Chapter IX of Shadow, a work of fan fiction based on Christopher Paolini's InheritanceCycle.
Every week or so, a new chapter will be published, so stay on your toes for more!
Urakr-lotha is a bad translation of "clear sky". It actually means "no-wet sky", wet as in rain. Garjzla-dreyma means "light-illusion", because magenta is an optical illusion. Watch watch?v=S9dqJRyk0YM to figure it out. Sundavr-dwervasolus comes out as "shadow-nightsun", nightsun referring to the moon, so that a better translation would be moon shadow.
Gïrnięn watched in horror as the corpse staggered toward him, twinned liquid emerald fires pooling in its eyes, its tattered cloak dragging behind him, its skeletal frame bumping up against itself, its hoarse laughter filling the chamber. Stifling a scream, Gïrnięn backed away, picking up Solus-harmr.
"S-stay away!" Gïrnięn yelled.
The corpse's decaying teeth grinded together in an attempt to laugh. Two fell out. "Tsk, tsk. So this is how Eragon teaches his students?" The creature feigned surprise. "Look at you, a sniveling little wimp with a blade. He really should have done better."
Peals of dark giggling rolled from the corpse's rotting mouth. With a battle cry that came out as a scream, Gïrnięn swung Solus-harmr. Landing with a resounding crack, Gïrnięn faltered as the peals of sickly laughter stopped abruptly. They started up again just as suddenly.
A disembodied voice rang across the room. "Well, well, well. Our little warrior has just signed his death warrant."
With a start, Gïrnięn recognized the voice. "Show yourself, Shadow!" He cried defiantly.
His only answer was more peals of sickly giggling. Suddenly, Gïrnięn noticed the severed head of the corpse rolling towards him. The remaining skin peeled off and the skull underneath grinned at him. Then it opened its mouth and waves of dark energy rolled off of it. Energy that seeped into Gïrnięn's bones, bringing its freezing cold and stinging pain. Gïrnięn felt a vile taste in his mouth. Somehow, he recognized it as the taste of death. Sinking into a darkness of doom and despair, Gïrnięn gave in to the darkness. Suddenly, a splash of gold streaked across the black, repelling it and expanding until the black had been driven away from Gïrnięn's vision. Rubbing his eyes, Gïrnięn sat up to see Jinaë and Orœthmis sitting up, but not Ÿreven. The Urgal's head hung low, his horns drooping almost imperceptibly. From his throat came a series a primeval, guttural, sounds. Abruptly, the Urgal's head snapped up. The eyes were milky and tinte d green. Ÿreven kept speaking his native language, the words sounding guttural and ugly. Standing up and lurching toward his companions, Ÿreven didn't notice when Orœthmis snuck up and hit him hard on the back of his head with the flat of his one handed short sword Urakr-lotha.
The aquamarine in the pommel gleamed as it came down. Jinaë just stared, sheathing her hand-and-a-half longsword Garjzla-dreyma. The rhodochrosite that rested in her pommel glowed, carved in the likeness of a rhododendron. Gïrnięn suddenly noticed that the sphere of obsidian on the pommel of Ÿreven's double-handed broadsword Sundavr-dwervasolus was glinting. Looking down, he realized the citrine on his pommel was also shining. Beams of light shot out of each pommel, pooling in the center of the room. Gïrnięn watched in wonder as the light slowly converted itself into dark energy, pooling and creating a giant sphere. Instinctively, Gïrnięn jerked his arm. He watched in equal parts wonder and horror as the corpse on the ground jerked its arm. Stepping forward, he watched as the corpse mimicked his exact move. Gasping, Jinaë turned and looked at him. The corpse did the exact same thing. Ÿreven, now revived, clambered up from the ground. The corpse did its best to imitate him. Gïrnięn, shocked, turned toward Orœthmis.
"I think we've just discovered the secret of necromancy."
Jinaë started giving the corpse verbal commands. "Lead us out of here. Now."
The corpse jerked up, and, picking its head up and setting it on its head, started shuffling towards one of the passageways. Gïrnięn turned around and threw a questioning glance in the general direction of Orœthmis. Orœthmis replied with a shrug and started walking after the corpse. Gïrnięn followed, leaving only Ÿreven behind. Grumbling, Ÿreven started after them. The walls of the labyrinth were made of smooth obsidian, in which their reflections shone. Gïrnięn studied his image. His dirty mop of golden-brown hair was disheveled, his golden eyes unfocused. His dragon-scale cloak hung low, weighted down by dust, debris, and corpse dust. His jerkin was even worse, torn and ripped. As he studied his reflection, he suddenly noticed that the walls were in fact thin partitions, behind which stacks of corpses were piled in twisted positions, eternally trapped in a macabre dance. Shivering at the grisly catacombs, Gïrnięn looked forward once more, as the floor slowly slanted upwards. Thousands of skulls grinned at him. Turning away, Gïrnięn noticed a faint speck of light ahead, natural light, not the green light floating amongst them. The skeletons danced their unnatural, convoluted dance around him, masterful contortionists forever immersed in their act. As the speck of light grew to an opening, fresh waves of air assaulted Gïrnięn's nostrils, providing a welcome change to the stench of death and decay.
Emerging from the passage, Gïrnięn stopped walking. It was dawn, Aiedail's light slowly fading away. Then he looked at his surroundings. He was on a gentle rise, the grass swaying in the morning breeze. Looking around, he started running, in no particular direction, just taking in the crisp morning air and the rhythmic swaying of the grass. Laughing and sobbing simultaneously, Gïrnięn flung himself into the grass and melted into the world around him. Standing up from the man-shaped indentation in the grass, Gïrnięn started walking towards the summit of the hill, hoping to get a better view. He stopped abruptly. Underneath him sprawled a giant white city, basking in the sun's first rays. The city, upon closer inspection, revealed scorch marks and certain ruins on its outskirts. Frowning, Gïrnięn stepped forward and almost fell. He was on an overhang. A massive overhang. He was in Illirea. Hearing a noise from behind him, Gïrnięn started—and felt his foot step into empty space. The next second he was falling. Falling to his death.