Chapter 10: Day Break
The battlefield reeked of smoke and death. Screaming men clutched their wounds as they writhed on the blood soaked ground, and black arrows filled the air. Swords and shields were scattered in every direction, and the scorching noon sun glinted off the dull metal.
Time and time again, the brave men of the Varden rushed towards the city, ramming the gates and seeking to scale the walls; and time and time again, they broke upon it like waves on stone. Countless men were wounded, many of them dead. Jormundur himself had taken an arrow to the stomach, and had been taken away. Belatona still stood strong and unassailable.
Eragon watched the scene below with gritted teeth. We have been fighting for more than half a day, Saphira. How many must die before we take the city?
Battle is not without its costs. The dragon replied, breathing flames onto a knot of soldiers as they circled the city walls. The men shrieked in pain as they were burned to their deaths. I do not like it anymore than you, but it is the truth.
Then the cost is too high in this case. Eragon closed his eyes and concentrated, spreading his mind again to find the enemy magicians that were scattered across the city. Tightening his mind around one that he had discovered, he pierced through her defenses like a sword and ended her life. This cannot go on, or the Varden will suffer too many losses. It must end, and soon.
A mind scratched the edges of his conscience warily, and spoke. Shadeslayer, a group of Jormudur's men need aid in the southwest part of the wall. They are being overcome!
Understood. Trianna's mind retreated from his mind, and he grimaced. Saphira, you heard her request. We will go at onc—
No. Arya's mind broke into his. I will deal with it. Continue your assault on the main gates.
A cluster of bolts flew towards Eragon, fired from strong crossbows. Stopping them with a word, the rider sent them back with doubled force. The archers fell, pierced by their own weapons.
But—
Of all of us, you are most suited to the task. Arya said emotionlessly. Do it as swiftly as you can, or Nasuada will have to sound the retreat. More of my kin are heading your way to aid you.
The gates are too heavily guarded! Eragon surveyed the city from the back of Saphira, noting its numerous bowmen and warriors. It is not something that I can do with myself alone and several magicians. The more we try, the more men will lose their lives!
We have no choice. Do what you can, but be cautious. We cannot afford to lose you.
The rider's lips twisted into a small sneer. Right.
The city of Belatona was an immensely well fortified city, its nigh impregnable stone walls high and thick. As the base of the Empire's military operations in the south, it had legions of battle-hardened soldiers to defend it from enemies. Since Galbatorix had seized it, Belatona's gates had never fallen.
That will change today! Roared Saphira.
Eragon raised his hand up into the air, shouting an incantation. Blinding light flooded from his palm, and the soldiers on the fortifications were forced to look elsewhere, lest their eyes be scorched by the sheer intensity. Using the opening, rider and dragon rushed at the gates, hoping to destroy the chains that kept it in place.
Spells of various kinds assailed his wards, and he grimaced at the sudden lack of energy. The sorcerers hid themselves well among the numerous soldiers, and it was near impossible to discover them. Less affected by the spell then normal men, they began the attacks almost immediately.
Some of these are very skilled, snarled the rider as they were forced away. It will be extremely difficult to defeat them, even if we are able to open the gates.
Agreed. Saphira increased her speed as she dodged a hail of arrows that whistled through the air. Yet, if we do not break open the gates, nothing can be done.
Eragon nodded grimly. Yes. However… I think that this battle will be fought for much longer than Nasuada had guessed.
An almost unnoticeable movement at the corner of his eyes caught his attention. Turning his head around, he saw that on the tallest tower of the city walls a man in a dark cloak had straightened up where he sat. In his hands was a sleek ebony longbow.
A magician, from the looks of it. Growled Saphira.
Aye. Eragon tightened his grip on Brisingr. Saphira, aid me in my efforts. If we do not defeat him in a few seconds, he may—
An enchanted arrow hissed towards them with astonishing power and speed, loosed by the spell caster. Shocked, and unsure if he was able to block it with magic, the rider raised Brisingr and deflected it with difficulty. His wrists shook from the pure force.
