Answers to reviews:
DiabloPProcento: Well, here it is.
DiabloPProcento: No, I took it down when I saw what got more results, so Saphira and George will have hatchlings when they get to Ellesméra.
OechsnerC: Well, he'd probably just tell Eragon to be careful considering Arya is an immortal elf.
Wolvehulk: Thanks.
The sound of someone entering the room roused the silver-scaled dragon from his sleep and he raised his head to see a dwarf looking agitated as he glanced between the dragons and the sleeping Eragon. George looked st his mate and nudged her. Saphira, there's a dwarf Herr and he looks agitated.
Saphira raised her head and saw the dwarf before getting up and not so gently nudged Eragon awake as George took his human form again. The Rider snapped to attention when seeing the dwarf.
"You must come, Argetlam! Great trouble—Ajihad summons you. There is no time!" the dwarf said quickly.
"What's wrong?" asked Eragon.
The dwarf only shook his head, beard wagging. "Go, you must! Carkna bragha! Now!"
Eragon belted on Zar'roc, grabbed his bow and arrows, then strapped the saddle onto Saphira. So much for a good night's sleep, she groused, crouching low to the floor so he could clamber onto her back. George, after getting his trench coat on and sheathing Darkstride across his back, got on Saphira as well. Eragon yawned loudly as Saphira launched herself from the cave.
Orik was waiting for them with a grim expression when they landed at Tronjheim's gates. "Come, the others are waiting." He led them through Tronjheim to Ajihad's study. On the way, Eragon plied him with questions, but Orik would only say, "I don't know enough myself—wait until you hear Ajihad."
The large study door was opened by a pair of burly guards. Ajihad stood behind his desk, bleakly inspecting a map. Arya and a man with wiry arms were there as well. Ajihad explained that this was Jörmundur, his second-in-command.
They acknowledged each other, then turned their attention to Ajihad. "I roused the six of you because we are all in grave danger. About half an hour ago a dwarf ran out of an abandoned tunnel under Tronjheim. He was bleeding and nearly incoherent, but he had enough sense left to tell the dwarves what was pursuing him: an army of Urgals, maybe a day's march from here."
Shocked silence filled the study. Then Jörmundur swore explosively and began asking questions at the same time Orik did. Arya remained silent. Ajihad raised his hands. "Quiet! There is more. The Urgals aren't approaching over land, but under it. They're in the tunnels . . . we're going to be attacked from below."
Eragon raised his voice in the din that followed. "Why didn't the dwarves know about this sooner? How did the Urgals find the tunnels?"
"We're lucky to know about it this early!" bellowed Orik. Everyone stopped talking to hear him. "There are hundreds of tunnels throughout the Beor Mountains, uninhabited since the day they were mined. The only dwarves who go in them are eccentrics who don't want contact with anyone. We could have just as easily received no warning at all."
Ajihad pointed at the map, and Eragon and George looked. The map depicted the southern half of Alagaësia, but unlike Eragon's, it showed the entire Beor Mountain range in detail. Ajihad's finger was on the section of the Beor Mountains that touched Surda's eastern border. "This," he said, "is where the dwarf claimed to have come from."
"Orthíad!" exclaimed Orik. At Jörmundur's puzzled inquiry, he explained, "It's an ancient dwelling of ours that was deserted when Tronjheim was completed. During its time it was the greatest of our cities. But no one's lived there for centuries."
"And it's old enough for some of the tunnels to have collapsed," said Ajihad. "That's how we surmise it was discovered from the surface. I suspect that Orthíad is now being called Ithrö Zhâda. That's where the Urgal column that was chasing Eragon and Saphira was supposed to go, and I'm sure it's where the Urgals have been migrating all year. From Ithrö Zhâda they can travel anywhere they want in the Beor Mountains. They have the power to destroy both the Varden and the dwarves."
Jörmundur bent over the map, eyeing it carefully. "Do you know how many Urgals there are? Are Galbatorix's troops with them? We can't plan a defense without knowing how large their army is."
