Eragon wiped a sweaty forehead with his arm as the sun beat down on his bare back. To his annoyed humor, he found that his arm was also wet with sweat, causing him to smear shaggy dark brown hair across his brow, bangs sticking to his skin.
He sighed, laughing to himself, as he resumed full grip of the sickle he was carrying, and continued cutting the wheat that grew on his uncle's small farm.
Carvahall. It was a simple town, meager yet earnest. It was filled with hard working people who didn't care for politics or war, but cared only that they were protected from the cold of winter and the sharp blade of bandits.
The population was small.
Barely five hundred people called this patch of Alagaesia home, but the fields were hearty and the climate, for the most part, was mild. From Eragon's position ontop of his uncle's hilly field, he could see almost the entire town- the beer hall, the merchant tents, and various wooden homes littered the small clearing. He could see tiny armed patrols circling the settlement, the red flag of Galbatorix so bright it could be seen miles away.
Eragon smiled slightly. The flag always reminded him that he was safe and secure. And ever since Roran joined the Imperial Army, it reminded him of his brother. Eragon and Roran were both very close, Roran being just one year older than Eragon. They both lived with their uncle, Garrow, who was a widower but none the less a happy and hardworking man.
For the past seventeen years they lived, just the three of them, away from the troubles of the realm. Eragon whistled happily and put his sickle in the loop of his loose deer-hide pants. He gathered up the rest of the wheat in his sculpted arms, struggling as he carried the load over to an already full wheel barrow, and then pushed the field's bounty to the relatively large home behind him. Garrow was one of the most well off people in Carvahall, with fertile ground he was able to cultivate enough food to be able to eat healthily and sell.
But he was not a proud man- He thanked the one God for what he earned, and taught Eragon and Roran that everything could be lost in one moment, telling them that to be too proud of one's achievements was an act of folly.
Eragon flexed as he pushed the wheel barrow forward, climbing over grassy field and rock. A number of times the wheel barrow got stuck, forcing Eragon to stop his labor completely and move whatever was blocking it out of the way. Despite this, he was happy to work- it allowed his mind to think freely out in the open air.
The best part of it was that he had done his chores early- he had the rest of the day to himself. He could almost imagine the firmness of the bowstring between his fingers, the thrill and rush when he releases the arrow-
He smiled to himself as the joy of hunting urged him forward, the shed where they kept all of their supplies only a few feet away from him. With a grunt of effort, he trudged onward, sliding the wheel barrow into the shed and dropping the handles quickly, his muscles pulsating from strain. He left the wheel barrow within, for it was Roran's duty to put it all of the wheat away in the storehouse. With a content grin written over his face Eragon raced to his front door, where his hunting tools were located. Bow in hand and quiver over his shoulders, Eragon ran into the dark forest behind his home, not realizing that his life was about to change forever.
He crossed large fields that wavered contentedly in the midday breeze. Imperial soldiers patrolled the far perimeter of Garrow's lands, greeting Eragon happily as he jogged past. The forest lay ahead, darkened and mysterious. Thick trees bustling with leaves and a chorus of birds met him, and the boy slowly drew his bow. Roran had told Eragon that a few hunters spoke of deer that had taken a liking to the secluded eastern marches of the wood, and that's where Eragon headed.
I need to make sure I come back with something. Garrow hadn't approved of Eragon's hunting, namely for the reason that he often didn't kill anything. He knew he would have hell to pay if he didn't focus.
He made his way to the eastern marches in silence, taking in the suns rays until finally, his opportunity arose.
He swallowed heavily, the bowstring stung as it dug into Eragon's thumb. His muscles were still, flexed, and ready. A bead of sweat dripped from his bangs and onto his cheek, smearing an eyelash and making his vision watery in his left eye. But he didn't move, didn't even try to blink it away.
An unassuming deer stood not twenty feet away from him, between the large trees that hugged the land of Carvahall. It bent down and ate, raising its head ever so slightly, its legs primed to run if necessary. It was fat off of the natural bounty of the land. Eragon's stomach growled as he imagined the deer roasting, with fresh rice and a nice bone soup.
He licked his lips and squinted his eye. The Deer picked up its head once more, and Eragon turned to stone, making sure he wasn't seen. The deer, satisfied, dropped its head to the grass once more, a shadow of a cloud passing over its supple body. Eragon pulled, closed his eyes, and released.