That is no ordinary sorcerer! Eragon fought to evade the other arrows that came soon after, and Saphira spiraled through the air to escape the archer's aim. I haven't seen that kind of power since… since…
Something seemed to shift in the air, causing the rider to blink in surprise. There was a thing that was out of place, an odd feeling that crept into his skin… like the plants and all beasts had fallen silent--
Eragon! Screamed Trianna. He's here! I see his dra—
Excruciating pain hit Eragon in the right as he was struck by an immense force, with a strength hundred times stronger than Roran's hammer blows, stronger than anything he had ever experienced. Vision dimming, Brisingr flew out of his nerveless hand and he toppled off Saphira's back.
He had barely enough time to shout out his agony and surprise before he hit the ground.
Blood spurted out his mouth. Countless bones shattered, and pierced out of skin. His organs ruptured. But despite the pain and his wavering consciousness, he struggled to stand, his heart filled with desperation.
"Murtagh…!" He whispered through clenched teeth. That cursed bowman was the bastard himself!
He had never sensed them beforehand, not even a trace. Descending from above the clouds, Thorn had knocked him off Saphira with a heavy blow.
Why is he here? I thought he was in the north!
Feral roars filled Eragon's ears as the two dragons battled above. With a trembling hand, he moved his fingers over his chest and a spell started to heal his injuries. The power he had stored in his belt aided him in his efforts.
Eragon! Saphira shouted in his mind, full of concern. Are you all right?
The shards of white shrank back into his skin, one by one, and his flesh began to knit like torn cloth being woven together. The injuries were no longer fatal. He smiled, but it was strained.
I will live. He responded, blood dripping out from between his lips. Tell Nasuada… to signal the retreat. Without the elves, there is no chance…
Footsteps sounded beside him.
"You've grown wise, Brother. What you have just said is true."
Eragon coughed and turned around, hand reaching to his empty scabbard. Breathing ragged gasps, he looked up and locked his gaze with Murtagh.
The wind blew softly as the red rider advanced towards Eragon, wild bloodlust in his eyes. The black cloak fluttered around him, tattered and worn by years of use. Slowly, tauntingly, Murtagh drew out his crimson sword.
"Now you finally recognize the difference, the vast gap that separates you and me. I have power; you do not." Zar'roc shone with bloody malevolence, and a murderous smirk appeared on Murtagh's face. "The spell casters are not here to save you now, Eragon. No one will. Not even your new blade, which has abandoned you."
"I am no brother… of yours!" grunted Eragon as he pulled out his hunting knife. "And what power you have is gained is sought through the strength of others. Not something that is truly yours, traitor."
His vision blurred, and then cleared again. The yells and shouts of the battle faded into the background as he concentrated on the enemy before him. A foe that was far beyond his own abilities, even without his severe wounds.
"Oh?" Murtagh chuckled, his laugh high and chilling. "You are well informed. Indeed, the source of my power comes from five Eldunari. The very weakest of all of Galbatorix's collection. And yet, it has made me the strongest of all beings, with only my king above! I can burn, I can kill, I can destroy at will! People are ants before my power, and armies are nothing before my might!" Zar'roc flashed through the air, and Eragon barely managed to block it with the side of his knife.
"You are weak, Eragon, so very weak. Just one simple fall has rendered you unable to stand properly." Zar'roc came from the side, and Eragon avoided it by a hair's breadth. "I can't help but pity you." Murtagh whispered silkily in his ear. "It must be mighty hard for the Varden, to have such a useless piece of trash as their rider."
A crackling orb of emerald magic crashed against the side of Murtagh's face. Though it failed to penetrate the rider's wards, the blast of power sent him stumbling a few steps to the side. Before he could whirl around, a slim elven sword followed and went directly towards his throat.
"Hellfire!" Batting the blade away with a growl, Murtagh's eyes narrowed as he righted his sword and eyed his new opponent.
"You…" He spat.
Arya did not respond, and slashed at the rider's side. Murtagh parried the blow, and the vicious duel started in a torrent of flashing blades.
His feet collapsing beneath him, Eragon panted as his spell continued to heal his broken bones. One by one, they melted together and reset themselves into their proper places. Breathing hard, he felt around for Brisingr.
