Had a lot of free time today, so here's what I made. Hope it's satisfying.
Eragon awoke, feeling refreshed even after sleeping on the ground. He reached up, poking the underside of Saphira's wing. She retracted it, letting him feel the bracing cold of the winter morning. Eragon stood and turned east, where Aiedail was just beginning to shine over the horizon.
Casting the spell to draw energy from the life-giving light, Eragon went through the four phases of the Rimgar, singing to himself and Saphira all the while, splitting the energy between them to fill them up with power and steadily improve their physical condition. Again, he attempted no more than to speed up what was naturally occuring in any case, Saphira's prodigious growth and Eragon's ascension to something more than mere Man. After an hour and a half of exercise and song, Eragon ended, sweating despite the cold air.
"I suppose there are worse ways to wake up than to your subpar singing voice," Brom spoke up from where he was cooking porridge by the fire. "None immediately spring to mind, but I'm sure they exist."
Eragon blushed. "I can't help it if my voice cracks, and I never claimed to be able to bring people to tears with my singing. At least I'm not out of tune."
"There is that, I suppose," Brom said with a straight face, his eyes glimmering with ill-hidden mirth above his beard.
They ate quietly, enjoying how the warm food filled up their bellies as the horses grazed. Saphira flew off back into the mountains to find suitable prey, returning quickly after downing and devouring a stag.
Eragon paused when he finished his bowl, scraping it clean and putting it back in his pack. "There's something that has been troubling me, a decision I'm not sure how to make."
Brom settled down in his seat on the ground. "Then explain it, and we shall discuss the pros and cons of deciding either way."
Eragon breathed out. "Yazuac," he stated simply.
Brom breathed out slowly. "You wish to save it."
"We're almost a week ahead of schedule, compared to last time. We could arrive in time to fend off the Urgals or convince them to go around."
Brom sighed. "Eragon, I recognize that the lives of those villagers weigh heavy on you. That was your first real taste of death and cruelty. But fending off almost a hundred Urgals isn't just impossible, it's suicide."
"You don't know the Urgralgra like I do," Eragon argued. "Their entire culture is based on a hierarchy of combat. Durza isn't controlling the entire nation with black magic, only the chieftains and lieutenants. If I could make them pause long enough to make an official challenge, I could order the rest of the war party to leave the town alone and move on."
"What makes you think they'd even listen to a human, even if he were speaking their tongue?" Brom could not hide a certain disgust in his voice.
Eragon grit his teeth. "They're more than just wolves or bears that can swing an ax or raise a shield. They're no more different from us than we are from the dwarves or elves. They're people, and I would bet my life that at least one of them would stop and listen if I presented myself the right way."
"And who is to say that the one that heeds you will be in a position to do anything? The Urgals clearly had orders to raze that town. Whether that was the decision of Durza or Galbatorix is unknown to us, but we may simply have to live with it. It is too risky to try and offer an official duel like you propose, and outright slaughtering them all is a task beyond our powers."
Eragon blew out a breath, preparing to play his last card. "But not beyond mine and Saphira's."
Brom stood up. "Have you taken leave of your senses? You can't reveal yourself this early!"
"I can have the townsfolk swear oaths in the Ancient Language not to speak of it or alter their memories with magic," Eragon argued.
"How can you be sure you'll get all of them, or that Galbatorix or one of his pet magicians or even Durza won't come investigating?"
"I can track down every townsperson with my mind, I won't miss any of them. Galbatorix wouldn't leave Ûru'baen over one Urgal contingent going missing, and Durza is busy torturing her in Gil'ead."
Brom wrung his hands, looking like he'd prefer to have Eragon's neck in between them. "This is madness, folly, a mistake of the worst kind! Eragon, a single village is not worth losing you when the entire Empire and the lands beyond are at stake!"
Eragon laid a hand on Saphira's flank. "We can do this. Saphira and I can handle a small Urgal war party. Between my magic, her size, arrows and blade, not to mention blind fear and surprise, we can take them. And the sight of us might be enough to make them stop and let me make the challenge and render it a question of single combat."
Brom shook his head. "No. Absolutely not. I forbid it! We can't take a risk like that."
Eragon came to his own feet. "You are asking me, a Rider, one of the sworn defenders of the people, to stand aside and let a whole town of innocent men, women, and children be put to the sword. You are asking me to ignore every oath I ever took and allow a massacre for the sake of my own safety." Eragon looked Brom dead in the eye. "You are asking me to do something I cannot do."
