Chapter Ten – Quickknife
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Saphira and Eragon soared over the carnage-streaked fields in front of Belatona's outer wall. Bodies littered its expanse between those still breathing, still struggling to uphold their ideals. It was at once both awesome and gruesome.

Saphira parted her jaws and roared, sending her battle cry into every atom of both Varden and Empire alike. A fierce cheer went up from their own ranks while the enemy stopped in their tracks, dismayed at the sight; this would spell their downfall.

Their defenses will be our first target, Eragon told her. The archers and those dumping hot pitch; paving the way for them to overrun the walls will end this that much sooner.

Dwell not on the outcome or lessening their losses, Saphira said reproachfully as she angled her wings to lower their altitude. Only on doing what we must.

I know.

The mighty dragon dipped to the proper angle as they swept over the battlements and extended one foreleg, knocking free several dozen men who were attempting to overturn the Varden's ladders. Some fell where they stood, others over the sides and to the earth two stories below. Many loosed arrows in her direction, where they were turned aside by Eragon's wards; they fed partially on his own power, partially on hers, and partially on that of Blödhgarm and the other elven warriors on the ground. As per their discussion, they had forged their way to the front of the Varden's initial wave so that when Rider and dragon arrived the elves would be best placed to feed the two of them additional energy for spells.

Before the gates were breached, Eragon bade Saphira send a gout of flame spreading through the streets, any and all that were free of ordinary townspeople; hundreds of men were incinerated, few of whom survived. They made quick work of ballistae and other war engines, reducing the Empire's ability to stand their ground. Much in their favor, there seemed to be a shortage of magicians on Galbatorix's salary in Belatona; Du Vrangr Gata would soon be given free reign once they realized this. Eragon sent a message bearing this news to Trianna, who was near the front lines. Her glee was ill-concealed.

Then the tide suddenly turned against them. Saphira was clawing her way up the side of the small city's fortress and tugging archers and their few middling sorcerers free with her claws and tail when outcries and waves of agony washed over Eragon; something was amiss throughout the ranks of the Varden. Leaving their current efforts, they returned to where the bulk of the skirmish was being fought.

There, scorching the earth, were their opposite numbers. Murtagh and Thorn.

Barzûl knular! Eragon swore to Saphira. I had prayed earnestly we'd be spared a confrontation such as this.

An unanswered prayer, then. Galbatorix grows weary of his enemies spreading over his empire like an obstinate lichen. We shall again be forced to fight those of stunted mind and chained heart.

It is our wyrda.

"Eragon!" the demented cry rang out. "Here we are again, my brother, poised on conflicting sides! How tragic!"

"You're no brother of mine!" he growled as he closed his mind to any and all connections – including Saphira's. He had not perfected his ability to maintain contact with her via their link without allowing others to sneak in around the sides, and therefore it was far too dangerous to do anything else. "You are an anathema!"

"I thought your goal was to save me," Murtagh said, his grin bloodthirsty, his eyes mad and flashing. "Have you given it up as a lost cause?"

"Never, old friend. But neither can I allow you to harm those I name brethren-in-arms."

"I am your brother! We have both wielded the same blade – that of our father!" To illustrate, he raised Zar'roc to the sky, its ruddy sheen reflecting the pale light of sunrise. "Deny that our bond is deeper than yours to those weaklings and cowards crawling through the mud below if you will, but you beguile neither of us!"

Eragon allowed himself a sinister grin. "We share not a father! Only a mother!"

There hung silence for a moment as both dragons circled one another in the air, fire chasing ice as ice chased fire. "What drivel is this?"

"Today, you witness for the first time my true name – Eragon Bromsson!"

"YOU LIE!"

"Our mother may have been the Black Hand," Eragon went on, not only glad to clear himself of the geas of Morzan's ancestry but also suspecting that the psychological effect of losing the thing that most linked them together would shake Murtagh's confidence. Any foothold in this situation would be worth its weight in gold. "She may have sired both of us. But Morzan allowed her heart to slip through his calloused fingers! She became drawn to another, and bore his child – and that child challenges her other!"

"And you claim this other was Brom?" Murtagh called out with no small dose of incredulity. "The old fossil who couldn't even save himself from the Ra'zac? Preposterous! I ask for silver-plated truth and you present to me rusted tin!"

"Believe as you will," Eragon bit out. "But I shall defeat you this day, half-brother!" Then he drew Brisingr, and held it proudly aloft... and his adversary's eyes grew wide, mouth hanging as if its hinge were broken.

"No... you have a Rider's blade, a true... where in Alagaësia did you find-"

"I forged it with my own hands!" he crowed. Technically it was fact, even if his hands were being guided by another, more capable smithy at the time. "A sword free of previous owner for a rider free of oppression! And with it, I will liberate the rest of this continent as well!"

Murtagh's eyes flashed – was that envy lurking in there? Perhaps it was. "See to your high-minded crusade, then – if you can!"