Ajihad replied unhappily, "We're unsure about both those things, yet our survival rests on that last question. If Galbatorix has augmented the Urgals' ranks with his own men, we don't stand a chance. But if he hasn't—because he still doesn't want his alliance with the Urgals revealed, or for some other reason—it's possible we can win. Neither Orrin nor the elves can help us at this late hour. Even so, I sent runners to both of them with news of our plight. At the very least they won't be caught by surprise if we fall."
He drew a hand across his coal-black brow. "I've already talked with Hrothgar, and we've decided on a course of action. Our only hope is to contain the Urgals in three of the larger tunnels and channel them into Farthen Dûr so they don't swarm inside Tronjheim like locusts.
He looked at Eragon and George. "I need you two to help the dwarves collapse extraneous tunnels. The job is too big for normal means. Arya will work with a group underneath. Orik will guide you to the other group.
"Why not collapse all the tunnels instead of leaving the large ones untouched?" asked Eragon.
"Because," said Orik, "that would force the Urgals to clear away the rubble, and they might decide to go in a direction we don't want them to. Plus, if we cut ourselves off, they could attack other dwarf cities—which we wouldn't be able to assist in time."
"There's also another reason," said Ajihad. "Hrothgar warned me that Tronjheim sits on such a dense network of tunnels that if too many are weakened, sections of the city will sink into the ground under their own weight. We can't risk that."
Jörmundur listened intently, then asked, "So there won't be any fighting inside Tronjheim? You said the Urgals would be channeled outside the city, into Farthen Dûr."
Ajihad responded quickly, "That's right. We can't defend Tronjheim's entire perimeter—it's too big for our forces—so we're going to seal all the passageways and gates leading into it. That will force the Urgals out onto the flats surrounding Tronjheim, where there's plenty of maneuvering room for our armies. Since the Urgals have access to the tunnels, we cannot risk an extended battle. As long as they are here, we will be in constant danger of them quarrying up through Tronjheim's floor. If that happens, we'll be trapped, attacked from both the outside and inside. We have to prevent the Urgals from taking Tronjheim. If they secure it, it's doubtful we will have the strength to roust them."
"And what of our families?" asked Jörmundur. "I won't see my wife and son murdered by Urgals."
The lines deepened on Ajihad's face. "All the women and children are being evacuated into the surrounding valleys. If we are defeated, they have guides who will take them to Surda. That's all I can do, under the circumstances."
Jörmundur struggled to hide his relief. "Sir, is Nasuada going as well?"
"She is not pleased, but yes." All eyes were on Ajihad as he squared his shoulders and announced, "The Urgals will arrive in a matter of hours. We know their numbers are great, but wemust hold Farthen Dûr. Failure will mean the dwarves' downfall, death to the Varden—and eventual defeat for Surda and the elves. This is one battle we cannot lose. Now go and complete your tasks! Jörmundur, ready the men to fight."
Eragon, George, and Saphira exited the city and began searching for the group of dwarves they were to assist. They glided around Tronjheim until a clump of lanterns came into sight. Saphira angled toward them, then with no more than a whisper landed beside a group of startled dwarves who were busy digging with pickaxes. Eragon quickly explained why they were there. A sharp-nosed dwarf told them, "There's a tunnel about four yards directly underneath us. Any help you could give us would be appreciated."
Breathing slowly, Eragon prepared to use magic. "Thrysta deloi," he whispered and sent tentacles of power into the soil. Almost immediately they encountered rock. He ignored it and reached farther down until he felt the hollow emptiness of the tunnel. Then he began searching for flaws in the rock. Every time he found one, he pushed on it, elongating and widening it. It was strenuous work, but no more than it would have been to split the stone by hand. Nearby, George was doing the same method on another tunnel. To the impatient dwarves, it must've looked ridiculous.
