My fall semester is almost done and I'm about to go on winter break. Hopefully I can get this story wrapped up once and for all by the end of January.
Thorn had no idea where Jarshan and Serdar had went but knew in his heart of hearts he would likely never see them again. If the... Other hadn't killed them both then they had fled to the refuge of the Beor Mountains and would never show their faces beyond the Hadarac Desert again. Whatever their fate, uncle and surrogate son were together and not about to risk the other to search for the dragons they had dismissed as 'Rider's pets.'
Where the wild dragons had hopefully escaped the east, Thorn and Murtagh had fled west with Shruikan as their persistant shadow. Whatever chaos spread through the Empire, the depths of the Spine remained an isolated wilderness the outside world never penetrated.
All three had spent their first few days in hiding enjoying their new-found freedom. Previously confined to Urubaen and its surrounding forests except when following his master's orders, Thorn had flown far and wide to explore his surroundings. Some days he convinced Murtagh to join him. The tensions that had existed between Rider and dragon since Thorn had been large enough to make them useful to Galbatorix had largely ebbed away upon their master's demise.
The abundant food supply and freedom from his chains had done Shruikan wonders. Fat and muscle had quickly begun to smooth over his skeletal frame into something that resembled a healthy dragon's body. Murtagh's magic might not have completely restored him, but it had removed some of largest, most gruesome scars from his hide.
Shruikan had flat-out refused any offer that involved either Thorn or Murtagh touching his Eldunari, even Murtagh's offer of trying to restore it to his body. After the decades of torture the black dragon had experienced at Galbatorix's hands, Thorn didn't blame him for his paranoia. He had quickly gotten used to Shruikan's habit of continually cleaning and swallowing his Eldunari to keep it as secure as possible.
Despite the progress Shruikan had made, he continued to walk and fly awkwardly as if weighed down by invisible chains.
After the Fall I was largely kept shackled so Galbatorix didn't need to waste so much energy on trying to control me, Shruikan had explained. I was a much smaller dragon when I last had freedom for so long. My grace will come back in time.
Thorn really hoped it did: the massive black dragon didn't intimidating at all when he carried himself like an ungainly hatchling.
Murtagh had removed the four alien Eldunarya from Thorn's body within their first day of freedom, as soon as he'd had the energy. The catatonic hatchling had quickly been put out of her misery and the closely bonded souls had simultaneously begged for release and had been given it.
Thorn had expected the elder soul to demand the same, but the old dragon had only asked to be kept around for a time he could finally be of use. Murtagh had honored his request by tucking the Eldunari into his saddle bags until he was 'needed.' Both the Rider and dragons had awkwardly attempted conversation, but the elder had grouchily demanded he be left alone until they had a real purpose of him.
Still recovering from decades of starvation, Shruikan hunted far more frequently than Thorn, and the younger dragon simply didn't want to join him for every meal when he wasn't even hungry himself. With Shruikan away gorging himself, Thorn and Murtagh once again argued over what to do next.
I still don't understand why you're so hesitant to try allying with the rebellion. Thorn shook his head at his Rider's senseless stubborness. Eragon knows full well you were dragged back to the King kicking and screaming and that only your forced oaths kept you loyal. Now's as good a time as any to make peace with him.
"Do you know what the Varden did to me when they first found I was Morzan's son? Even though I had helped deliver their last hope to their doorstep they still chose to lock me up." Murtagh's fist clenched at the mere memory. "I was just beginning to prove myself trustworthy when my world once again apart. How do you think they'll react to us now after everything we've done, voluntarily or not? I killed the dwarf king, Thorn. Swearing allegiance to the Varden means spending the rest of our lives as prisoners before we 'mysteriously' turn up dead in our cells. I would at least like some time to enjoy my freedom before throwing it away again."
You're also the last surviving Dragon Rider. Thorn growled. You saw what that... thing did to Urubaen. Don't tell me you're content to hide away while it burns Alagaesia to the ground.
"We also saw what happened Galbatorix and he was the real intelligence behind the Other. The Other may be ungodly huge, but not even it can stand against a united force of elves, dwarves, Urgals, at least four dragons and whatever the hell Eragon became."
Harsh, rumbling laughter interrupted their argument. Fools! thundered the elder from his saddle-bag. You're fools, just as blind as those after the runt King's murder, just as blind as Heitgera when he chained our race to the fate of another! How is it I, who have no eyes, can see what you can not!?
Thorn was about to ask the elder what he meant when a chill surged down his spine, the same dread he had felt before Eragon Fireborn had forever burnt his belly black with a warning blast. Reflexively he lunged, snatching Murtagh in one paw while the claws on his other ripped the Elundari from its saddle bag.