Brom stared Eragon down, but the younger in body only would not look away. The old storyteller heaved a great sigh. "There's no stopping you, is there?"
"Not unless you plan to bind me in chains and drug me until it has passed."
Brom turned to the dragon. "Saphira, what do you think of all this?"
She gave a feral grin. It is the right thing to do, old one, and you know it. Besides, I'm eager to have a real fight. Urgals should prove much more fun prey than kine.
Eragon turned to her, patting her snout. "That's my girl," he said with a smile. "But remember, this isn't something we should relish. We're trading lives here, Urgal for Man. It pains me, but to save the most lives, it must be done."
Brom refilled the pot with water. "Why don't we check that all this isn't a moot point?"
Eragon nodded, realizing it was a good point. Casting the scrying spell, Eragon peered into the water. The water filled with color and light, and in an instant Eragon was looking down on a small town. Men and women walked around, children running, all in all seeming happy and unaware of the danger coming for them.
Eragon blinked. "Well, that answers one question. Seeing a person's corpse still allows you to scry them."
Brom nodded, though he looked put out. "There's no talking you out of this now, having seen what you feel you must protect." Brom stood up and made for Snowfire. "Very well, we make for Yazuac. But we at least attempt to avoid a direct confrontation where you are revealed to all and sundry as a Rider. We make for Yazuac with haste, and head off the Urgals before they even arrive. If we can quietly kill them all in their sleep, we should neatly avoid any issues in the first place."
"Very well," Eragon agreed. It was a better plan than Eragon's dramatic charge to save the town. Despite all his years of training and learning and teaching on the art of combat, he still favored a face-to-face fight over assassination or flanking. It was just part of his character, a facet of his True Name he couldn't change even if he wanted to.
Saphira leapt into the sky, not even bothering to hide given the vast openness of the plains, while Brom and Eragon began the laborious task of getting the horses down the ridge. In many places the trail all but disappeared, leaving them to find their own way down. At times they had to dismount and lead the horses on foot, holding on to trees to keep from falling down the slope. The ground was scattered with loose rocks, which made the footing treacherous. The ordeal left them hot and irritable, despite the cold.
They stopped to rest when they reached the bottom near midday. The Anora River veered to their left and flowed northward. A biting wind scoured the land, whipping them unmercifully. The soil was parched, and dirt flew into their eyes.
The path split into three. One path lead to the north, to Ceunon. Another veered right, towards to follow along the length of the Spine towards the lake Fläm. The last headed straight east, across the great plain towards Yazuac.
"Last chance to change your mind," Brom stated, eying the path to the right with something like longing.
Eragon shook his head. "I will do what my duty commands me to do."
"Fine, blast it all. We'll refill our waterskins here at the Anora, and then we ride. It takes four days at a good pace to make it to Yazuac, so we may not even arrive in time."
"If I sing to the horses and draw energy from the sun, we can maintain a gallop all day. If we ride through the night, we could make it by sunrise."
Brom sighed. "So be it. Let us find out how this goes."
They let the horses drink their fill, taking care to do the same. Then they got into the saddles, Saphira gliding high above them. Eragon cast the sunlight spell, and then began funneling energy into the mounts as they kicked them into their fastest run. As they rode, Eragon sang a different song, one of speed and necessity, of aches being ignored and tiredness kept at bay. He begged the horses with words poetic in their beauty and meaning to hasten, hasten, hasten. To run ever faster, to ignore any pain, to be sustained by the limitless power Eragon was gifting to them more than food, water, or their own muscles. As day transitioned into night, they took a brief rest to eat and allow the horses to recover. And then it was back to riding like devils were at their heels, Eragon drawing what energy he could from the moonlight to add to the stores of Holcomb and Snowfire. But they were war-horses, bred for endurance and strength, and aided by Eragon's gramarye ran as if wings were attached to their hooves. Saphira kept pace overhead, on the lookout for any signs of the Urgal party or Yazuac in the distance.
The moon was halfway through the sky when Saphira contacted Eragon. Little one, I see fires in the distance. They are small and figures surround them, blocking the light. I also smell smoke from chimneys and can make out some buildings at the edge of my vision. The Urgals are camped but a league away from Yazuac.
Eragon nodded and relayed the information to Brom. They shifted course, going off the road and towards the Urgal camp. When the sky was just beginning to brighten with the promise of dawn, they reigned in the horses. Eragon could sense the Urgals now. Most were still asleep, but a few stood guard as watchmen.
"The attack must happen later today," Eragon reasoned. "There's no way the townsfolk wouldn't notice them this close to town, given how flat everything is."
