Roran sat atop his horse, wearing the colors of House Pike on his cloak.
A heavy hammer hung from his belt, gifted by Newlyn Pike.
"You show some promise with the weapon. Might as well grant you with this," He had said.
Roran asked where the hammer originated, but Newlyn wouldn't answer him. It had a coiled leather handle, with a stark white bone pommel as sharp as any sword. The flat face of the hammer was inscribed with the image of a howling horned beast, and on the opposite side another bleached bone point was found, runes etched thickly into the conical fixture.
Roran's hair was long but wavy. As it grew, it became darker, streaks of black running through his normally light brown locks. A boyish beard hugged his sharp chin. It had been a surprise even to Roran, but he could tell that he had grown since Carvahall.
Roran quieted thoughts of his old home, eyes narrowed as he looked down on the small dwelling below him.
"It looks quiet." Lorgainn said, riding up behind Roran. Newlyn had insisted that Lorgainn go with Roran, speaking of the usefulness of a magic user.
"You will be in the deepest parts of the North, where there are no kings or laws. Dark things still lurk in some places, untouched for thousands of years." Newlyn had said ominously, and so it came to be.
Lorgainn ran a hand through his white hair. His face was covered with intricate tattoos, and even without his bone armor he was still fearsome in appearance. Next to him, two of his animals sniffed the air, a fox and a badger.
"What do they smell?" Roran questioned, looking down at the creatures. Lorgainn's eyes turned red, his pupil's expanding.
"Death. Blood, but not newly spilt. These people were killed perhaps six days prior this point in time."
Lorgainn's eyes returned to normal. Roran turned his attention back on the small hobble of houses.
Something is killing all of these people. They had come across castles, lords and lordlings, forts and keeps. But the lands they owned . . . the people they swore to protect . . . the villages were all decimated by some strange evil.
The lords generously accepted the terms of House Pike: To recognize House Pike as their Great Lord, and join them in the war against the Empire. But when asked of the village massacres, they had no answer. They had all been huddled in their fortified homes, while the smell of death and screams of children and women carried on the cold air of the night, unheeded.
"It is much worse than we had previously thought." Roran said, his jaw clenched. Katrina and the others . . . they were safe, but for how long? Whatever was killing these people was gaining strength in the uncharted woods and forests, attacking from the fringes of the North.
Roran turned to look behind him. His men waited, all of them ahorse. Nearly one hundred and fifty of them, all well-armed and trained. All following his orders.
Archers, swordsmen, and Roran didn't even count the bloodmages.
Lorgainn rode with him, but the rest of his magicians held back, watching their rear.
Roran sagged his shoulders and sighed.
He was tired.
He just wanted to be with Katrina. She had improved greatly, healthy color returning to her as her body filled out again, the normal vivaciousness back in her attitude. But still, Roran could tell that sadness lingered.
Our lives will never be the same.
"Let's go." Roran said, whipping his reigns forward, his horse plodding down the craggy hill.
It was misty in the morning, and so far, early on in winter, they had been lucky. Only wet rain and a few flurries of snow had afflicted them, and most days warmed relatively quickly.
While it was still cold they faced muddy roads and slush-covered grass, which Roran preferred over feet upon feet of snow. The sound of movement was heard behind him as his force traveled into the destroyed village.
Upon riding closer, the smell the animals had picked up met his nose. It was a cruel thing, damp and heavy, as if it was not a smell at all, but something tangible, something that had to be fought off.
The village was found in a clearing, many of the trees that surrounded the area had been cut back, and as Roran rode forward he saw stumps of felled oak between pockets of dirtied snow.
Above, the sky was a gray soup of haze, sun shining weakly behind a film of grim color. The village itself was even more unremarkable from a close distance as it was from afar.
Poorly built buildings, constructed of wood and stone, formed a circle around what Roran assumed was some sort of communal firepit. Stakes from the pit rose high over the town, charred and weathered but still standing. The hooves of his steed crunched on half-burnt slabs of timber as he patrolled the doomed settlement.
The rest of his men set up perimeter around it, while Lorgainn rode up beside him once space allowed.
Bodies littered the area. Horribly mutilated, some with skin hanging from bloodied faces white with exposed bone.
Homes were broken into and ravaged, the families who once lived in them cut down before the eyes of their houses.
