A/N: I started this fic when I was fifteen. I'm gradually updating the entire series, but be mindful it'll take some time as I'm simultaneously writing BRISINGR. The chapters that are in all caps are the ones that have been updated!
ERAGON
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ARYA spurred her palfrey onwards, ignoring the beast's labored breaths and whines.
She focused on the dirt road ahead of her, canceling out all sound.
She forgot the cold.
She ignored the leather reigns that cut into her palms.
Arya banished the memories of her Elven guard, forgetting their cries as they fell to the Urgals that ambushed them not moments earlier.
She had no time for remorse, no time to turn and give them one last glance.
If she failed here...
Arya's focus snapped back into reality as an arrow zipped by her head, skimming the side of her forehead, right above her eyebrows. She could feel the blood trickle and flow backwards, pushed back by the speed at which she was moving.
Faster.
I have to move faster.
Arya whipped her horse onwards with bleak and fleeting determination. Girded by weeping vigor, the Aursio (Laen Elf for princess) whipped reigns that by now, felt more like razor wire, fletched with alcohol.
The Elf bit down on her lip, drawing blood as she heard mounted troops gallop behind her, and the deep, guttural bellows of the Urgals reached her ears between the beats of her heart.
FASTER.
She kicked her mount in the side with her spurs, and whipped the reigns. The horse screeched in protest, but picked up its pace, the strong legs of the animal bulging with muscles that were quickly reaching their limit. She heard, no, felt more arrows being fired at her. But instead of impaling her through her back, they veered off and shot into either side, hitting the dirt covered ground with silent thuds.
The enchantments she wore protected her, but for how long? With each defense, she felt herself grow weaker, her grip on the reigns growing less rigid, more slight...her eyesight growing dark around the edges of her vision...
It was then her horse fell.
It came as a surprise, Arya gasped as the palfrey suddenly stumbled over, sending her and her precious cargo tumbling forward. Arya was unable to right herself for the fall. She hit the hard and cold dirt road face first, her nose growing numb in pain as blood trickled from her nostrils and into her mouth, which was locked in a grimace. She had tumbled out of her saddle, and the blue egg under her supervision waited patiently for her, just within reach.
She heard the last gasp of her horse as it died. Further back, she heard the hoofs of her enemies. Even further, the cries of the Urgals.
She reached for the egg, her arms strained, her body weak...
She was too far away.
Arya clawed at the ground with her other arm, pushing herself forward, blade dragging behind her, slowing cowing momentum down.
I cannot fail.
There is no other option.
Arya's father, Evander. He flashed before her eyes, reverberating in and out, painted by blood.
Don't stop. She dug and dug, her fine fingernails bearing crevasses of cuts, covered with dirt as they tore themselves on the cruel earth. Her other arm reached for the egg, that precious azure sphere, filled with the hope of the world . . .
"It's a fine spell, is it not? I was able to trip your mount will little difficulty. One of the many wonders of magic. " A chilling voice said behind her. Arya's heart stopped, but not her body. She continued to grasp for the egg, dig into the earth, ignoring this new threat.
The voice chuckled. It was light, almost carefree.
"Dear child. Compose yourself. No one, especially an Elf should be caught in such a state."
Arya continued to reach. Her fingertips could nearly feel the cool shell of the egg.
"It's hopeless, mischievous girl." The voice was.. smooth almost inviting. That in itself brought Arya to a new alertness and fear.
Arya felt a explosion of pain erupt from her shoulder as the intruder's sharp heels dug into her flesh.
She roared then, balling her hand, which up until then had been a makeshift shovel, into a fist and turned her body over, pushing the hostile stranger off of her back.
She could feel the pressure of the heel lessen, and then disappear. She rolled to her feet, ignoring the pain in her shoulder, and shot a wave of magic energy at her enemy, drawing her blade with her other hand.
The man, now that she saw it was such, laughed, and merely stepped forward, his movement hindered slightly by Arya's assault.
He had a handsome pale face and carmine red hair, long enough to reach his cheeks, while bangs framed his cutting cheekbones and green eyes.
"Such a..meager grasp on the arts. It was endearing almost. Watching you.. watching your valor crumble.." He laughed, his face contorted by a sneering smile.
Arya snarled, charged.
Placing both hands on her sword's hilt as she attacked, the dark inquisitor dodged her first blow, blade harmlessly slicing vertically in the air. He looked at her with a dubious expression.
She frowned and attacked again, switching her grip and stabbing at the man's stomach. He jumped backwards, the blade harmlessly poking his dark coat.
"And I see your swordcraft is as pitiful as your spell-weaving." The man mocked, opening his hands and whispering something, his eyes locked on Arya. His pupils glowed brighter and brighter.
Arya could feel the tint of foulness in his words.
Summoning? She thought, though her question was answered nearly in the next moment.
Within the man's grasp was a sword of fine make, and of grotesque design. Its blade was a shiny ebony, with a serrated edge and a wolf hilt-guard. The hilt itself was long, enough for nearly four hands, but this man held the sword easily with one. The pommel was fashioned in a sharp, pointed dagger-like protrusion.'
Arya could tell it was able to easily cut through leather and flesh.
The man advanced as the first of his mounted men came riding in. He heard them as she saw them. He smiled and turned his head, his hair whipping behind him as he did so.
"Just a moment. I want to enjoy this. It's been a long time since I've killed an Elf."
Arya looked at him with steel eyes, analyzing him closer. He wasn't an Elf clearly, but she could see now that he wasn't fully human. He seemed human at a glance, but there was something about the wispiness of his grin, something ageless and endlessly wicked that she couldn't place. He was an ancient evil, a pit of violence and despair.
"What are you?" She asked, her sword shaking in her grip.
The pale nocturne flashed her a white grin.
"My name is Durza." He answered as he pounced, swinging his blade overhead and then bringing it down to Arya's waiting defensive stance.
"Your blood screams to me, Elf. Let's make it spill."