The blade was still nowhere to be seen.
Silver danced around crimson as the two continued to fight. Little by little, Arya led Murtagh away from where Eragon lay. Arya was quicker than the eye could follow, her movements graceful but fierce; but Murtagh blocked the blows easily, his strength unparalleled. They were both masters of the art, and were absolutely merciless in their attacks.
The red rider sneered and broke apart from the duel, his sword falling slightly to the side at a strange angle. Eragon paled; he had seen this move many times in his numerous duels with Murtagh long ago, and he knew what would happen.
"Arya!" he shouted. His wounds were but half healed and the bones in his legs were not yet fully mended, but he sprang forward with all his might, dagger in hand.
With a sharp blow, Murtagh drove the sword out of Arya's grasp, sending it flying through the air. Laughing in evil pleasure at his success, he brought Zar'roc downwards, eyes filled with malice.
There was clang and a flash of sparks, and Murtagh blinked in surprise. Eragon stood before him, trembling from the pain that wracked his body, his hunting knife held upwards to block the slash.
"Enough, Murtagh." His voice was quiet but determined. Sliding the dagger into a reverse grip, he took a stance.
Murtagh grinned broadly, and for a moment, it seemed to Eragon that the old Murtagh he had known and traveled with had returned again before his eyes. The same determination, the slight mischievousness, and--
A hand clamped itself around his throat, and he choked. Murtagh looked at him coldly, all traces of warmth gone.
"You haven't changed, Eragon. You always made it your task to fight against the inevitable, no matter how hard or harsh it was. Always placing others before you, always acting the fool." The red rider slammed him onto the ground, and grabbed his left hand. "I will deal with you later. The elf is scrambling to reach her sword, and will be a nuisance if left untended."
Unsheathing a knife from his belt, Murtagh charged it with magic and nailed Eragon's hand to the ground, sinking the blade to the hilt. Eragon arched his back in agony.
"Die clutching your idiocy." Murtagh hissed.
Without another word, the red rider raced towards Arya, who had only just reached her sword. Eragon knew that Murtagh would kill her easily. With one strong blow, he would end her life, leaving her with no time to set up her defenses. One blow.
The spell had his hand nailed firmly on the crimson stained ground. Blood seeped out of the gash, and the more he struggled more would pour out. There was no way he would be able to save her. She would die, like so many other people had.
"I would die first before anyone else does. That, I promise."
His lips curled into a thin smile.
Then, like a demon possessed, he grasped his knife tightly and sawed off his hand with barely a twitch of his features. Blood splattered his face and armor, but he ignored it. The dagger fell and slid into the soft earth.
I must be quick. Rising to his feet, he noticed that all of the sounds and sights seemed to have died away completely, leaving only Arya and his brother. The others seemed to him only a blur.
His legs started to move on their own, soon turning into a sprint at a speed he never knew he had.
I must be swift. Murtagh was laughing with his sword drawn back, Arya had one hand raised, ready to block the thrust with magic if needed. Her other hand was only beginning to touch the hilt of her blade.
I must be strong. Covering the few paces between them, he grabbed Arya roughly and shoved her out of the way.
Zar'roc entered him, but he never felt the pain. But he ignored the lack of agony, instead focusing on Murtagh's shocked features before him. He had no weapon; therefore, he drew back his fist and with every bit of strength left in him, struck his brother in the face.
The wine-colored blade left his body as quickly as it had come, now dyed in his blood. Murtagh was tossed through the air like a rag doll, Zar'roc besides him.
A voice sounded in his ear, coming from his confused memories in what seemed ages past:
"Or what, you'll punch me? You couldn't hit a brick wall!"
A small smile passed over his features before he fell, his legs unable to support his broken body any longer.
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He is not going to lose that hand! I promise that. I despise using the same stuff over and over again.
This chapter was very hard to write. I debated with myself over so many places, and in the end I still don't know if I did a good job of it. To me, it seems like a muck of incomprehensible sentences.
So, if you enjoyed it, or have something to say… please click that button that has been enlarged, to my immense joy.