Okay, so after my break, I return! Project of Doom is complete, I'm done moving, and this chapter is really, really long! :D I felt like I had to make it up to you guys, 'cause I got over 100 reviews!!
NOTE: THERE WILL BE A SEQUEL TO THIS STORY. (some of you haven't caught that, yet.)
Note #2: If you can give me 2,000 reviews by the time I finish 39 chapters, I'll post the first chapter of Edoc'sil on the same day I post the last chapter of Eldunari. Sound good?
THIS chap is split into two POVs, so don't get too confused!!
Many thanks to the beta trio!! Love ya all!!
Dedicated to chinqs, who heroically stood up for me, and to my sister Kate. Love you. :)
Disclaimer: Inheritance Cycle, its characters and places, does not belong to me. Some of those portrayed in this story, however, to belong to me. Thanks!
"Time does not heal all wounds. It just lets them fester, scab over, and get an infection." -Rose Marima
Chapter Thirty-Six: The Beginning
Arya bounded up the sandstone steps, her breathing ragged, Faolin's weight on her shoulders. Three days. That was all the time she had to prepare for a serious battle. She cursed Elva silently for selling out the Varden. She cursed Jarn for not discovering the King's plan sooner. And she cursed herself, for letting Eragon run off instead of return to Belatona with her.
They needed him now, and there was no way of reaching him, what with he and his brother—whom Arya was still incredibly wary of, no matter what Eragon said—being deep in the Spine. Hopefully the dragons could find them in time, but Arya was not overly hopeful. It could, quite possibly, take days for Eragon to reach Belatona. And the Varden only had three.
Which was why Arya was sprinting up the stairs, aimed for Nasuada's meeting room, to try and awaken the captive Eldunarí.
Glaedr-elda! She called, reaching for the golden dragon with her mind.
Arya. The dragon hummed back, affectionate. They had grown closer in the few days since Faolin's hatching. What is wrong?
We need to awaken the Eldunarí. She said tersely. The Empire is coming here in three days.
Faolin chirped unhappily, his soft claws kneading the sleeve of the elf's tunic. He picked up on her urgency and he did not understand.
Of course he didn't understand. He was a hatchling. His world consisted of birds and new smells and raindrops on his tiny tongue, not Kings and monsters and marching armies.
Arya petted his head and tried to soothe his agitation as she slid into Nasuada's room, making a beeline for the concealed Eldunarí.
The multitude of stone Hearts spilled out onto the ground, pulsing weakly, helpless, broken. Glaedr and Sirocco glowed and flickered, reaching out to Arya.
This will not be an easy task. The golden dragon warned.
Many years of imprisonment have broken them. Sirocco agreed. We shall assist you where you need us.
Thank you.
She set Faolin on the ground, and the dragonling bounded over to Glaedr's Eldunarí and curled against it, watching with intelligent emerald eyes.
The elf picked up the nearest Eldunarí, an amber one of middling size, and peered into its weakly swirling depths.
Who is this? Arya asked the two Eldunarí.
I believe this is Namar Quicksilver. Glaedr rumbled. He and his elf Rider, Kirra, were scholars of poisons and chemicals. It was they who discovered twelve of the fifteen Silent Killers.
Arya nodded, recognizing the term for the fifteen deadliest poisons known to assassins.
He and his Rider were killed by Morzan, near the beginning of the Fall. Sirocco added. He was always a skittish one; be careful.
I shall try. And Arya plunged into the mind of the captured dragon.
Instantly, she realized that it was unlike any other thing she had ever experienced. Glaedr's mind had been blocked and Sirocco had been wrapped in his own pain, but Namar was open and exposed and very, very frightened.
And Arya found herself standing in a field.
She stood in a charred field, the stink of ash in her nose. The grasses were charred and burnt and they crunched underfoot. The sky was the color of slate and stained with black smoke. A city lay on its side a ways away, the broken buildings and torn flags imprinted against the sky.
Namar crouched in the distance, and his wide, gentle amber eyes were full of fear. There was a great black rip where his heart had once been, and there were dull eyes were his spark had once been. The amber creature was broken.