Steel met steel as the two dragons grappled beneath, clawing and biting and bludgeoning each other with tails. Eragon knew with depressing certainty how equal they were in swordsmanship, but he had gained a slight advantage. When last they clashed, he had been wielding a common falchion from among the Varden's armaments. Now he had acquired a new Rider's sword, tailored to his specific needs and fighting style. Murtagh found himself defending more often than attacking, and that consternated him.

So he relied on his magics. Wave after wave of spells and incantations pounded upon Eragon and Saphira, most of which were harmlessly deflected by wards, though even that was troubling for it meant their magical reserves began to drain rapidly. Eragon flung a number of his own at the power-hungry Rider, few of which made any impact other than to equally deplete Murtagh's resources. He felt the power go out of Blödhgarm's troupe and from Arya, who he knew was also feeding him what power she could spare, but it was enough; the battle would have to stretch on far longer before any of the elves were left drained. A possibility that was all too probable.

Eragon got in a lucky shot. While both of them were trading blows of gramarye, he turned aside Murtagh's sword for the instant needed to land a glancing strike to his arm, a tiny cut through armor and fabric into flesh that nearly reached bone. The dripping gash would eventually weaken him if not seen to. It would be simplicity itself to heal if he had a spare moment, but Eragon did not intend to allow that; he would keep his half-brother busy defending himself both physically and mentally.

"Have you found a way to change my true name yet?"

Eragon knew he did not actually care. It was a tactic to divert his attention from their trading of blows. "I cannot do it in your stead. It is a path meant for one."

"It is a path that does not exist, then!"

Part of him knew he wanted to stop and lament the sad arrangement of events that led to his being ensnared by Galbatorix's iron will. It was something that would have to be done when he was not otherwise occupied.

Inspired, Eragon devised a spell that unraveled the fabric and welding that held Murtagh's armor together. Being that it could hardly be called offensive magic, it slipped past his wards and did what it was intended. Much the worse for the Son Of Morzan, he was sufficiently distracted by part of his clothing falling away that he flinched, his concentration lapsing.

Eragon struck again... and this was no glancing strike.

Murtagh cried out with anguish as two of his fingers tumbled to the ground far below. As if on cue, Thorn lashed out at Saphira and clawed a hole in one of her wings – just enough of a distraction to allow them to retreat. As Murtagh glared at his own hand, Eragon hastily patched that rip and two others like it, ignoring the smallish cuts he'd gained on his own arms and legs. They were cosmetic and not life-threatening.

He watched as Murtagh summoned his flesh from the ground below, watched as he began attempting to reattach it – using not his own power, but one of the strange artifacts he had been given by Galbatorix that could contain a fully-cast spell for later use. And Eragon lunged free of Saphira and tackled Murtagh at the exact moment the spell took root, knowing that was when his concentration would be most focused on the procedure.

"GAH!"

Eragon winced when he felt the tip of Zar'roc part the very end of his ear, but he knew he'd done far more critical damage. Brisingr showed on the other side of Murtagh's hip, its blue combining with fluids to form a ghastly maroon tint.

"You'll regret that," Murtagh rumbled, teeth clenched against the pain. "You'll pay this debt in full, here and now!"

Zar'roc flashed backward, and Brisingr was still lodged tightly. He would not be able to jerk it free in time to defend himself.

That was the moment Saphira chose to batter Thorn mercilessly from behind, scraping away scales and leaving long bloody stripes across his back. Zar'roc missed his throat and only nicked him on the cheek, and Eragon pressed his boot into Murtagh's chest and flipped away and into the air, where he began to drop.

Of course, Saphira was under him within a few seconds. In that time, Murtagh frantically mended the hole pouring forth crimson, but there was no time to do it with much grace or attention to detail. Thorn's injuries would also need to wait.

"Give up," Eragon bade him as both Riders began to circle. "Can't you see that you cannot win this time? I will be the victor, and you will be dead – so at least lay down your arms and surrender until we have beaten your master! Then you shall be free of his atrocious bindings!"

"Do you really think he hasn't considered that?" Murtagh screamed. "My ironclad orders are to fight you until you die, or I die, or I am forced to retreat. There is no room for pretty words or clever insurrection!"

"Then I shall have to ensure you will not return to cast a shadow over us again!"

The dragons clashed anew. Driven mad by the pain in his wounds and his inability to choose his own fate, Murtagh's attacks grew frantic and without rhyme or reason. Eragon was able to open vents of blood below his knee and on his shoulder. This was before the worst happened.

Eragon cursed in three languages as he helplessly watched Brisingr tumble to earth.

"HA!" Murtagh crowed, his conquest ensured. "All the fancy swords in the world cannot make you the more accomplished fencer! I have robbed you of your livelihood, Shadeslayer-" this he spoke as if a lewd joke he'd heard from small children "-and now your life shall follow it, unless you swear allegiance to Galbatorix here and now!"