The two preserved. Before long both were rewarded by a resounding crack that could be heard clearly on the surface. There was a persistent screech, then the ground slid inward like water draining from a tub, leaving a gaping hole seven yards across.
As the delighted dwarves walled off the tunnel with rubble, the sharp-nosed dwarf led Eragon and George to the next tunnels. Over the next few hours, they collapsed over a half-dozen tunnels throughout Farthen Dûr, with Saphira's help, the Dragoness lending them strength as the work did take it's toll on them.
Light crept into the small patch of sky above them as he worked. It was not enough to see by, but it bolstered Eragon's confidence. He turned away from the crumpled ruins of the latest tunnel and surveyed the land with interest.
A mass exodus of women and children, along with the Varden's elders, streamed out of Tronjheim. Everyone carried loads of provisions, clothes, and belongings. A small group of warriors, predominantly boys and old men, accompanied them.
Most of the activity, however, was at the base of Tronjheim, where the Varden and dwarves were assembling their army, which was divided into three battalions. Each section bore the Varden's standard: a white dragon holding a rose above a sword pointing downward on a purple field.
The men were silent, ironfisted. Their hair flowed loosely from under their helmets. Many warriors had only a sword and a shield, but there were several ranks of spear- and pikemen. In the rear of the battalions, archers tested their bowstrings.
The dwarves were garbed in heavy battle gear. Burnished steel hauberks hung to their knees, and thick roundshields, stamped with the crests of their clan, rested on their left arms. Short swords were sheathed at their waists, while in their right hands they carried mattocks or war axes. Their legs were covered with extra-fine mail. They wore iron caps and brass-studded boots.
A small figure detached itself from the far battalion and hurried toward the two boys and Saphira. It was Orik, clad like the other dwarves. "Ajihad wants you to join the army," he said. "There are no more tunnels to cave in. Food is waiting for the three of you."
The three accompanied Orik to a tent, where they found bread and water for Eragon and George and a pile of dried meat for Saphira. They ate it without complaint; it was better than going hungry.
When they finished, Orik told them to wait and disappeared into the battalion's ranks. He returned, leading a line of dwarves burdened with tall piles of plate armor. Orik lifted a section of it and handed it to Eragon.
"What is this?" asked Eragon, fingering the polished metal. The armor was intricately wrought with engraving and gold filigree. It was an inch thick in places and very heavy. No man could fight under that much weight. And there were far too many pieces for one person.
"A gift from Hrothgar," said Orik, looking pleased with himself. "It has lain so long among our other treasures that it was almost forgotten. It was forged in another age, before the fall of the Riders."
"But what's it for ?" asked Eragon.
"Why, it's dragon armor, of course! You don't think that dragons went into battle unprotected? Complete sets are rare because they took so long to make and because dragons were always growing. Still, Saphira isn't too big yet, so this should fit her reasonably well."
Dragon armor! As Saphira nosed one of the pieces, Eragon asked, What do you think?
Let's try it on, she said, a fierce gleam in her eye.
After a good deal of struggling, George, Eragon and Orik stepped back to admire the result. Saphira's entire neck—except for the spikes along its ridge—was covered with triangular scales of overlapping armor. Her belly and chest were protected by the heaviest plates, while the lightest ones were on her tail. Her legs and back were completely encased. Her wings were left bare. A single molded plate lay on top of her head, leaving her lower jaw free to bite and snap.
Saphira arched her neck experimentally, and the armor flexed smoothly with her. This will slow me down, but it'll help stop the arrows. How do I look?
George stared with his mouth slightly agape but Eragon smiled and latter her jaw. Very intimidating, replied Eragon truthfully. That pleased her.
Orik picked up the remaining items from the ground. "I brought you armor as well, though it took much searching to find your size. We rarely forge arms for men or elves. I don't know who this was made for, but it has never been used and should serve you well."