Don't hurt me. He whispered. I don't know anything else.
Arya's heart ached. I am not going to hurt you. She said, attempting to get closer. I am a friend.
Namar shied away, scrambling over the broken ground, his wings torn and ruined, useless as he tried to flee.
Sighing heavily, Arya sat on the charred earth and waited, like she did in Ellesmera, waiting for wild animals.
I will not hurt you. She repeated, gently, in the ancient language. Glaedr and Sirocco's minds joined hers, and suddenly they stood next to her.
Glaedr was whole and proud and strong, his mighty limbs gleaming.
Sirocco was thinner and shorter but longer, his muscles lean and ropy. He was the color of the southern waters, and his teal eyes were glowing.
Namar, my wing-brother! Sirocco called. It is alright. We are here to free you.
The amber dragon remained wary and spooked, crouching as he slunk closer. Sirocco? Glaedr-elda?
Namar. Glaedr hummed. Come, brother, we need your help.
This is a trick. The amber dragon said doubtfully. This is a trick to steal more of my knowledge.
No. Arya insisted. It is not a trick. I am a Rider, and a friend. She repeated the message Eragon had given her when she had first met him, drugged and beaten.
Namar was not convinced. You will hurt me. He repeated.
No! Sirocco cried, and the amber creature skittered away, alarmed.
How do I show him that I mean no harm? Arya asked, frustrated.
Can you bring Faolin here? Glaedr asked, his deep golden eyes fixed sadly on Namar.
Arya reached out of Namar's Heart, for the new, deep bond that tethered her to her dragonling. Faolin nuzzled her with his simple thoughts, and she asked him if he could help. He agreed with a rush of childlike determination, and then he was sitting on his Rider's shoulder, his wide eyes glowing as he peered intelligently at the elder dragons around him.
Namar's eyes widened, and the stale, choked air seemed to lessen somewhat. That is…?
This is Faolin. Arya said gently. He is my dragon.
You are not lying? The amber eyes were hesitant. Namar came closer, and as he came, the dark clouds lightened a little and the smoke faded, and the grasses yellowed and greened.
He stood in front of Arya, his chest ripped, his wings torn, and his eyes impossibly sad.
I am Arya, Namar. She said, and, very slowly, raised her dragon-marked hand to rest on his nose. The scales were cool. Hello.
Hello? Namar was doubtful, shrinking, and he trailed his scattered thoughts through the minds of the gathered. Faolin sneezed at the interruption of his thoughts, and grinned at Namar.
The amber dragon blinked in wonder. You are not going to steal my knowledge. He said, surprised. You are here to free me?
Yes. Sirocco hummed. He nosed the other affectionately. We are here for your help.
Help? Self-doubt flashed in amber eyes.
We need your help to beat Galbatorix. Arya told him. Faolin agreed heartily.
Namar shook his head, but the darkness in his mind lessened, and the grasses continued to grow. If you lose, he said, kill me.
How?
Crush his Eldunarí. Glaedr said. Break it and his soul goes free.
Arya nodded solemnly. I promise you.
Namar nodded, his eyes serious. Good. Then I'll help you.
Glaedr and Sirocco roared in joy and nosed Namar affectionately. Wing-brother! They hummed, and circled around him.
The field, growing again, began to fade, and Glaedr and Sirocco evaporated into swirling clouds, and Arya locked eyes with Namar, and the world around her whited out…
The stone floor of the keep was warmed by the sun, and Arya's hands were hot. Faolin's anxious green eyes swam into view, and he nudged his Rider.
I am fine, Faolin. She told him, scratching his neck fondly.
He snorted, as if to say don't do that again, please.
The Eldunarí in Arya's lap was hot, and it glowed, the amber light inside swirling as Namar awoke.
Namar?
Hi. The dragon replied softly.
Your mind-world is interesting. Sirocco said, amused.
Mind-world? Arya asked.
The places we Eldunarí create for ourselves. It is where our souls reside. You did not think that we just existed, did you?
The elf nodded, understanding. You will lend us your knowledge and power? She asked of Namar.
Yes. We?
Arya told the amber dragon of Eragon and Saphira, and the Varden, and their current predicament. We need all the help we can get. She explained.
