I do not own the Inheritance Cycle. I don't even own any of the books- I get the CDs from the library.
XXXXXXXX
Blood.
Metal, bone, terror.
More blood.
Screaming, yelling, footsteps.
Blood again?
This was getting old.
Murtagh stabbed yet another Urgal through the chest, wrenched his sword out, and whirled around, decapitating a horned head from the one that had been sneaking up on him.
It occurred to him that he was surrounded by Urgals.
Okay, Eragon. I got you out of one of these; now it's your turn.
Actually, he wouldn't have been picky. Any sort of rescue would have been preferable to being slowly hacked to pieces by-
A shudder seemed to pass through the Urgals.
Murtagh flinched and somehow it seemed as if a spell was broken. One of the Urgals chopped at another with an axe. A nearby apparent commander tried to restore order, but to no avail.
Black clouds were shooting across Farthen Dur, but Murtagh paid them little heed.
Some sort of inner sixth sense told him to find Eragon.
Or maybe it was just logic. Eragon always managed to find trouble.
XXXXXXXX
The corridors of Tronjheim were utterly deserted. There was no sign of whatever could have blasted the door open.
Murtagh wasn't convinced. Something's wrong. I can tell.
Then he saw them.
Scattered all around the center of Tronjheim were what he slowly came to realize were fragments of the impressive jewel that had capped the city-mountain's central chamber. He walked between two jagged and formidable chunks and came across Arya.
The raven-haired elf was clearly unconscious. Murtagh first thought that she lay on one of the chunks of Isidar Mithrim, but as he ran towards her, he realized that she was in Saphira's saddle. The blue dragon was, if that was possible, less conscious than the elf on her back. But where is that idiot friend of mine?
XXXXXXXX
Author's Note: I'm starting this one off before I go to bed. There will be more.
Much more.
XXXXXXXX
On the fourth day of Christmas, the four calling birds switched to unlimited texting.