Over Eragon's head went a stiff shirt of leather-backed mail that fell to his knees like a skirt. It rested heavily on his shoulders and clinked when he moved. He belted Zar'roc over it, which helped keep the mail from swinging. On his head went a leather cap, then a mail coif, and finally a gold-and-silver helm. Bracers were strapped to his forearms, and greaves to his lower legs. For his hands there were mail-backed gloves. Last, Orik handed him a broad shield emblazoned with an oak tree.
Knowing that what he and Saphira had been given was worth several fortunes, Eragon bowed and said, "Thank you for these gifts. Hrothgar's presents are greatly appreciated."
"Don't give thanks now," said Orik with a chuckle. "Wait until the armor saves your life."
The warriors around them began marching away. The three battalions were repositioning themselves in different parts of Farthen Dûr. Unsure of what they should do, Eragon looked at Orik, who shrugged and said, "I suppose we should accompany them." They trailed behind a battalion as it headed toward the crater wall. Eragon asked about the Urgals, but Orik only knew that scouts had been posted underground in the tunnels and that nothing had been seen or heard yet.
George and Eragon rested against Saphira's side. Orik returned to find them seated together. He wiped his brow. "All the men and dwarves are on the battlefield. Tronjheim has been sealed off. Hrothgar has taken charge of the battalion to our left. Ajihad leads the one ahead of us."
"Who commands this one?"
"Jörmundur." Orik sat with a grunt and placed his war ax on the ground.
Saphira nudged her two boys. Look. Eragon's hand tightened on Zar'roc as he saw Murtagh, helmed, carrying a dwarven shield and his hand-and-a-half sword, approaching with Tornac. George didn't tense but nodded at Murtagh who nodded back.
Orik cursed and leapt to his feet, but Murtagh said quickly, "It's all right; Ajihad released me."
"Why would he do that?" demanded Orik.
Murtagh smiled wryly. "He said this was an opportunity to prove my good intentions. Apparently, he doesn't think I would be able to do much damage even if I did turn on the Varden."
Eragon nodded in welcome, relaxing his grip. Murtagh was an excellent and merciless fighter—exactly whom Eragon wanted by his side during battle.
"How do we know you're not lying?" asked Orik.
"Because I say so," announced a firm voice. Ajihad strode into their midst, armed for battle with a breastplate and an ivory-handled sword. He put a strong hand on Eragon's shoulder and drew him away where the others could not hear.
While that happened, Saphira rested her chin on George's shoulder and he reached up to strike her nose. Whatever happens, stay at our side. She whispered.
Shouldn't I be saying that to you? I'm the one who needs to protect you. George said cheekily.
Saphira snorted. I'm no mere hatchling who needs protection.
It won't stop me from trying to protect you, just as I swore to do the day we became mates. George said firmly, pressing a kiss against her snout and she hummed.
Just be careful. I can't bear seeing you hurt. Saphira said and George nodded as Eragon came back from being briefed by Ajihad.
Eragon turned to scan the encampment and froze, heart jolting. About thirty feet away sat Arya with her bow in her lap. Though he knew it was unreasonable, he had hoped she might accompany the other women out of Farthen Dûr. Concerned, he hastened to her. "You will fight?"
"I do what I must," Arya said calmly.
"But it's too dangerous!"
Her face darkened. "Do not pamper me, human. Elves train both their men and women to fight. I am not one of your helpless females to run away whenever there is danger. I was given the task of protecting Saphira's egg... which I failed. My breoal is dishonored and would be further shamed if I did not guard you and Saphira on this field. You forget that I am stronger with magic than any here, including you. If the Shade comes, who can defeat him but me? And who else has the right?"
Eragon stared at her helplessly, knowing she was right and hating the fact. "Then stay safe." Out of desperation, he added in the ancient language, "Wiol pömnuria ilian." For my happiness.
Arya turned her gaze away uneasily, the fringe of her hair obscuring her face. She ran a hand along her polished bow, then murmured, "It is my wyrd to be here. The debt must be paid."
He abruptly retreated to Saphira. Murtagh looked at him curiously. "What did she say?"