I understand. How many did you rescue? Namar's voice was soft and reverent.
Many.
Then I will help you wake them.
Smiling slightly, Arya gently set him aside, next to Glaedr and Sirocco. Through the links, the three entered a discussion with each other.
Faolin, Arya said to her heart-partner, choose the next Eldunarí. Delighted to have something to do, Faolin leaped from his Rider's shoulder and circled the collected Hearts. Finally he leaped up on a large red one, chattering and grinning proudly.
That is Waret the Mountain-Breaker, a wild dragon of great physical strength. Glaedr rumbled. He was one of the last to die, because of his strength and prowess in combat.
Arya obediently dipped into the Heart of Hearts, and briefly saw a scene similar to Namar's—war-torn cities, black sky, burned fields and forests. Waret was huge, easily the size of Glaedr, and his huge fangs bared in rage and fear when the elf approached.
I am Arya, she told him. I am a friend, and a Rider.
Waret sensed the truth in her words, and roared mightily. Then I shall lend my strength to you and your allies, O elf.
And so it went.
Arya, with occasional aid from Glaedr, Sirocco, Faolin, and the others, awakened dragon after dragon. Only two Eldunarí, a young timid male named Greth and a female called Jerati whose Rider had been raped and killed before her, were too broken to offer any help. They could still be tapped for power, of course, but that would be sinking to Galbatorix's level, forcing the broken into slavery.
Greth and Jerati had been shattered, so their earthly shells were as well, with a few muttered words in the ancient language, and they went on.
The work was hard and mentally taking, and the sun had set and risen again before Arya finally reached the last, a massive, ancient being that Glaedr identified as Regial, who had served under Eragon the First and Bid'daum and then on the Rider Council until he and his Rider were slain.
The Heart was jet black, with inky remnants of soul lying sedate at the center, and Arya shuddered, thinking of Shruikan.
Cautiously, Arya reached into his mind.
Hello? She called. Silence. And then—
Blackness everywhere, crushing her, strangling the life out of her, and a deep, bone-shaking roar was echoing in her ears, and she couldn't see or breathe or cry out to soothe the enraged dragon. She was helpless—
Murderer! A deep voice spat. Killer of my kith and kin!
No! Arya choked. No, no, I am not Galbatorix!
Liar. Snarled Regial. Who else would you be?
Regial-ebrithil! Glaedr was in the darkness, a faint smudge of gold. Regial, my friend, stop!
Glaedr? What is this trickery? Arya saw a pair of black black eyes and white white teeth gleaming, illuminated by Glaedr's warm gold.
I shall serve no longer! Regial bellowed. You shall not use me to sow death amongst the races of Alagaesia any longer!
I do not wish to use you! Arya shouted. I am here to free you, and request your help.
Lies. The darkness constricted again. The gleaming eyes and teeth glittered with vindictive hate, years and years of pain and rage. All lies. Galbatorix always lies.
I am not Galbatorix!
Liar. The black eyes closed, the teeth bared, and the darkness snuffed out Glaedr's gold—
And Faolin was there, a prick of green, and his anxiety pulled at Arya, reaching through the darkness, and the ancient dragon hissed in shock and surprise—
Arya breathed in and found that she was once again in Lady Nasuada's chambers, the stone floor warm and her hands burning. Hissing, she scrambled away from the black Eldunarí, her hands stinging painfully. Faolin chattered at the stone angrily, baring his tiny teeth and swatting at the black Heart.
Are you alright? Glaedr's concern was echoed by the others; they muttered amongst themselves anxiously, their voices a low buzz in Arya's thoughts.
I am fine. The elf said. But she was grateful for Faolin's nose in her ear and his anxious green eyes. He did not understand what Regial was, or what he had done, but he understood that he could have lost his Rider.
He grumbled unhappily, as if to say I have had enough excitement, thanks.
Arya watched the Eldunarí on the floor. The inky soul inside swirled angrily, before settling back into the center; Regial was not a being to mess with.
Perhaps later we can awake him. She said.
Sirocco hissed in disagreement. He is a dangerous one, Arya. He was a fighter until the end, and he is old enough to have massive amounts of power stored inside him.