He barely made it into the air before the ground beneath them exploded from a fireball.
Thorn desperately pumped his wings to escape the searing heat and the blinding smoke. For a moment he thought himself back above the Battle of Gil'ead, watching friend and foe alike burn beneath them, before he realized this hell blazed molten gold instead of black.
"Gods!" Murtagh swore, his breeches heavily singed from just barely escaping the blast. He wormed in Thorn's grip, slipping out of the dragon's grasp and climbing up his leg for a more secure seat on his back. "There's more of them!?"
Murtagh had just barely situated himself when he was nearly thrown from Thorn's back when the dragon sharply lurched to the right to dodge another tongue of flame that came from up out of the billowing smoke. Only the fire of Eragon or The Other burned as hot.
Do not drop me, hatchling, the elder's Eldunari chided when Thorn nearly lost his grip. I did not come all this way to join my ancestors quite yet.
You want to be useful? Then explain what the hell this thing is! the younger dragon roared back.
The mountain-lord had a massive clan to do his bidding, hatchling. This time it is but a descendent you face.
No matter how distant a descendent, the golden dragon that came lunging out of the inferno was Shruikan's size, his frame powerful and well-fed instead of recovering from starvation. Even he may have seemed miniscule in comparison to The Other (the mountain-lord?) but even he was large enough to cleanly snap Thorn's spine in two. Fire hot enough to scorch entire mountains never stopped pouring from his maw.
"Naerr!"
The spell was unglamorous and ingeniously simple. Murtagh intended to simply pinch a blood vessel in the golden dragon's brain and kill it in seconds.
Like the mountain-lord, the dragon was unfazed by a spell that should have been its death.
You're smaller than him! Murtagh thought privately, one hand reaching for Zar'roc, the sword that never left his person. Get me to where I can reach his eye!
Thorn may have been hopelessly outsized by his rival, but it was an advantage he had previously used against Shruikan in training bouts and Glaedr in true battle. The golden dragon may have been relentless in its fury, but he was large and ungainly where Thorn was small and agile. Weaving his way around the stream of fire, he managed to get just close to the dragon's head for Murtagh to launch himself from his back and land safely.
Legs wrapped firmly around the golden dragon's horn, Murtagh grabbed Zar'roc with both hands and plunged it into one half-mad eye.
Half-blind and blood weeping from one eye, the dragon shrieked and shook his head furiously, flames still streaming from his maw.
Burn! Burn burn bur-
Thorn wheeled beneath his rival and seared his belly with his own jet of flame. The golden dragon's agonized roar was sweet music to his ears.
How does it feel, bastard!
Murtagh moved to stab Zar'roc again and cursed when he found the blade dug too deep to budge. The golden dragon wised up to the pain and lowered his head instead, reaching for his tormentor with a paw big enough to crush him like a man would an insect.
Thorn sharply dove as his Rider leaped from the brute's head. Murtagh landed on his back with a skilled precision drilled into him by their paranoid master.
The golden dragon momentarily stopped gushing fire long enough to pluck Zar'roc from his eye and toss it into the inferno below. His remaining eye blinked and fixated vengefully on Thorn.
BURN!
The golden dragon was just inhaling again when Shruikan returned from his hunt.
The black dragon may have been far skinnier, but he and his rival were roughly of the same size, and he had the element of surprise. Claws sinking firmly into the golden dragon's flesh, Shruikan savagely tore into his throat with a shower of sparks and blood.
Their opponent gave a terrible, gurgled cry and fell limp in Shruikan's grip. When the black dragon released him he lifelessly tumbled into the inferno he had first ignited.
Murtagh allowed the blaze to rage for several moments more before quelling it with his magic. The two dragons then landed to sniff suspiciously at the corpse of the golden dragon, already charred to a crisp, to confirm his death.
You are lucky I was able to smell the smoke in time, Shruikan murmured to Thorn as he snarled down at the brute's scorched remnants. I have killed many dragons before, but only The Other's fires burned like his did.
Murtagh glared at the Eldunari still firmly grasped in Thorn's paw. "According to the elder they are of the same clan."
Oh, aye, the elder agreed grimly. The one you call 'Other' is known amongst the true dragons as the mountain-lord.
The Morning Star's sire? Shruikan growled. It explains The Other's hunger for Eldunarya, why he was obsessed with collecting a hoard large enough to rival the stars in the sky... the same stars that answer to Aiedail.