Suddenly, Lorgainn vaulted from his horse. Roran jumped in surprise, watching as Lorgainn walked briskly over to a body lying face first in wet ground. There was a red mark on the back of the corpse, swirling and savage. It appeared to be a bird, but Roran couldn't tell exactly. Whatever it was, it filled him with a sense of unease, of some evil that desired nothing but the death of all living things.
He shivered.
"What is it?" He called from his horse. Lorgainn flipped over the body, and stepped back as he was greeted with the front side of the corpse, which was cut and carved in the same style as the marking on the corpse's back. Lorgainn looked up at Roran, locking eyes with him.
"It is plain to see that Urgals have been attacking these villages. But . . . this . . ." He trailed off.
Roran bore into Lorgainn expectantly.
"Well?"
"I know this seal. It is a sacrificial summoning. It is similar to the styles of Bloodmagic . . . but this . . . it is wrong. Something about this . . . "
Roran felt fear creep into his mind. Lorgainn stared at the body for a moment longer, and then climbed back up his mount, his animals sniffing at the body curiously.
"We should continue to the next Lord." He advised.
Roran tensed. Lorgainn was always cool and calm, but something about the body unnerved him.
"There is something dark at work here." Roran muttered, eyes scanning the village, bodies strewn about like garbage. Not even wild dogs touched these fallen souls.
It was then that a guttural bellow came howling into the still air. Roran looked at Lorgainn, and his mouth turned downwards.
"Urgals."
Roran nodded wordlessly, wheeling his horse around as he left the village, Lorgainn behind him. All around, his men rode to him, and one man with a weathered face and a red scarf wrapped around the bottom half of his face presented himself.
"They're pouring out of the wood." He said breathlessly. Roran unclipped the heavy hammer from his belt. Directing his horse with one hand on the reigns, he looked ahead, past the village and into the dark expanse of the woods beyond. Sure enough, he saw the movement of the massive gray beasts as they lurked into view, hunched and hulking. Horns curved from their heads, some dangling with rope and beads that chittered as their bodies swayed heavily. They held axes of stone, large spears and massive iron greatswords. Unarmored, their thick hides gave adequate protection.
Some of them were even naked, their bare bodies filling Roran with disgust.
"At least seventy." Lorgainn said.
His animals snarled, bearing teeth as they hid between the muscled legs of Lorgainn's horse. The two groups stared at each other. The Urgals formed before the town in a semi-organized line. Roran's forces met them, his line straight and centered. The horses watched the Urgals cautiously, some of them nickering nervously.
Then the urgals charged.
"ARCHERS!" Roran bellowed, and soon the whisper of arrows was heard as they were loosed into the Urgals.
The Urgals did not falter in their charge even as their countrymen fell. Roran reared his horse.
"Brace yourselves!" He warned, his warhammer swinging in his hand. Lorgainn's eyes went red.
"I have commanded my bloodmages to attack from the rear once the Urgals are committed in battle to us."
Roran frowned, but had no time to protest as the Urgal line crashed into theirs. Momentum had been on the beasts side.
Screams of man and horse melded as the Urgals cut down Roran's men. He roared as an Urgal came bounding up on him, unarmed save for two massive fists. Roran struck at the Urgal with the sharp end of his hammer, silencing it as the sharp point sunk into the beast's brain. It shuddered and fell.
Roran pulled his weapon free, taking his shield from his back and entering deeper into the fray, Lorgainn riding beside him.
Blood snaked from the corpse of a dead soldier as it impaled an Urgal at a dozen different entry points, the Urgal screaming horrifically as Lorgainn weaved one hand in the air, moving his lips in silence.
Roran moved ahead, watching as his men killed and were killed. Two Urgals pulled a horse down to the ground, and then gutted the rider with their massive horns.
Roran killed one as it lifted its head, smashing the creature's skull in with savage grace. As he rode past, the surviving Urgal screamed. Upon turning Roran, saw that an arrow jutted from the urgal's forehead.
They pressed on the attack, and gradually gained the upper hand, ground soaked with newly spilt blood. Then abruptly, the Urgals turned and began to flee.
Urgals don't run. They fight until they or their enemy is dead, hacked to pieces.
The Urgals easily moved ahead of the tired horses, propelled on thick legs. Roran narrowed his eyes as they scurried into the wood.
"After them!" He screamed as he kicked his horse forward.