So you would destroy him? Namar intruded softly.
Some are too broken to fix.
Enough. Arya said. I shall try again later, but for now, I think I would be of more use if I aided the Varden in war preparations.
She bid goodbye to the Eldunarí, hid them, and then, with Faolin jauntily on her shoulder, somewhat recovered from the trauma inflicted by his Rider almost dying, she moved quickly down the steps and into the keep.
It, in contrast to yesterday, was nearly deserted. A table with food was tucked into the corner, no doubt to replenish the captains and couriers who flitted in and out. Arya picked up a chunk of bread and a roughly-hewn bowl of cold soup, as well as strips of jerky for Faolin. Once he was old enough, Arya would wean him from meat, if he desired.
Currently, however, he was more than happy to gulp down the jerky, licking his teeth clean and humming in his throat.
The bread and soup were filling, and replenished some of the energy that had been lost waking so many, and with a reinvigorated step Arya was trotting out into the city. The innards were nearly barren, but the outer edges of Belatona swarmed with life. The thousands of Varden fighters milled busily, dragging logs from the woods outside up the wide wall staircases, crafting war machines and catapults, training, passing messages, and so on.
It was chaotic, but at the same time oddly soothing.
The Varden were going to fight. They were prepared, ready. They were defending, not attacking. They had a chance, with twenty-odd Eldunarí supplementing the magic pool, with brave leaders, and with sheer determination.
What do you think, Faolin? She asked, looking at the emerald dragonling. Do we have a chance?
Faolin flared his wings and snorted, smoke rolling from his nostrils, and the message was clear.
The Varden were going to fight until they won.
Smiling slightly, Arya climbed the wall staircase and began to help set up the defences.
The sun shone down.
"You have to fight a battle more than once to win it." -Margaret Thatcher
***
Roran Stronghammer stopped to wipe sweat from his brow, his hands resting on the now-completed catapult. He'd helped build three now, and his muscles ached fiercely.
The sun had finally slid below the horizon—it had been a day and a half since the cloud-messenger had brought news of the Empire's eminent attack to light. The following hours had been long and brutal, but Roran was, for once, confident. He had spent the better part of yesterday afternoon checking over his command, which had grown considerably, and to his pleasure, everyone in his command was in decent fighting shape.
The Urgals were ferocious, as always, the humans tough and durable. Those who had joined in Belatona proved to be quick and nimble, good with swords, daggers, and arrows. The exception archers had been sent on, of course, to where they could be of use, which left nearly two thousand men in Roran's personal force, the largest in the Varden.
And they were ready.
Once he had been satisfied that his command was in fighting shape, Roran and ordered them to make themselves useful, gathering food, moving civilians towards the city's center, constructing defences, and so on. He himself had supervised the construction of the catapults, since midnight, and now, after a long day, he ached.
The wall was nearly fortified by now, though. With thirteen thousand to help build the defences, work had gone quickly. The fields were picked clean, all food brought in. Hunters had had great success and meat was now curing in the cellars, with magical aid.
Roran looked out over the wall. The fields were silent, now, and dark. The forest was a dark blur, the lake black except for the watery reflection of the moon. The stars were partially obscured, as clouds had come in sometime in the afternoon.
Yawning, the general turned away, scratching his beard. Tomorrow he would train his soldiers more and possibly practice with the bow given to him by the shaggy-haired boy, Solembum. The Halflings were sure to be at the battle, and Roran wanted to shoot at least one.
Staggering down from the wall, the bearded man made his way towards his temporary quarters. He saw a flash of green light; Arya, her new dragon on her shoulder, lifted a cut log into place, fortifying one of the many smaller gates in and out of the city. She nodded to Roran as he passed, and he returned the nod.
The streets were quiet. The warriors felt safe, secure. They had set up their defences perfectly. They could fend off the coming onslaught.
I wonder if this is how Imperial soldiers feel. Roran thought, idly. Safe and secure, confident in their power to fend off any foe.
