirling his black blade in a menacing display, as though wielding Angela's huthvir.

They clashed blades with the tyrant king. A deadly but silent display save for the ring of metal against metal, flashing twin swords of brightsteel against the accursed bloodrunic sword of Galbatorix.

He was an excellent swordsman even without his magic or dragon, Eragon contemplated as he guarded yet another swift stroke. Even with the two of them against him, they could do no more than guard against his attacks. Roran wouldn't have lasted ten seconds. Maybe Vanir could have managed five minutes. Oromis and Brom, his two dead teachers, would have lasted ten minutes together. Arya fifteen, himself twenty if they fought alone. Together, he thought it was a miracle they had lasted an hour.

Galbatorix's eyes still shone with madness and he showed no sign of tiring. Arya's guards began to slow, each infinitesimally slower than the last, but still slowing. Eragon felt his arm begin to deaden. Galbatorix pressed his advantage. He drove them back.

Suddenly, Arya made her first mistake, leaving her guard down for a brief second. Eragon tried to protect her, but Galbatorix took his swing with his blade while turning the hilt towards Arya, hitting her in the chest with incredible strength. Arya flew across the throne room with a dull thump as she landed.

Eragon's heart flew into his mouth. He cleaved Galbatorix's helm with a powerful blow before he could recover from hitting Arya. It barely dented the strong metal, but Galbatorix took an involuntary step back, giving Eragon space to vault backwards and check on Arya, who had tottered unsteadily to her feet. He could see that Galbatorix had broken at least three ribs. He touched it, and before Arya could protest, used the remaining energy that Aren had – sorely had that spell depleted it! – to heal her. Arya turned towards him, a clear admonishing look in her eyes, before turning back to face Galbatorix, who seemed to by wholly unaffected by that blow Eragon had dealt. The king ripped of his uselessly dented helm, revealing a well-cropped head of spiky, black hair.

Eragon gulped. He fortified himself with whatever energy remained in the belt of Beloth the Wise, before turning to meet Galbatorix's head-on charge. At least I now know how good Galbatorix's hairstylist is, as a stray thought ran through his mind.

They clashed again. Arya fought with both determination and intensity as she seemed to leave her weariness behind for a time. Eragon fought for Arya – whenever he looked at her, he was reminded of how much was staked on the outcome of this battle, including his beloved elf's life and liberty, and he battered his sword against Galbatorix's, hoping to at least wound the king. Still, Galbatorix fought with the same great vigour and energy, a mocking smile dancing upon his lips, taunting his opponents for their arrogance in thinking they could challenge the great king. Murtagh, hurry up! Eragon prayed in the back of his mind.

That cruel smile still plastered upon his thin lips, Galbatorix flicked his sword twice in succession. Brisingr flew to one side, Arya's blade Mor'ranr to the other. Before Galbatorix could strike again, there was a disturbance in the air, and Eragon knew that something had changed. Galbatorix seemed to lose a little of that endless vitality he had. He seemed to age rapidly, youthful, twenty-four year old appearance substituted for that of a forty-year-old man.

Murtagh has succeeded. Jubilantly, Eragon and Arya dived in the opposite directions for their blades. Galbatorix no longer received strength from his Eldunari and would have to rely on himself. Galbatorix raised his horrible blade and went for Arya's neck. She turned and raised her blade just in time. Sparks flew as they clashed. But Arya was on the floor, leaving her vulnerable, while Eragon was on the other side of the room. Galbatorix sent another stroke straight for her jugular.

As the blade fell, Eragon threw himself across the marble room, Brisingr outstretched, pushed Arya out of the way, and caught the king's fell stroke on his blade. Arya sprung to her feet as Eragon blocked another thrust. She caught Galbatorix's next stroke on her blade and distracted him long enough for Eragon to get to his feet again.

Standing shoulder to shoulder, they duelled with Galbatorix. For the first time, there was a little fear in his eyes. Still he would not yield. Still his blade rung true on theirs. Truly, Galbatorix had the strength of two elves, and the constitution of five.

They danced, again, in a musically unaccompanied twirl of blades. Galbatorix got an opening and slashed Arya crosswise across her chest. She staggered back, crimson blood flowing. Brisingr blocked the finishing move that would have killed Arya. Galbatorix sliced into his hip and fire coursed through his veins. Enchanted blade!

Then, above the tumult, someone cried, "Thrysta vindr!" Galbatorix flew backwards. Murtagh strode forward, a confident smile on his face. Behind him, Nasuada, Orik, Orrin, Angela, Roran, Queen Islanzadí and some of the twelve elves that were protecting me burst into the throne room.

"Give it up, Galbatorix," Murtagh smirked, "it's over. Shruikan is dead – Saphira and Greeni took him apart. Thorn was going to help, but when they arrived Saphira was already holding Shruikan's funeral. The Eldunari you have enslaved for countless years are now beyond your reach."

Behind Murtagh, the elves rushed to restore Arya and Eragon. They too rose to their feet, swords outstretched. Murtagh raised his sword. In three swift strokes, Galbatorix's blade was knocked out of his hands and clattered to the floor some distance away. Murtagh executed the killing move, but as the blade flew he saw Torkenbrand in his mind, the slaver he had killed an eternity ago when he had been travelling with Eragon. Other memories from that age had long since faded since his harsh existence as a Rider serving Galbatorix had begun, but Torkenbrand stood out. Once, Murtagh would have killed without a second thought. But his true name had changed, and he hesitated at the final blow.

Galbatorix kicked Murtagh in the fork between his legs. "Just like Vrael," he spat, as Murtagh collapsed, "Just like Vrael." Eragon and Arya rushed at him. Galbatorix defended himself with Zar'roc, and fortified himself with the energy Murtagh had placed within the ruby of the pommel.

Eragon and Arya rushed Galbatorix. The elves rushed forward to help. Linking his mind with Arya and Blodhgärm, who channelled energy from the rest of the elves, Eragon exchanged a few strokes with Galbatorix. Behind him, Arya called, "Malthinae!" Galbatorix froze abruptly. In a second, a sheaf of blades was pointed at his neck. Eragon rushed to check on Murtagh. He had been rendered unconscious, but was otherwise only afflicted with minor injuries.

The three dragons arrived in the throne room, their bulk easily contained by the massive chamber. The Riders ran to embrace their dragons. I missed you, little one! Saphira cried as she bounded over to Eragon. I missed you too, Saphira. Are you okay? How did you fare against Shruikan?

Shruikan had lost his will to live, she growled. Enslaved and tortured on a daily basis by Galbatorix, he was a shadow of the grand stature of a real dragon. Galbatorix forced him to fight, but his heart was not in it. Where is the oathbreaker? I will make him see the error of his ways.

We cannot, Saphira. As much as I would like to rend his heart out with Brisingr, I - we - must remember the words of King Orrin. We cannot take the responsibility to decide who lives and who dies upon ourselves.

Eragon turned towards the assembled leaders of the resistance, who had been waiting patiently.

"I have not forgotten your words, King Orrin, spoken so wisely on that day I returned to the Varden after I slew the Ra'zac. 'For he who has the audacity to determine who should live and who should die no longer serves the law but dicatates the law.'" Eragon acknowledged. "I am neither judge nor jury, only the executioner, the instrument of will of those I serve. In a way that is troubling, for it makes me seem no more than a finely balanced sword, but in other ways it is necessary and right. Shall we now hold trial for Galbatorix?"

"RELEASE ME, YOU SCUM!" Galbatorix yelled as he struggled against his bonds. "I AM THE KING OF ALAGAESIA!"

Arya bound his mouth with magic.