"Nothing."
Farthen Dûr fell into a silence as the hours crawled by. Farthen Dûr's crater again grew black, except for the sanguine lantern glow and the fires heating the pitch. Eragon alternated between myopically examining the links of his mail and spying on Arya. Orik repeatedly ran a whetstone over the blade of his ax, periodically eyeing the edge between strokes; the rasp of metal on stone was irritating. Murtagh just stared into the distance.
George was sitting beside Saphira, stroking the top of her head.
Occasionally, messengers ran through the encampment, causing the warriors to surge to their feet. But it always proved to be a false alarm. The men and dwarves became strained; angry voices were often heard. The worst part about Farthen Dûr was the lack of wind—the air was dead, motionless. Even when it grew warm and stifling and filled with smoke, there was no reprieve.
Saphira, who had been uncharacteristically silent, lifted her head and rested it on George's shoulder. Are you scared? She whispered softly.
I have been in many battles but before each one...I always feel scared. George admitted. It was something he never revealed.
I am too. Saphira said as George stroked her snout. I'm scared of something bad happening and I loose you and Eragon.
You don't. I promise you. George vowed firmly.
Saphira stared at him, sapphire eyes staring into his own eyes, before she pressed her lipless mouth against his lips, both uncaring that others were around as they ex chased a passionate kiss. I love you so much. I Always will.
As I will always love you.
George changed his position, now he leaned against Saphira's chest in between her paws, the Dragoness now resting her head across his legs and he stroked the top of her head.
As the night dragged on, the battlefield stilled, silent as death. Muscles stiffened from the waiting. But soon that came to an end. George, Eragon, and Saphira fell asleep, joining each other in dreams only to be roughly awoken as they heard Arya say in a grim tone.
"It has begun."
The troops in the encampment stood alertly with their weapons drawn. Orik swung his ax to make sure he had enough room. Arya nocked an arrow and held it ready to shoot. George unsheathed Darkstride and rested the blade on his shoulder.
"A scout ran out of a tunnel a few minutes ago," said Murtagh to Eragon. "The Urgals are coming."
Together they watched the dark mouth of the tunnel through the ranks of men and sharpened stakes. A minute dragged by, then another . . . and another. Without taking his eyes from the tunnel, Eragon hoisted himself into Saphira's saddle, Zar'roc in his hand, a comfortable weight. Murtagh mounted Tornac beside him. Then a man cried, "I hear them!"
The warriors stiffened; grips tightened on weapons. No one moved...no one breathed. Somewhere a horse nickered.
Harsh Urgal shouts shattered the air as dark shapes boiled upward in the tunnel's opening. At a command, the cauldrons of pitch were tilted on their sides, pouring the scalding liquid into the tunnel's hungry throat. The monsters howled in pain, arms flailing. A torch was thrown onto the bubbling pitch, and an orange pillar of greasy flames roared up in the opening, engulfing the Urgals in an inferno. Sickened, Eragon looked across Farthen Dûr at the other two battalions and saw similar fires by each. He sheathed Zar'roc and strung his bow.
More Urgals soon tamped the pitch down and clambered out of the tunnels over their burned brethren. They clumped together, presenting a solid wall to the men and dwarves. Behind the palisade Orik had helped build, the first row of archers pulled on their bows and fired. Eragon and Arya added their arrows to the deadly swarm and watched the shafts eat through the Urgals' ranks.
The Urgal line wavered, threatening to break, but they covered themselves with their shields and weathered the attack. Again the archers fired, but the Urgals continued to stream onto the surface at a ferocious rate.
"Here we go." George muttered as he rolled his shoulders and neck. This will be the first real battle he's been in since the final battle against Bloodwolf, where he slayed his brother and destroyed the Promethean Army.
Soon the Varden and the dwarves had flashed with the Urgals and the battle was fully underway. With her jaws and talons, Saphira tore through an Urgal. Her teeth were as lethal as any sword, her tail a giant mace. From her back, Eragon parried a hammer blow from an Urgal chief, protecting her vulnerable wings. Zar'roc's crimson blade seemed to gleam with delight as blood spurted along its length.