"Then the time to strike is now," Brom whispered back. "Can you make it close enough to use your magic?"
Eragon hesitated. "Are we certain I can't try and challenge the leader? I could disguise myself as an Urgal, pretend to be one of them."
"You think a party this small wouldn't recognize an unfamiliar face? Or that you could maintain an illusion that complex mid-combat?" Brom demanded. "Eragon, it was your decision to come out here and kill the damn things."
Eragon flinched. "My second-in-command was a Kull Rider," Eragon reminded him. "I have great respect for the Urgralgra. And there's no fate worse for a young ram than a quiet death."
"Just as there's no fate worse the people of Yazuac can imagine than being raided by Urgals," Brom fired back.
Eragon, Brom is right. It was your decision to come here. Now let us do what must be done. Saphira was a silent comfort at Eragon's side, even as Holcomb and Snowfire skittered at her nearness.
Eragon sighed and nodded. I'm afraid I must deny you your fight, Saphira. This will be fast and painless.
That's alright. There will be more than enough sport for me when we go off to war. For now, focus on the task at hand.
Eragon reached out with his mind. He delicately investigated each of the 83 Urgralgra rams camped out, and found none of them were magicians or in any way protected by wards. One of them, the largest and most well-decorated, had a touch of evil magic on him that turned Eragon's stomach. He recognized the unholy touch of a Shade's power. Reaching out to touch all their minds, Eragon incanted "Death."
In an instant, each slumbering or bored Urgal fell dead, the energy of their own bodies turned against them to snuff out their lives. It was effortless on Eragon's part, as he essentially had them all commit silent suicide in a perverse reversal of the natural order, each of their bodies shutting off all vital functions under their own power.
Where once there was a camp of fighters ready to pillage the unsuspecting town, there was now only a mass grave.
Eragon stood up, his heart heavy, even as the first light of dawn shined down on them. "I'm going to sleep. When I awake, I'm burying them."
Brom looked at Eragon oddly. "That could take days. Can we truly spare the time?"
"I owe it to them," Eragon stated resolutely. Then he pulled out his pallet, laid it near Saphira's belly, and slipped into an uneasy sleep as the effort of the last 24 hours caught up with him.
Eragon proved true to his word. He rode into the camp, finding each individual Urgal and dressing the body in its finest weapons and armor. Then he would mold the earth underneath them so they would rest forever where they had fallen, and sing a small sapling into existence whose roots would feed on the body hidden underneath. He did this for all 83 Urgals.
"Half the Spine's forests are made of grave-trees or their offspring," Eragon explained on the second day, taking a break from his morbid work. "Urgal cubs climb trees for fun, but never a grave-tree, as that would defile the memory of the dead. Urgal folklore states that the health of the tree depends on how well the fallen is faring in Zhôgh, the land of the dead, where Urgals engage in endless battle and merriment. If a tree dies, then it means the soul is lost forever, having died a second death in the afterlife for some sin. A surprising amount of a clan's social status has to do with the health of their respective grave-trees, so they are well-tended."
"Fascinating," Brom agreed, more to keep Eragon talking than out of any real interest.
Saphira cocked her head. Someone is coming from the town.
The response was immediate. "Fly, Saphira! Get high enough that they can't see you."
Saphira waited a beat, letting Eragon feel her irritation at being ordered around and resentment of having to conceal herself, but she took off regardless. Eragon finished his final grave, and then turned to face the direction of Yazuac.
A small party of men walked over from the town visible in the distance. Eragon had already burned all the tents and identifying marks that showed the Urgals had ever been there. The saplings were small, barely sprouts as Eragon had wanted to conserve energy and not draw attention. He could only hope none of the investigators had sharp eyes.
"I knew taking the time to bury them was a bad idea," Brom muttered to himself.
"Oh, and I suppose having a camp of unmarked dead Urgals just lying around in the countryside would have been better?" Eragon shot back.
Brom gave a grudging nod. "Alright, fair point. I don't suppose you have a good excuse for why we're out here instead of staying in town?"
"You're senile and demented, and I didn't trust you with so many new people. I was going to wait until you'd fallen asleep and then go into town for provisions before we continued on our way to Gil'ead."
Brom adopted a far-eyed look and absent-minded smile, but his voice was sharp. "You'll pay for this one day, dear son."