Thorn's own heart of hearts quivered in dread. So the mountain-lord is waking up his own clan now and sending them after us for our Eldunarya?
He sees us as his property, the elder snarled. With his clan returned to him you two Rider's pets are good only as two more Eldunarya for his collection. His thoughts honed in darkly upon Murtagh. Be glad no star chose you as its vessel, human. The only fate that awaits you is wherever human souls go.
"I'm no one's property." Murtagh held out an expectant hand and smiled grimly when Zar'roc returned to him with a quick spell. Hot as the golden dragon's flames had burned, they hadn't been quite hot enough to melt through magic like Eragon's fire and had allowed his spell's enchantments to endure the blaze. "If we are to be hunted until our dying day then we have no choice but to see this mountain-lord and his ilk dead in turn."
You know what that means, Thorn warned. Can your pride take bowing down to the Varden and begging forgiveness?
Murtagh sighed. "Unless you're loose with your definition, I am currently the last Dragon Rider and may be the very last if this damned mountain-lord is determined to raze the world to ashes." He looked up to Shruikan. "You suffered more than anyone under Galbatorix and the mountain-lord. We'll understand if you choose not to fight alongside us."
The black dragon's violet eyes stared down at him. Why do you think I've been so desperate to regain my strength? I have waited decades to fight alongside those who tormented my master. He snorted at the elder's Eldunari. And what should we call you, old one? Your knowledge is too useful for us to let you rest quite yet.
I don't plan on going anywhere yet, overgrown hatchling. This world's become too interesting to not be in the thick of the fray. After a moment's hesitation, he bitterly added, You can call me Svinnr, I suppose. I don't expect it means anything to any of you. No one ever remembers I was once the world's second oldest living dragon.
Jarshan had first hoped returning to the Beor Mountains would give him comfort. He had grown up there, after all, surrounded by the most powerful dragon clan on earth. It was in the Beor Mountains he had truly flourished when childless and mateless Serdar, who had seen potential where Vanilor had seen only another failure, had taken him under his wing.
Yet, the deeper they flew into the massive mountains, the more uneasy Jarshan grew. It was in the Beor Mountains he had been rejected by Safiri in favor of his nestmate, where Jadine had tore his heart out, and where he had betrayed his own brother for the greater good. Eridor and Safiri had once thought themselves safe and sound nestled deep in the Beor Mountains, after all.
Curled up in a cave much like where he had killed Eridor, Jarshan found himself recalling that single green egg protectively cradled in Safiri's arms. Had his nephew been burned alive or crushed in his egg when the Fortress had collapsed beneath the mountain-lord's bulk? Or had he been fortunate to have been tossed into the subterranean cavern Galbatorix had stored his Eldunarya?
Jarshan would never have known of the hoard if not for Serdar. His uncle had been forced to regurgitate his Elundari just after his awakening. Galbatorix had stored it with the others to keep them both in line, but Serdar was still connected to his heart of hearts, just enough to sense it lay peacefully undisturbed beneath the smoldering ruins of Urubaen.
Serdar may have been sleeping peacefully, exhausted after a long flight, but Jarshan was unable to share his uncle's peace of mind. Galbatorix's obsession for Elundarya had been the mountain-lord's. Just because Serdar and Jarshan didn't have the time nor the ability to excavate Urubaen's rubble didn't mean the mountain-lord couldn't use his massive size to do so for himself. Aiedail knew what he could do with a hoard of Eldunarya again at his disposal.
It's not myself I'm worried about, Serdar had scolded his surrogate son. You still have your Eldunari and you're still the rightful King. All that matters is buying you the time you need to acquire the true power of the King's Wrath so you can do the mountain-lord as Aiedail once did.
Eragon may have technically passed his Trial, but he was no true King, and so Jarshan and Serdar patiently bided their time. Sooner or later the mountain-lord would decide to devour his obvious competition and once again allow Jarshan the opportunity to undergo his King's Trial once Aiedail's power was freed up.
Jarshan's nostrils suddenly twitched at the pungent odor of fire, blood, and brimstone. By the time he heard the flapping of massive leather wings, his warning growl had already roused Serdar and both were pounding out of the cave to face their attacker head on.
The new dragon was the color of obsidian, his scales unmarred despite his size, for he was large enough to rival Serdar (but thankfully far smaller than the mountain-lord.) Like the mountain-lord's, his eyes were also black, but lacked the overwhelming hopelessness his sire's gaze inspired.
Rather than engage each other, Serdar and the black dragon began to circle each other warily, keeping a vast distance between each other. Jarshan never strayed far from his uncle's side, ready to unleash fire and blood the moment their opponent turned hostile.