And suddenly Roran did not feel like sleeping any more. The Empire had felt safe, secure, in Feinster, in Belatona, in Gil' ead. They had been well-defended, protected. And they had lost. The same thing could happen to the Varden—beaten, broken, driven away.
And the Varden were considerably smaller than the Empire. They did not have the resources to survive out in the wild for the cold winter months. They would starve, and come spring be easy pickings.
If they lost this battle, the Varden would die.
Roran felt sick. His feet continued on the journey to his quarters, but all thoughts of sleep were driven from his mind.
He was currently residing in a simple house with a small paddock behind it, for Trumpet. After Galbatorix and Elva, Roran was determined to keep the horse near and safe—the keep's stables were too far away.
There were two rooms, one for sleeping and one for war meetings. Roran entered the war room, studying the map that was sprawled across his table. Belatona and its defences were clearly marked, but still Roran poured over it, searching for any weakness that could be exploited, any flaw in the system.
Belatona did not have tunnels, like Uru'baen. It was connected to Lake Leona, but the canal was blocked, with iron and steel spikes driven deep into the earth. Inaccessible. The catapults and the archers would defend against Halflings. The gates were barricaded, except for the main one.
And if Eragon and his brother (Roran refused to trust the man, despite Saphira's insistence that Murtagh was a friend) arrived on time, the Empire would face serious aerial assault from two powerful, trained Dragon Riders.
And yet…
Unease pricked at Roran's mind, even as his exhausted body started to still.
Eragon needs to get here. Roran thought, dimly, the lines on the map blurring. Eragon…
"You're slipping, my boy." Garrow's eyes were milky and blank.
"What?"
The dead man shook his head. His skin, blue and ivory, was cold. Roran shivered. "You're losing you edge."
"What do you mean?"
Dead-Garrow cocked his head. "Do you really think that it will take three days, Roran? Only three?"
The general shook his head tiredly, confused, trying to make sense of what his father was saying.
Garrow smiled his worm-ridden smile. "If you can't figure it out, my boy," he sing-songed, "I'll be seeing you soon." He caressed his son's face with an icy hand. "Soon, my boy, soon. It will all be over…"
"General!" The scream right outside his door startled Roran awake and he reeled, scrambling for his hammer, the daylight blinding him. Sun streamed into the open window, and the knocking on the door intensified.
Outside, Trumpet was bellowing and bugling, and people were shouting and screaming.
Something was wrong.
Roran staggered to the door, scrubbing his eyes. How could I have fallen asleep? He wondered, cursing himself, and threw open his door.
Outside was chaos. A messenger stood in his doorway, wide-eyed, panicked. People in the streets were rushing in opposite directions, civilians towards the center and soldiers, armed to the teeth, outwards.
Oh gods. They're here! Roran was bewildered. It was nearly midday—he had slept too long—but the Empire wasn't supposed to be here for another day at least.
"What's going on?" Roran barked.
"The Empire, general! They're marching along the horizon!" The messenger was frightened. He was young, hardly more than a lad. Roran felt a moment's pity for him.
"And my orders?"
"To your men, sir."
Roran nodded, battle-blood kicking in. "Go." He said, and turned back inside, his gut churning. This was bad. This was very, very bad. Somehow, Galbatorix had mobilized his men in less than two days—that was far too fast. Their information had been bad, somehow. The Empire had been closer, and now hell was about to break loose.
Barzul! Roran swore as he ran to Trumpet and swung himself up on the horse bareback. Someone had already bridled the horse, fortunately, and with a touch of his heels the black stallion careened out into the street.
People parted for Roran, but the streets swarmed, panic in every face. Trumpet cantered swifly, and soon the general was in front of the gates, were his men were to gather. Not many had arrived; the alarm had only been issued recently, then.
Dismounting, Roran hurried up the wall to take stock of everything, still cursing himself for sleeping until day. It was a stupid thing to do.
Once on top of the wall, Roran took a breath and looked out, and swore.
The sun shone through holes in the clouds, and off to the east, advancing in a shimmering line, marched the host of the Empire. The line of silver men was hazy, the sun glinting off their armour. They came eagerly, like wolves circling a wounded dear, and Roran saw the gore-crows circle in the sky.
