They were the children of night.
Sixteen of them circled the black fire, deep in the woods of their realm. Tattered cloaks surrounded faces darker than the night sky, devoid of stars.
Sharp ears poked through holes cut out from the sides of dirty cowls, and blonde hair fell over eyes as blue as chrysocolla.
"Do you see anything?" One of them whispered, hushed and frightened. Their leader, a shaman named Herzig Bloit, ignored the question, watching the movements of the ebony blaze. The night was still, no wind passed through the trees that watched their dark ritual.
Herzig Bloit leaned over the fire, inhaling the flames as they sprung into his nose. Some of the Sealed Elves gasped and recoiled in fear, but the most seasoned of their acolytes simply watched.
Herzig opened his mouth slowly, gray mist escaping from his sharpened teeth, rising into the night like a freshly slain soul.
"It is time." He said, rising to his full height. His arms were striped with swirling tattoos, and one of his ears was missing. Scars were racked across his face, and underneath his black robes, he commanded a body that was honed and brimming with strength.
His disciples that gathered around the fire parted as two higher-ranking acolytes dragged a Laen Elf to Herzig. The Elf had been beaten so harshly that his face was almost as black as his counterparts, with eyes swollen shut and a mouth filled with broken teeth. His naked body had been cut and burned, three days of torture that left him on the brink of death.
"We were powerful, once." Herzig began. The speech was routine for his acolytes, but the newest disciples listened aptly, ears eager.
"We had ruled all of the Elves. Before the curse. Before we were burned."
"What was burned will rise from the ashes, a people of the Prince." The voices of the acolytes said, whispers in the cold air.
Herzig grasped the Laen Elf's head as his two acolytes dropped him and joined the circle. In Herzig's right hand, a thatched dagger was found, evil in shape and design. Dried blood painted the long blade, and the handle was crafted from bone.
"I have foreseen our rise. Our return to greatness. The Prince stirs in the west, and his sire, our forebear, Golhlobor."
"May his dark art forever linger in our mind, as our bodies have been sealed." The acolytes sang, their voices rising from a whisper.
Herzig leveled his dagger on the neck of the Laen Elf, the tip of it poking the white flesh.
"We are descendants of Golhlobor, sealed with blackness because they feared his Magic. They sealed us with blood, and Golhlobor screams within his prison. But as they have imprisoned us with their own blood, we shall in turn free ourselves with the blood of their sons."
"Golhlobor, Lord of Night, Father of Darkness, hear our prayer, free us, Father, aid us against the High Elves, against the Elves of the Wood, and against all who oppose us. Give us your strength, Father, so that we may one day free you from your crypt, so that you may watch as your Prince burns the land with your own eyes."
Their voices rang together beautifully, melodic and thick with anguish. A tear fell from Herzig's eye, trailing down his cheek, silver in the moonlight.
"Golhlobor, bless us."
The knife drove into the Laen Elf's throat, spilling bright blood into the black flames. The fire greedily ate the blood, dancing and licking the air and growing larger.
Herzig pushed the body of the Laen Elf into the small pyre, and the body exploded in heat. The acolytes moaned and cut themselves with knives, weeping and crying and screaming. Herzig watched the body slowly burn, the smell of burning flesh bringing a smile to his thin lips.
"Golhlobor has heard us. Golhlobor will lend us his strength. He sends us his agents, wings that beat against the night."
The moans of Herzig's followers reached an all-time high.
Herzig himself shuddered in ecstasy. He saw them, saw them written on the curled and burning skin of the Laen Elf.
Wings of Night, Birds of His Dark Grace, Banes of Light.
They would soon be ready to make themselves known to all. And soon, they would be prepared to march against the Elven capital. When Islanzadi's head hung from Herzig's neck, all would know that Golhlobor has returned.
Roran danced backwards, his blunted hammer dancing between his hands. His opponent, Eragon, pressed forward, his sword recoiling off of the hilt of Roran's hammer with a loud ting.
All around them, men of Pike watched as the two brothers fought.