I take it you're one of the mountain-lord's five favorites, then? Serdar inquired casually.
I am Andariel, intoned the black dragon. My Mountain King bids me to destroy your physical form and return with the Eldunari of Jarsha Stonescales.
Such a waste of time, Serdar tutted. Surely your sire has the power to order me to kill my nephew and return to him with what he wants.
His orders are no one's to question! Andariel snapped.
Jarshan and Serdar privately concluded the mountain-lord had not yet returned to his hoard beneath Urubaen. They still had time to stop him together.
Andarial and Serdar charged each other head on, but the dark gray dragon dove at the last second. Jarshan quickly rose to take his place, bombarding the mountain-lord's son with flames that could almost rival the King's Wrath.
Andariel tried reeling back with a furious bellow, his face charred and smoking, but Serdar rammed him from below. His fangs expertly dug in for the killing bite.
Blood blossomed and the black dragon fell limp after a brief struggle. Serdar released his lifeless body to watch him crash to the mountainside below. For a moment, everything was right in the world.
In the next moment, Andariel's vacant eyes flared with an impossible new spark of life. The gaping wound on his throat flawlessly wove itself shut and his wings propelled him back into the air.
Rather than aiming at Serdar, he went for Jarshan, taking the smaller dragon from below. Gouging into the gray dragon's belly, Andariel's claws reached out for Jarshan's chest, to take his Eldunari between them as Jadine once had so long ago and-
NO!
Serdar charged, violently dislodging Andariel from his nephew. While Jarshan struggled to right himself, his uncle grasped the other dragon's horns with both forepaws and twisted with all his might.
A moment's resistance was followed by a sickening crack, a brief pause in the battle, and then another crack as Andariel's neck snapped back into place. He raked his claws across Serdar's body when the dark gray dragon moved to twist his neck again.
Jarshan was already moving at his uncle's bellow of pain, but was stopped dead by No, Jarshan!
Every wound and burn mark Serdar made upon Andariel's hide was unblemished skin a moment later. Every little gouge on Serdar's remained and every drop of blood added up.
Still, Serdar paused long enough to look his surrogate son stonily in the eye and snarl, Run, you fool!
Serdar had never tried challenging his brother for their mother's crown but in that moment his voice was purely Vanilor's; a King's sharp command, a father's demand of his son, one that brooked no argument.
Instinctively, Jarshan obeyed.
He was leagues away when two dragons fell and only one rose, but he still felt the loss in his heart of hearts, and screamed his grief to the skies.
Neither hatred nor death nor distance had dulled Eridor's innate bond with his nestmate. Feeling his brother's loss, Eridor briefly seized control of Eragon's body and keened with him.
Morzarok was his the sire's loyal firstborn, his diligent Herald, and so proclaimed his impending return to Urubaen's smoldering ruins.
The surviving humans, tenacious pests they were, had smothered the flames and were even trying to rebuild. Some had the gall to raise their spears and shoot arrows in his direction. Perhaps one brave soul tried and failed to use magic. Most scattered like mice at his first roar, even more with his second, and virtually all with his third. The quivering survivors without the common sense to flee promptly burned beneath his and Saemora's flames.
Urubaen was properly decontaminated by the time Vercingetorix landed where the Fortress had once stood. He cleared away the remnants with several effortless swipes and punched his way through the dungeons to the cavern below.
First he diligently checked every last Elundari, re-familiarizing himself to their size, color, and the terrified soul imprisoned within. One was unusually smooth and opaque, but he quickly forgot about the outlier when he saw Serdar now fully belonged to him.
Now I can truly count you as part of my collection.
Like virtually all new possessions, Serdar was catatonic from the shock of losing his body and being constrained to his Elundari rather than granted the freedom of the stars. Vercingetorix tore through his memories and dispassionately noted Jarshan had yet again escaped.
No matter. Andariel shall retrieve him soon enough. He is a good son, a diligent son... unlike SOME of his siblings.
Morzarok and Saemora heeded him by doubling their efforts to purge Urubaen of all traces of humanity. Miles beneath his paws, he hoped The Insatiable got the hint.
Vercingetorix was quite unsurprised to feel Glaerith dying not even a week into his new life. Perhaps he needed a few more decades (or centuries) burning in hellfire to remember what happened when he let base instinct overcome him.
His five had been his favorites, aye, but soon he would have a whole clan to call upon again.