"We've been tricked." Nasauda was there, dressed for war, her hair pulled pack and her face grim. "Griffin said that his brother's information was faulty. He had to swear in the ancient language three times to convince the elves of his truthfulness, but it appears as though he was deceived."
"Can we fend them off?"
The warrior woman wiped her brow. "I believe so." She said. "Our defences are not as strong as I would like, but we are mostly prepared. It will take many, many lives for the Empire to breach us."
Roran gazed out into the fields, at the advancing enemy. "Who will meet them on the fields?"
"Your forces, my own, Bjard's, Horst's, Nain's, and Nathaniel's. Tholem and the other captains will relieve us later, with Captain Fletcher striking from the walls." Nasuada's eyes were fixed on the line of men. "Go find Arya. I need to see if Eragon has contacted her in any way, shape or form."
Nodding, Roran bounded down from the wall. He had last seen the elf woman nearby, fixing logs into position. She could not be far.
"Arya!" He shouted. "Arya Shadeslayer!" The cry was taken up and soon the response was rippling back; Arya was on her way.
When she emerged, she still looked fresh and rested; her green eyes glowed with power and her step was quick, powerful.
"Roran." She greeted expressionlessly. Her dragonling was more welcoming, chirping cheerfully at Roran's approach.
The general bowed shortly. "Lady Nasuada wants to know if Eragon has contacted you at all."
Something flickered in Arya's eyes. "No." She said shortly, her hand reaching into the pocket in her breeches. She pulled out a large ring with a sapphire stone; Roran had seen it on Eragon recently. The elf Rider played with it, the sapphire flashing. "Eragon has not contacted me."
Swearing to himself, Roran nodded. "Perhaps you should not fight." He suggested. "Your dragon is too young to do so."
Arya gazed at him with an unreadable face. "I shall assist my fellows with magic, but I shall not partake in the physical battle." She said flatly. "Is that all?"
"Yes." Roran was not put off by her cool demeanor. All elves acted that way, and Arya, though now a Rider, was still an elf. It was to be expected.
"Very well." Arya turned and walked away, joined by a reverent elf male. Roran located a messenger and sent him back to the Varden's leader with the message that Eragon was still unreachable and had not contacted anyone.
With that done, Roran went to his troops. At least a thousand of them had gathered by now, forming loose ranks around Trumpet, murmuring anxiously. They were afraid, but trusted their general.
Roran squared his shoulders and made his way through the press of bodies. Standing in the center, he waited patiently for the rest of his command to arrive.
Once they had done so, Roran looked up at the sky. Now almost completely obscured by clouds, it was roughly halfway through the afternoon, a few hours shy of evening.
He raised his hands, and silence fell over his men.
"My friends," he began, his voice carrying. "My comrades, the time has come for us to repel the Empire."
A growling yell of affirmation resounded back to him.
"We are ready. We are expecting them. They surprised us, but we are prepared. We can fight them off!"
The answering roar shuddered in Roran's bones. He raised his fist. "For freedom!"
"For freedom!" The Varden screamed. They stamped and raised their hands, brandishing weapons and fists.
Roran turned, seeing similar speeches all around him. The dwarves cheered, the Urgals roared, the humans stamped and clapped. Nasuada raised her hands, signaling for silence.
A minute trickled by. Then an hour, then another. Everyone murmured, preparing themselves, steeling themselves. And then…
A man on a horse cantered to the gate, carrying a white flag.
"King Galbatorix, ruler of this mighty Empire," bawled the message-bearer. Boos drowned him out, but he persevered. "Will allow one night's reprieve. During the night hours, you rebels are advised to surrender. If you do not surrender by first light, you will be slaughtered."
The Varden howled in anger and defiance.
The messenger turned on his horse. "So speaks the King!"
Roran jeered with his men, catcalling at the retreating messenger.
But his heart twinged, and out of the corner of his eye he saw the familiar blue and ivory skin, and Garrow cheered and jeered.
And the Varden settled in to wait.
The Second Battle of Belatona was about to begin.
There. Liked it? Review, please!
Next Eragon and the Magical Traveling Flying Show arrive in Belatona! :D
Four left!!
~WSS