From the corner of his eye, Eragon saw Orik hewing Urgal necks with mighty blows of his ax. Beside the dwarf was Murtagh on Tornac, his face disfigured by a vicious snarl as he swung his sword angrily, cutting through every defense. George cutting through any Urgal onnhis path with Darkstride and using one of his handguns to kill more. Then Saphira spun around, and Eragon saw Arya leap past the lifeless body of an opponent.
An Urgal bowled over a wounded dwarf and hacked at Saphira's front right leg. His sword skated off her armor with a burst of sparks. Eragon smote him on the head, but Zar'roc stuck in the monster's horns and was yanked from his grasp. With a curse he dived off Saphira and tackled the Urgal, smashing his face with the shield. He jerked Zar'roc out of the horns, then dodged as another Urgal charged him.
Saphira, I need you! He shouted, but the battle's tide had separated them. Suddenly a Kull jumped at him, club raised for a blow. Unable to lift his shield in time, Eragon uttered, "Jierda!" The Kull's head snapped back with a sharp report as his neck broke. Four more Urgals succumbed to Zar'roc's thirsty bite, then Murtagh rode up beside Eragon, driving the press of Urgals backward.
"Come on!" he shouted, and reached down from Tornac, pulling Eragon onto the horse. They rushed toward Saphira, who was embroiled in a mass of enemies. Twelve spear-wielding Urgals encircled her, needling her with their lances. They had already managed to prick both of her wings but that was as far as they got. A blood-curling roar was heard before a figure impacted the ground between the Urgals and Saphira. George stood there and fought against the Urgals, using his fire power to incinerate the Urgals. He had become death incarnate. He had become the Bladewolf once again.
Eragon grabbed one of Saphira's neck spikes and pulled himself back into her saddle. Murtagh raised his hand, then charged into another knot of Urgals. Saphira took off with Eragon onnher back for them to get a breather. Down below, George and Murtagh continued their attack.
Hours passed as the battle raged on. Eragon and Saphira fought the Urgals, catching sight of their friends as they did so, all of them fighting with determination to win for the Varden. Saphira quickly forged a path to the elf, leaving a pile of crumpled bodies in her wake. Eragon extended his hand and said, "Get on!"
Arya jumped onto Saphira's back without hesitation. She wrapped her right arm around Eragon's waist, wielding her bloodstained sword with the other. George lewped onto Salhira's back as well, his clothing stained with blood and his sword dripping with it. As Saphira crouched to take off, an Urgal ran at her, howling, then lifted an ax and smashed her in the chest.
Saphira roared with pain and lurched forward, feet leaving the ground. Her wings snapped open, straining to keep them from crashing as she veered wildly to one side, right wingtip scraping the ground. Below them, the Urgal pulled back his arm to throw the ax, a blur flew past Eragon and he witnessed George rip his sword out of the Urgal's chest.
"Go! Get her out of here!" George yelled, opening his palm and fire flew out to burn a few Urgals. Saphira took off into the air with Eragon and Arya. Back on the ground, George blocked, parried, and attacked his attackers. He ended up back to back with Orik as the two fought off the Urgals.
Are you all right? asked Eragon, concerned. He could not see where she had been struck.
I'll live, she said grimly, but the front of my armor has been crushed hurts my chest, and I'm having trouble moving.
Can you get us to the dragonhold?
...We'll see.
Eragon explained Saphira's condition to Arya. "I'll stay and help Saphira when we land," she offered. "Once she is free of the armor, I will join you."
"Thank you," he said. The flight was laborious for Saphira; she glided whenever she could. When they reached the dragonhold, she dropped heavily to Isidar Mithrim, where the Twins were supposed to be watching the battle, but it was empty. Eragon jumped to the floor and winced as he saw the damage the Urgal had done. Four of the metal plates on Saphira's chest had been hammered together, restricting her ability to bend and breathe. "Stay well," he said, putting a hand on her side, then ran out the archway.