The party arrived, and Eragon and Brom played the part of Neal and Evan, a mad old man and his caretaking grandson, off to visit Liam's aunt in the far city of Gil'ead. Eragon got much sympathy from the visitors and understanding about why he preferred to stay out of town when Brom picked up and played with bits of grass and carried out a conversation with Snowfire. All the same, they were invited into the town, to enjoy a meal and bed in the small tavern before leaving on their way.
Eragon and Brom left the next day, having thoroughly enjoyed the hospitality of Yazuac. Eragon felt the stones laden in his heart lighten considerably. He had preserved that happiness, that innocence, that small town with nothing to worry about except a lean winter and the King's taxes. It made the slaughter of the Urgralgra easier to bear.
They followed the trail south, making for Daret. Once they were out of sight of Yazuac and the only things watching them were birds and squirrels, Eragon called for Saphira with his mind. He handed Holcomb's reigns to Brom and climbed into Saphira's saddle.
They spent the day reconnecting after their enforced distance, even if it was only for a single night and day. They were halves of a whole, a love that was deeper and more spiritual than romance. They were as good as twins, bonded together on the most fundamental level, completely different in personality and yet the most absolute kind of family, with bonds that were stronger than if they'd shared the same blood in truth.
As they flew, Eragon sang for them, as had become a daily routine. Luckily, Saphira's hunting skills had been able to keep up with the ravenous appetite Eragon's song provoked in her. As much as the raw magic of sunlight could do, she still needed protein and other nutrients to fuel her body's growth. Eragon suffered a similar hunger at times, but then again he was a teenager; when was he not hungry?
They landed and supped, Brom and Eragon engaging in their nightly talk and spar.
They made good progress, Eragon singing to the horses to improve their stamina even as they kept to a simple cantor rather than the blistering sprint they'd taken for Yazuac. Just as it had with Eragon and Saphira, the magic suffused the horses and enhanced them to a higher quality than more mundane counterparts of their species. The progress was slow, but both Brom and Eragon noted that the horses ran for longer and longer and faster speeds without seeming to tire, and seemed to require less food and water to sustain themselves.
"You might regret investing so much energy in our mounts," Brom spoke up one evening. "People are likely to notice two strangers riding possibly the finest horses to be found outside Du Weldenvarden."
"We already draw attention with our age disparity and how well-armed we are. We can pass it off as being rich, which only makes us more in danger of bandits, which you and I both know are a laughable threat to those of our level."
"Your level," Brom said with a half-smirk. "My prime has long past."
Eragon looked at his father. "If you want… I can try to heal you."
"Eragon, there's no curing old age."
"To the well-informed mind, aging is just another disease. We made great strides in conquering it through medicine and magic in my time. A human that got consistent treatment could live to well over two centuries, last I heard. Sadly, only the rich could really afford it, but the treatment still exists."
Brom blinked in a daze. "Are you saying you can just… make me young with magic?"
"I can do my best."
Brom seemed to contemplate it for a time, before nodding. "Oh, alright. No harm in trying. Though if you tire yourself excessively, I shan't easily forgive you."
Eragon nodded, before reaching for Saphira. Lend me your strength, my heart.
To make the old one a young one? I'd do it just to see what happens!
Fusing his energy with that of Saphira's and, with permission, taking just the slightest bit from Aren, Eragon focused. He brought to mind all he knew of the human body, organ systems, cellular biology, and the language of life that future Surdans named deoxyribonucleic acid, or DNA. Concentrating on all the little wears and tears associated with old age, the scars and injuries that were simply the price of living, Eragon laid his bare palm on Brom's forehead and said simply "Be healed."
Brom gasped, as Eragon's magic flowed through him. Before Eragon's eyes, wrinkles smoothed out, skin tone brightened, liver spots vanished, and Brom's very carriage seemed to straighten as pain ignored so long it was barely noticed vanished. Eragon felt the spell begin to reach the limits of his power, and cut off the flow of magic. He'd meant the spell to be a gradual instead of an absolute, even with the vague sentence structure, so a gradual it was.
Brom appeared to have regained twenty years. His hair was brown instead of silver, and his beard was now salt-and-pepper rather than unbroken white. The former Rider stood up, looking down at his limbs with awe. He made a fist and grinned at the new muscle tone of his arm. "Ha! Haha! Eragon, you did it!"
"I could do more tomorrow, when I have the energy from the sun," the elder in mind offered.
"No, no, this is more than enough. I feel better than I have in decades!" Brom got an almost shy grin. "Now you can introduce me as your father instead of your grandfather."
Eragon grinned back, before grabbing for Zar'roc. "Come on, let's test out your reclaimed youth. You might even be a small challenge for me now."