Before they had reunited with him at the womb-of-the-world Saemora and Morzarok had swept Alagaesia for the souls of dormant clanmates. The millenium they had spent in eternal torment with only each other for company had made them all especially keen at sniffing out family, but Saemona and Morzarok had been the sharpest.
Soon, he would be ready to call them all back to his side.
Vercingetorix was displeased to note he had lost seven souls in his full return. The four Eldunarya within Thorn had doubtless been liberated by now and so he would only get three of his original seven back.
But soon enough he would finally have a fully-fledged King to add to his hoard and the tedious cycle would be over at long last. Then it would only a matter of waiting for every last star to fall (for not even the bastard would be able to remain aloft for eternity) and he would be a King in truth.
To prepare for that day, he needed a new mountain, one to serve as a nest for his new race. He had toyed with the idea of establishing his clan at the womb-of-the-world, but even the birthplace of his race was just too small and isolated for the grand vision he had in mind.
So instead Vercingetorix bent his hoard to his will, smirked when he once again had his natural magic enhanced to divine levels to bring his vision to life.
Du Weldenvarden's extensive layers of wards meant little to a dragon older than magic itself, especially a dragon who flew in the stolen shape of the largest bird he could find.
The animals he encountered knew his form was false and avoided him like the plague. As much as the elves prided themselves on their wisdom and magical prowess, they were blind to the pale-eyed raptor that circled overhead and assessed every powerful elf in Ellesmera.
The Deceiver had once inserted himself into enemy clans to destroy them from the inside out. Kialandi had briefly done the same to the Dragon Riders. Even his second human life as the sniveling courtier had allowed him to sniff out the weaknesses and desires of his competition.
The elves were truly no different from dragons, Riders, or mere humans. They too formed factions and squabbled over the most inane things, like whether to outright seize control of the areas their soldiers already controlled or to retreat back into Du Weldenvarden with Galbatorix dead and the war technically won.
The human nobles were free to do tear themselves apart as long as they remembered to keep Galbatorix appeased. In the end Vrael and Umaroth had been unable to hold the Order together. Eridor's death had shattered any semblance of unity amongst the dragon clans.
In the wake of King Evandar's death Islanzadi had kept the numerous elvan houses united through her grace and silent strength. She was the Eridor of her people, and with her daughter amongst the human rebels instead of back among her own kind, it would be all too easy for the elves to tear themselves apart over old feuds and differing viewpoints before Arya could unite them again.
Kialos may have been older than the tamed magic of the Grey Folk but he was pragmatic enough to admit the elves did not need magic to destroy him. One arrow to the brain or spear through his chest would suffice where magic could not.
Rather than burn Du Weldenvarden to the ground as Glaerith would have, Kialos remained a patient predator and learned his enemy's movements from the safety of his false guise. Islanzadi spent her sleepless nights alone in her chambers pouring over maps of Alagaesia and scrolls of ancient Rider and dragon lore. Galbatorix's demise had robbed her of her main goal and now she searched to give her people new purpose in the wake of Vercingetorix's triumphant return. Her guards only entered her chambers to give her urgent news of her elves or from the front.
After several nights, Kialos singled out the guard who went to Islanzadi most often. It was all too easy to lure the elf into the dark woods, devour him, and assume his form before the other guards realized something was amiss.
Plastering an anxious look on his false face, Kialos rushed to Islanzadi's chambers as if bringing sensitive information. The other guards let him go without stopping him, never noticed how pale their comrade's eyes had suddenly become.
Kialos instinctively froze at the fluttering of wings. All animals in Du Weldenvarden had wisely fled from his presence... up until a white raven landed in the branches outside his window to gaze at him with jewel-bright eyes.
"Wyrda!" it croaked. Then, as another guard neared, it shrieked, "Deceiver! Pale-eyed deceiver! Assassin!"
The guard frowned in confusion, glimpsed Kialos's telltale eyes, and all hell broke loose.
Next chapter: Nothing says brotherly bonding like facing an Undying dragon together ;)
1. Glaerith was a batshit-crazy pyromaniac against three foes very real experienced in fighting giant dragons. Vercingetorix is an arrogant asshat who thinks death is cheap since his favorite kids can crawl out of hell and be resurrected any time he wants them to. Not a good combination, as you can see.
2. Svinnir is a shameless plot device whose name literally means 'wisdom', seeing as someone needed to bring our intrepid runaways up to speed XD The fact he died an old and respected dragon (one Eridor will remember very well) is also important ;)
3. I ultimately created Serdar to get Jarsha to Galbatorix and then needed to figure what to do with him afterward. It's poetic that he wound up sacrificing himself for his nephew/surrogate son a second time :(