He stopped and swore. He was at the top of Vol Turin, The Endless Staircase. Because of his worry for Saphira, he had not considered how he would get to Tronjheim's base—where the Urgals were breaking in. There was no time to climb down. He looked at the narrow trough to the right of the stairs, then grabbed one of the leather pads and threw himself down on it.
The stone slide was smooth as lacquered wood. With the leather underneath him, he accelerated almost instantly to a frightening speed, the walls blurring and the curve of the slide pressing him high against the wall. Eragon lay completely flat so he would go faster. The air rushed past his helm, making it vibrate like a weather vane in a gale. The trough was too confined for him, and he was perilously close to flying out, but as long as he kept his arms and legs still, he was safe.
It was a swift descent, but it still took him nearly ten minutes to reach the bottom. The slide leveled out at the end and sent him skidding halfway across the huge carnelian floor.
When he finally came to a stop, he was too dizzy to walk. His first attempt to stand made him nauseated, so he curled up, head in his hands, and waited for things to stop spinning. When he felt better, he stood and warily looked around.
The great chamber was completely deserted, the silence unsettling. Rosy light filtered down from Isidar Mithrim. He faltered—Where was he supposed to go?—and cast out his mind for the Twins. Nothing. He froze as loud knocking echoed through Tronjheim.
An explosion split the air. A long slab of the chamber floor buckled and blew thirty feet up. Needles of rocks flew outward as it crashed down. Eragon stumbled back, stunned, groping for Zar'roc. The twisted shapes of Urgals clambered out of the hole in the floor.
Eragon hesitated. Should he flee? Or should he stay and try to close the tunnel? Even if he managed to seal it before the Urgals attacked him, what if Tronjheim was already breached elsewhere? He could not find all the places in time to prevent the city-mountain from being if I run to one of Tronjheim's gates and blast it open, the Varden could retake Tronjheim without having to siege it. Before he could decide, a tall man garbed entirely in black armor emerged from the tunnel and looked directly at him.
It was Durza.
The Shade carried his pale blade marked with the scratch from Ajihad. A black roundshield with a crimson ensign rested on his arm. His dark helmet was richly decorated, like a general's, and a long snakeskin cloak billowed around him. Madness burned in his maroon eyes, the madness of one who enjoys power and finds himself in the position to use it.
Eragon knew he was neither fast enough nor strong enough to escape the fiend before him. He immediately warned Saphira, though he knew it was impossible for her to rescue him. He dropped into a crouch and quickly reviewed what Brom had told him about fighting another magic user. It was not encouraging. And Ajihad had said that Shades could only be destroyed by a thrust through the heart.
Durza gazed at him contemptuously and said, "Kaz jtierl trazhid! Otrag bagh." The Urgals eyed Eragon suspiciously and formed a circle around the perimeter of the room. Durza slowly approached Eragon with a triumphant expression. "So, my young Rider, we meet again. You were foolish to escape from me in Gil'ead. It will only make things worse for you in the end."
"You'll never capture me alive," growled Eragon.
"Is that so?" asked the Shade, raising an eyebrow. The light from the star sapphire gave his skin a ghastly tint. "I don't see your 'friend' Murtagh around to help you. You can't stop me now. No one can!"
Fear touched does he know about Murtagh? Putting all the derision he could into his voice, he jeered, "How did you like being shot?"
Durza's face tightened momentarily. "I will be repaid in blood for that. Now tell me where your dragon is hiding."
"Never."
The Shade's countenance darkened. "Then I will force it from you!" His sword whistled through the air. The moment Eragon caught the blade on his shield, a mental probe spiked deep into his thoughts. Fighting to protect his consciousness, he shoved Durza back and attacked with his own mind.