As it turns out, Brom was an even more fearsome swordsman than Eragon thought, once he wasn't bogged down by senescence.
Daret was on the banks of the Ninor River—as it had to be to survive. The village was small and wild-looking, without any signs of inhabitants.
They're waiting to ambush us. They've grown paranoid after constant harassment by bandits and the occasional Urgal. Eragon explained mentally.
They don't truly want to hurt us. We'll go in, ask for our supplies, pay, and then leave with all our limbs intact. Brom reassured.
If either of you hurt yourselves knowingly walking into this danger, their assault will seem pleasant compared to my wrath, Saphira projected to them snidely. She was very much put out that they would wander into a trap like dumb prey. But she couldn't deny that they were running low on provisions, and the great trek to Teirm was upon them. They needed to resupply before crossing the plains AND the Spine, and part of the coast as well.
Eragon and Brom rode into the center of Daret, not seeing a single soul all the way. Eragon felt the families hiding terrified in their houses and the men preparing the ambush, and felt only pity. Galbatorix, though both neglect and deliberately working against his own people, had driven them to this. If people couldn't even walk through their own town without being afraid, what was the point of living?
"I don't like this. Let's go," Brom said to Eragon, turning to go back the way they had come. Eragon nodded and followed.
They advanced only a few strides before wagons toppled out from behind the houses and blocked their way. Holcomb snorted and dug in his hooves, coming to a stop next to Snowfire. A swarthy man hopped over the wagon and planted himself before them, a broadsword slung at his side and a drawn bow in his hands. In a strong voice, he commanded, "Halt! Put your weapons down. You're surrounded by sixty archers. They'll shoot if you move." As if on cue, a row of men stood up on the roofs of the surrounding houses.
Neither Eragon nor Brom reacted openly to the change in circumstance, confident in their safety… especially as Eragon had warded each of them to within an inch of invulnerability. He'd had to give Saphira something to make her let go. "What do you want?" asked Brom calmly.
"Why have you come here?" demanded the man.
"To buy supplies and hear the news. Nothing more. We're on the way to my cousin's house in Dras-Leona."
"You're armed pretty heavily."
"So are you," said Brom. "These are dangerous times."
"True." The man looked at them carefully. "I don't think you mean us ill, but we've had too many encounters with Urgals and bandits for me to trust you only on your word."
"If it doesn't matter what we say, what happens now?" countered Brom. The men on top of the houses had not moved. Some might mistake their stillness for discipline, but Eragon could feel the truth in their thoughts: they were scared for their very lives.
"You say that you only want supplies. Would you agree to stay here while we bring what you need, then pay us and leave immediately?"
"Yes."
"All right," said the man, lowering his bow, though he kept it ready. He waved at one of the archers, who slid to the ground and ran over. "Tell him what you want."
Brom recited a short list and then added, "Also, if you have a spare pair of gloves that would fit my son, I'd like to buy those too." The archer nodded and ran off.
"The name's Trevor," said the man standing in front of them. "Normally I'd shake your hand, but under the circumstances, I think I'll keep my distance. Tell me, where are you from?"
"North," said Brom, "but we haven't lived in any place long enough to call it home. Have Urgals forced you to take these measures?"
"Yes," said Trevor, "and worse fiends. Do you have any news from other towns? We receive word from them rarely, but there have been reports that they are also beleaguered."
"We're a week out of Yazuac, who claim to have not seen an Urgal in nearly a year's time," Brom answered. "It seems you lot have been the victim of bad fortune."
Trevor shook his head. "I wonder what god is laughing at us."
The archer hurried out of a house with a pile of goods in his arms. He set them next to the horses, and Brom paid him. As the man left, Brom asked, "Why did they choose you to defend Daret?"
Trevor shrugged. "I was in the king's army for some years."
Brom dug through the items, handed Eragon the pair of gloves, and packed the rest of the supplies into their saddlebags. Eragon pulled the gloves on, being careful to keep his palm facing down, and flexed his hands. The leather felt good and strong, though it was scarred from use.
"Well," said Brom, "as I promised, we will go now."
Trevor nodded. "When you enter Dras-Leona, would you do us this favor? Alert the Empire to our plight and that of the other towns. If word of this hasn't reached the king by now, it's cause for worry. And if it has, but he has chosen to do nothing, that too is cause for worry."
"We will carry your message. May your swords stay sharp," said Brom.
"And yours."
Eragon and Brom rode out of town.
See? That went perfectly fine. Eragon sent to his dragon.
His only response was a mental feeling that he could only describe as an eye-roll.