The forest, once quiet, exploded in sound. Eragon opened his eyes, pushing his legs forward as he rushed from his hiding place. He saw several other deer running from him, but his eyes looked for the one he shot. He scanned the belt of trees ahead of him, until he saw the bloody back end of one deer limping deeper into the wood. He swore and ran after it, dropping his bow so that the bowstring dangled off of the fingers of one hand, and then grabbing a carving knife with the other. The deer left a trail of blood as it fled, and steadily it slowed down, the drips of blood growing larger and larger until they became grim streaks of carmine that colored the brown and green forest floor.
Eragon followed this trail like a hound until he found the deer on its side while gasping labored breaths. The arrow which stuck from its body rose and fell with each breath. Eragon felt a twinge of pity for the beast, walking over to it and cutting its neck so as to release it from its misery.
Eragon dropped the knife on the deer's body and stepped away, catching his breath and placing bloody hands on his hips.
He looked about him aimlessly, noting for the first time how deep he was in the forest. He realized, with surprise, that the sun was also setting.
How long have I been out here? He asked himself, bending over and reclaiming his knife. He marched around the body of the deer, preparing to cut it open so he could pick the choice pieces-
But at that moment, as he knelt, knife in hand, he saw a blue glimmer in the grass from the corner of his eye. He jumped in surprise, dropping the knife and waddling over to the source of the strange blue light.
Eragon's eyes went wide as he looked at the object- It was large, round, and very smooth. It was a light blue in color, and when Eragon tentatively went out to touch it- The object was warm. He recoiled his hand, staring at the object with wide eyes. It seemed to draw him in, beckon him, it seemed to want him.
It's an egg. But I've never seen an egg like this before.
Eragon, forgetting about the deer, scooped the egg up in his hands, and made his way out of the forest, sprinting, not even knowing what he was doing with the strange bounty that appeared at his feet.
It wasn't long before he arrived at the edge of Garrow's lands, and he hoped he would be able to-
"Eragon! Eragon!" Roran's booming voice hit Eragon's ears like a sounding war trumpet. He nearly stumbled in surprise, darting out of the forest with his prize wrapped in his arms. He stopped for a moment, his eyes looking ahead, towards his home, and closer, Roran running towards him. His brother was still some ways away, so Eragon quickly put the egg down, rubbing dirt and and twig over it.
"Garrow was about to send out a search party. Hurry!" Roran said, his hands motioning Eragon towards him. Eragon stepped out from the forest borders and onto the soft grass of his land, looking sideways at the hiding spot where he left his egg. Roran was visibly excited, his mouth curled in a grin.
"A drifter stumbled into town as we rode back from evening watch." Roran said, and Eragon noticed Roran still wore the simple uniform of the Empire- a black leather tunic with hide pants, and a swirling fire pattern was found blazing on Roran's left breast. Eragon lifted his eyebrows, interested.
"A drifter? All the way here?" He asked as they walked past their home and down into the town. From the high incline, Eragon could see a group of people massed at the town- He even saw men, dressed similarly to Roran, circling with their hands on the hilts of their swords. An unintelligible clamor was heard, and Eragon turned his attention back to Roran as his brother began to speak.
"Yes, right as we rode into the valley we saw a man walking like a cripple, dressed like a foreigner. He was wrapped up in brown robes from head to toe- Like the traders from the southlands." Eragon nodded, understanding. Traders from the south had a queer way of dress, covering their dark skinned bodies with brown and black robes, so only their black eyes were visible. They spoke in silent whispers, and even though their wares were valuable, people didn't trust them.
"We stop, and our Captain asks the man what he is doing. The man just...falls over, like he died. We pick him up, and he has in his possession a sword." Roran stopped then, and Eragon walked ahead, not knowing, until he noticed the sound of Roran's footsteps ceased.
"Sword?" Eragon said excitedly, running backwards to a waiting Roran. His brother nodded, his face glossed over in awe.
"But it was...more than that. It was magnificent. When our Captain pulled it from its scabbard, it had a red blade, a broadsword, with a black hilt fashioned in the likeness of a dragon's mouth. The eyes glowed, Eragon." Roran resumed walking into town, and Eragon followed in tow, the sounds of argument steadily became louder and louder, until Eragon thought he could hear Garrow's voice among them. He smiled in disbelief, he had never heard the calm and kind hearted man speak with such severity.
Roran eyed his brother and nodded, knowing what Eragon was thinking.
"Our uncle is very vexed. That's why he sent me after you, we're going to have a vote." Roran said as the approached the town center.
"A vote?" Eragon inquired as he saw the faraway backs of the crowd.