"I would sooner ingest pig vomit!"

"That can be arranged!"

What else could he do? Eragon had lost, staggeringly, unequivocally lost. Now all he could hope to do was figure out a way to bring down Murtagh with him.

Eragon sent every killing-word he knew in the ancient language at him; none landed. He then tried a few new ones, far-fetched ideas that he formed, cast and wailed at their ineffectiveness between beats of his thundering pulse. Even one he had been sure would work, that was meant to literally boil the blood, failed.

"Farewell, my half-brother." Eragon heard the note of regret hiding behind the sheen of mockery. Neither of them wanted to kill the other, but fate truly was a cruel mistress.

Zar'roc raised, Saphira and Thorn ravaged one another, Eragon readied a futile attempt to catch or swat aside the blade with his bare hands...

And found himself stunned to see something streaking past, an object that deflected Zar'roc and thereby postponed his death knell.

"What in- who goes here?"

"I GO!"

Both half-brothers gaped at the lithe form hovering a mere two yards away, holding a blade in either hand – one of which was Brisingr. The other gleamed violet.

"Elva!"

"What in blazes is an Elva?" Murtagh demanded, looking from Eragon to his former apprentice, Rider's blade still at the ready. "What is this moth-eaten beggar girl doing here? Answer!"

"I can speak for myself!"

Though Murtagh was the more experienced swordsman, his shock was so complete that he could do little more than fend off her dual-bladed attack, gaping openly at this new threat.

"You're flying!" Eragon couldn't help but observe.

"I am!" A few strokes later, she reversed to his side, landing on Saphira's shoulder and returning Brisingr to him in the same motion. "Thought you might have missed this."

"More than you can know! What are you doing here?"

Her eyes, brighter than he'd ever seen them flare, held a smile that was at once delighted, resigned, and energized. "Darning the tapestry of fate. What else?"

"This is ludicrous!" Murtagh fumed. "I demand to know who this whelp is and why she inserts herself so unwelcomely into this Rider's duel!"

Elva took a step forward, knuckles whitening on Skölir's grip. "Quickknife."

"Pardon?"

"Argetbrun, the Cursed-By-Blessing!" she bellowed as she soared the short distance to Thorn's back and stabbed at him. And thereafter, Eragon witnessed his pupil's finest hour.

Moving faster than he'd ever seen any non-elf manage, she feinted and dodged and parried, landing a dozen scratches on the top layer of Murtagh's skin without gaining so much as a bruise on her own. Twice he landed a blow against her, but her wards and sheer speed turned it aside, a dull scraping sound filling the air as it moved along her armor. Grinning wickedly, she sent a swipe behind her that removed the tips of several of Thorn's head-spikes, causing the dragon to roar with outrage.

"From where do you draw this unrelenting power?" Murtagh begged to know weakly as Zar'roc blazed a fiery path through the air around him.

"The same origin as you!"

With an off-hand gesture, she tugged at the knot holding her bandana in place and allowed it to drift free. Almost as an afterthought, Eragon dipped to the side and caught it.

"It can't be," Murtagh said, head shaking without him knowing he shook it. "But... but you have no dragon, you had no eggs! What is this sacrilege?"

"It is my wyrd, traitor! It is the end of an Empire and the beginning of a new age!"

Three deflected strokes later, she surged under his guard and punctured his side. He reeled back, as if to strike at her with an open palm – and this proved to be a grave error.

Murtagh's entire arm parted with the rest of him. For a brief moment, no one spoke, and Murtagh's eyes filled with tears of pain and disbelief. Then he growled out a hasty spell that ripped open the flap of one of his saddlebags, and the arm changed its course to fall inside.

"I'll see to that later," he said murderously, voice stripped and raw. "Now... I must remove this obstacle and return to my purpose for being present at this siege!"

"Bah! Do so if you think you've the stenrya!"

By this point, Murtagh had passed beyond ire and into the role of the rabid beast. Even one-handed, Zar'roc carved the wind to ribbons, and Elva beat aside all with her own Rider's blade, but she had few openings to counterattack against such reckless abandon.

Murtagh reached out with magic, but she rebuffed his own spell and set his head alight almost without stopping to think. Laughing, she made to plant her dagger into his collarbone... and succeeded.

Then Zar'roc found its way into her gut.

The air seemed to hang still and silent for a long moment as blood welled around both wounds. Eragon felt a fragment of his own soul fracture, cracks spiderwebbing across its surface. Elva completed her move, drew back with blade in hand, and looked down at the red steel protruding from her abdomen. One of her fingers touched the juncture where metal and flesh blended into a singular crimson mess. Her mouth popped open and a unitary word gurgled forth.

"Werg."

It seemed her finest hour would also be her final.

-o-o-o-o-o-
To Be Continued...

NOTES: Thanks for all the reviews, everybody... and I'm really, really sorry about the cliffhanger.