Roran dug his feet into the slightly wet dirt of the training yard as Eragon renewed his assault. Roran turned away each blow, his long hair flying about his face. Eragon exhaled deeply and retreated, then shifted for Roran's left flank. Roran turned, ducking as Eragon's blade passed over him. He plunged the butt of his weapon into Eragon's stomach, and his brother grunted in pain as he fell over.
"Well, that's a win if I've ever seen one." The arm's master said with a shrug. Scattered claps praised Roran, who held out a hand to his brother. Eragon looked up, smiling as his face shined with sweat.
"You're good." Eragon complimented, wincing as Roran pulled him up.
"Did I hit you too hard?" Roran asked. Eragon shook his head.
"Nothing that a good night's sleep won't fix."
"You may not have a night." Roran said, his smile disappearing. Eragon looked at him, a confused smile on his face until he realized what Roran was speaking of.
"You don't mean-" He began.
"Yes, you leave tonight. You, Brom, the dragon . . . and the Elf."
Eragon's eyes widened as his ears caught the last word off of Roran's lips. He smiled as he looked down at his brother as they walked from the training yard, men clasping Roran on the back as he passed them.
"You like the idea of that, don't you?" He grinned. Eragon blushed shamefully.
"I- I had a dream about her, she's the reason I came."
"Then you better hope this Lord Pike decides to let you leave unharmed. Some of the men are very upset about Brom's murders."
They walked underneath a large white tent, and inside the covering tables were spread about. Men lined up at pots half their size, holding out dried bread. The center of the bread was cut out, and cooks poured a hardy soup of potato, meat, and onion into the bread-bowls.
"It wasn't his fault." Eragon said in a hushed tone.
"They attacked us." He added as he was handed a breadbowl. Roran watched, amused as Eragon inspected the food, wiping dirt off of the crusted surface. Roran took his own, and then found a line to one of the many soup pots.
"Regardless of that, they are not supporters of Brom. But it has been said Lord Pyke puts resourcefulness before relations . . . he may not care about losing two infantrymen if he's gaining two Riders, and a dragon besides."
It had been Eragon that saved Brom from instant execution, telling them that Brom was a rider who fought Galbatorix in the war. That warranted enough interest from Newlyn to believe they should be brought to Mhampir.
Them, along with the Elf. Roran and Eragon retrieved their food. They found an empty table to seat themselves in. Eragon ate quickly, slurping and nearly choking on his meal.
"You haven't changed at all." Roran said, smiling easily. He leaned forward, looking at his muddled reflection showing in his soup.
"Garrow . . ."
Roran tensed.
"We already talked about this, Eragon." Roran said softly, placing his wooden spoon down on the table.
"He may still live. I thought you were dead too, and here you are. Here we both are." Eragon said stubbornly.
"And if he doesn't? What then?"
Roran felt anger rise within him.
"I took you for dead as well. We both live. Would Garrow want us chasing vague notions of his survival? What if one of us met our death trying to find hope that doesn't exist?"
Eragon frowned.
"He gave us everything. He was our Father."
Roran was dumbfounded.
"And it is because of that he wouldn't want us chasing death. This world is changing, Eragon. I've heard the Pikes speak amongst their generals. Things worse than war are coming. We need to focus on the safety of ourselves, and those around us." Roran instructed.
"It doesn't matter. Since we live we have a duty to Garrow-"
Roran slammed his hand on the table, men glanced over at them.
"What duties? Eragon, we are just boys. We have to cling to life, not flee from it."
"If he decides to let us go, we must continue to the Varden. And after that, I'm returning to the North to find Garrow."
Roran scoffed.
"We both know what Garrow would want." Roran said.
Eragon straightened in his chair.
"It's almost as if you never cared about him to begin with."
Roran's eyes flashed with anger. A tempest of rage fell upon him. He wanted to throttle Eragon then and there. He didn't care who saw.
Roran's love for Garrow exceeded the love he held for himself. For Eragon to even say what he did..
"You make me sick." Roran rose from the table, not turning back as Eragon frantically called out to him.
Roran left the tent, leaving his brother a cooling soup as company.