"To determine what we're going to do with the drifter. Some want to kill him strangely enough. Some want to sell him to the capital and then pawn his sword..." Roran trailed off as Sloan and Katrina walked a few feet ahead of them, joining the crowd. Eragon nudged Roran, who blushed and jostled him back.
"What does uncle want?" Eragon whispered as the drew closer.
"There is a sizable group who simply want to nurse the man back to health and send him on his merry way. But of course, you know Carvahall..."
"People are worried that the man will return with an army of possessed urgals?" Eragon joked. Roran laughed, his teeth shining.
"You do pay attention to the townsmen, after all." Roran and Eragon edged their way to the front of the crowd, the townspeople greeting them kindly, and then turning and hurling demands at the guards. Eragon's eyes twinkled in recognition when he saw Garrow standing over a crumpled figure, arguing with a soldier. The soldier held a large sword, its blade hidden within its sheath, and Eragon could only assume it was the dragon-hilted weapon that Roran had spoken about.
"You're giving him the sentence of a murderer!" Garrow bellowed, and several other voices rose in agreement. The soldier who held the blade curled his face in comical contempt, rolling his eyes.
"Cap'n ish gon. M'the authoretty tull he gets bock. N'wut I sey ghoes, pessent." The soldier said, his thick accent placing his origin from the western human lands, were they spoke a different but similar tongue. Some of the soldiers with him nodded silently.
"I say we kill him!" A voice rose from the crowd, buffeted by a raucous cry of those who shared the same grim opinion.
"He could be in league with urgals and demons!"
"Look at em'! He's probably a mountain bandit!"
"He's innocent! I say let him go!"
All of the voices blended together into an unruly bloom of swears, threats, and demands. Garrow raised both of his arms, and surprisingly the crowd died down.
"We said we would have a vote. And you all agreed." Garrow declared, nodding towards the soldier especially. The man returned the nod slowly.
"Therefore, we will. Afterwords, we will tally the results. And we will follow whichever course is the will of our village." Garrow looked into the crowd, and then smiled when he saw Eragon and Roran. His eyes still searched, until they finally settled on a man named Hale.
"Hale! Count the votes and keep record." Garrow said with a grin as Hale, who was a small and stout fellow, shuffled up before the crowd and seemed to shrink as the eyes of his fellow townsmen fell on him.
" We will do this in an organized fashion- we are not barbarians. And whatever is decided, the choice will be supported." There were mumbles of ayes heard as the townspeople swore themselves to respect the decision.
Garrow drew in a breath, and then announced the first option.
"All those who believe that we should kill the drifter and get rid of his belongings, raise your hand."
There was a ruffle of clothing as some hands shot up. Eragon saw that this idea was the least popular among the village. Hale's mouth silently moved as his eyes counted the hands.
"All of those who believe we should sell the man to the capital and then also sell his sword, raise your hand."
This option was significantly more popular, as more hands were raised, the soldier who held the sword among the most prominent of the voters.
Several of Roran's comrades raised their hands, but Eragon noticed Roran's hand was not raised, neither was Garrow's.
"All of those who believe we should rest this man to his full health, and then release him with his property, raise your hand." As Garrow finished, he rose his own hand. Eragon, pressured by Roran, rose his hand along with his brother's. Several other hands rose, and Hale's face was stuck in concentration as he counted.
The village was quiet was they waited for Hale's judgement. The man, so small and quiet, attempted to raise his voice so that he could be heard.
"Counting my own vote... The village has agreed to see the man to full health, and then release him." Garrow cheered, along with several others. The soldier holding the man's blade swore and threw the sword down, and went storming off, his men following him, albeit in a more orderly fashion. Roran whooped, smiling.
"We saved a life today!" He cried, slapping Eragon's back. Eragon winced, but shared in Roran's joy, he too, was glad that the man didn't have to die.
"Who is going to keep him? None here have the room, save for one." Sloan's voice slithered into the ears of the crowd akin to how a snake sneaks into a garden. It was a jab primed at Garrow. It was no secret that the two men were not fond of each other.
But Garrow deflected the blow. "I was prepared to take the man in the moment I saw him. Eragon, Roran! Take him to our home." Garrow said as Eragon and Roran collected the man as the crowd slowly dispersed. Sloan didn't move, his eyes ever critical.
"I'm glad we have such a hero among us." He said as he slowly walked away, watching as Garrow bent down to pick up the man's blade. Sloan's daughter, Katrina, watched Eragon and Roran carry the man off, a small smile on her face.
Garrow smiled with distant kindness, accepting the compliment. "There are some good men in this world. Some."