Eragon battered with all his strength against the iron-hard defenses surrounding Durza's mind, but to no avail. He swung Zar'roc, trying to catch Durza off guard. The Shade knocked the blow aside effortlessly, then stabbed in return with lightning speed.
The point of the sword caught Eragon in the ribs, piercing his mail and driving out his breath. The mail slipped, though, and the blade missed his side by the width of a wire. The distraction was all Durza needed to break into Eragon's mind and begin taking control.
"No!" cried Eragon, throwing himself at the Shade. His face contorted as he grappled with Durza, yanking on his sword arm. Durza tried to cut Eragon's hand, but it was protected by the mail-backed glove, which sent the blade glancing downward. As Eragon kicked his leg, Durza snarled and swept his black shield around, knocking him to the floor. Eragon tasted blood in his mouth; his neck throbbed. Ignoring his injuries, he rolled over and hurled his shield at Durza. Despite the Shade's superior speed, the heavy shield clipped him on the hip. As Durza stumbled, Eragon caught him on the upper arm with Zar'roc. A line of blood traced down the Shade's arm.
Eragon thrust at the Shade with his mind and drove through Durza's weakened defenses. A flood of images suddenly engulfed him, rushing through his consciousness, Durza's memories at how he came to be.
Once they were over, The sword smote heavily across Eragon's back, cutting through both mail and skin. He screamed as pain blasted through him, forcing him to his knees. Agony bowed his body in half and obliterated all thought. He swayed, barely conscious, hot blood running down the small of his back. Durza said something he could not hear.
In anguish, Eragon raised his eyes to the heavens, tears streaming down his cheeks. Everything had failed. The Varden and dwarves were destroyed. He was defeated. Saphira would give herself up for his sake—she had done it before—and Arya would be recaptured or killed. Why had it ended like this? What justice could this be? All was for nothing.
As he looked at Isidar Mithrim far above his tortured frame, a flash of light erupted in his eyes, blinding him. A second later, the chamber rang with a deafening report. Then his eyes cleared, and he gaped with disbelief.
The star sapphire had shattered. An expanding torus of huge dagger-like pieces plummeted toward the distant floor—the shimmering shards near the walls. In the center of the chamber, hurtling downward headfirst, was Saphira. Her jaws were open and from between them erupted a great tongue of flame, bright yellow and tinged with blue. On her back was Arya: hair billowing wildly, arm uplifted, palm glowing with a nimbus of green magic.
Time seemed to slow as Eragon saw Durza tilt his head toward the ceiling. First shock, then anger contorted the Shade's face. Sneering defiantly, he raised his hand and pointed at Saphira, a word forming on his lips.
A hidden reserve of strength suddenly welled up inside Eragon, dredged from the deepest part of his being. His fingers curled around the hilt of his sword. He plunged through the barrier in his mind and took hold of the magic. All his pain and rage focused on one word:
"Brisingr!"
Zar'roc blazed with bloody light, heatless flames running along it . . .
He lunged forward . . .
And stabbed Durza in the heart.
Durza looked down with shock at the blade protruding from his breast. His mouth was open, but instead of words, an unearthly howl burst from him. His sword dropped from nerveless fingers. He grasped Zar'roc as if to pull it out, but it was lodged firmly in him.
Then Durza's skin turned transparent. Under it was neither flesh nor bone, but swirling patterns of darkness. He shrieked even louder as the darkness pulsated, splitting his skin. With one last cry, Durza was rent from head to toe, releasing the darkness, which separated into three entities who flew through Tronjheim's walls and out of Farthen Dûr. The Shade was gone.
Bereft of strength, Eragon fell back with arms outstretched. Above him, Saphira and Arya had nearly reached the floor—it looked as if they were going to smash into it with the deadly remains of Isidar Mithrim. As his sight faded, Saphira, Arya, the myriad fragments—all seemed to stop falling and hang motionless in the air...
And that's it for this chapter. Boy was it long, am I right? I hope you enjoyed the battle scenes.