The urgals led Roran to a stone castle. Ageless and hidden within the forest, green moss snaked over the gray walls like veins visible under the surface of a man's skin.
Ruined turrets stood vigil over the bleak land, while skeletons hung from poles scattered about the outside of the structure, swaying gently in the wind. Roran felt dread rise up in his throat, a thick bile that threatened to send him fleeing back to where he came.
"This is an evil place." Lorgainne spoke, his words hushed as his horse softly stepped close. Roran looked at the man.
Lorgainn's eyes glowed red as the badger and fox moved ahead, snouts in the air. Behind Lorgainn, the rest of Roran's forces slowly crept through the forest. Ahead, the Urgals vanished within the castle, entering through broken ramparts and climbing up cobbled walls.
Roran exhaled, his breath turning into white mist as it escaped his mouth. It was colder here, a fowl sensation, numbness taking root despite Roran's armor and furs.
"We have to investigate." Roran leveled his eyes on the castle. He felt that whatever was in there waited for them, watching and wondering. He curled his hands tighter around the reigns of his horse.
"What do you smell?" He asked.
"Dark spells. A cadet branch of Death Magic, but no less foul. This place burns with it. Whatever beings await us, they have been trying to unlock the secrets of the old runes, before our world began." Lorgainn shifted in his saddle, frowning.
"What do you mean?" Roran tried to image whatever it was inside the castle: He pictured a withered old man, a dark cowl hanging low over the front of his forehead.
"Golhlobor. The first being to use magic for evil. In those days, there were no branches of magic, no words or incantations. It just was there, for all to use and manipulate. Every living creature had some connection to magic, and it was its power that formed all we see around us. Golhlobor . . . if the ancient texts prove true, was bored of peace. He waged war on all life, using the magic of the world to command legions of undead warriors. They were called Ra'zac. It was only the combined power of the Eldeena and the Elves, their offspring, that he was contained."
Roran knew what elves were, well enough. But these Eldeena were new to him.
"Who were the Eldeena?" He questioned.
"The First Dragons. Before Golhlobor, dragons had the ability to turn into the likeness of whatever they wished. In fact, it isn't correct to call them dragons, though that was usually their preferred form when they took to the skies. It was from them that Elves came forth, created by the mating of an Eldeena and a Dwarf. From there, the Elf mated with a Dwarf as well, bearing four sons that would eventually grow into the several races of man."
Roran was amazed. Everything was so much larger than he, so vast, so mysterious. Back when he was in Carvahall, life was simple. Nothing truly mattered, save for the harvest and his patrol duties. Now . . .
"How did the Eldeena have such power?"
"It was in their nature. They possessed strange hearts- Called Eldunari. Spheres of creation. After an Eldeena died, their Eldunari lived on. But the Eldunari and the lives of several million Elves were all used to seal Golhlobor, who was also an Eldeena, in his ethereal prison. From that point, the Eldeena were locked into whatever forms they had covered themselves in. Some were Dragons, others were giant horses or lions. Some had been monstrous sea creatures. They were all of these things, monsters, except for the power of speech and magic that separated them from common beasts. In time, the world forgot about the Eldeena and Golhlobor, and the Eldeena's descendants fled from the eye of the world, breeding among their kind. Only the dragons lingered, waging war until the First Rider brought peace to the land."
"How do you know all of this?" Roran asked.
"The Ghost Men inscribed everything on stone and bone. What was written had been passed down orally for thousands of years, so I cannot tell you truly if what I say is the truth. But it is the history of this earth as I know it." Lorgainne pressured his steed onwards.
"I have summoned my mages. Your men should stay in the wood and set up perimeter. We will enter ourselves." Lorgainne said, and to Roran's ears, it sounded dangerously like an order.
"But the Urgals-"
"They were killed as we were speaking. I smell their blood."
Roran's eyes widened.
"Killed?"
"Sacrificed. What awaits us fears our power enough to attempt to bolster their own. Whatever magic is at work here, it needs to end. This keep is a blight upon the land, and it is from here that all of those innocents died. This is the source of the destruction."
Roran remembered the bodies of women and children. He remembered the towns they had rode past, burned to the ground, and what still stood was black and charred, hauntingly thin and calm as the wind blew ash around their boots.
Roran remembered the Lords they had come in contact with, eyes filled with fear, hiding from some unspeakable terror within their castles. He then remembered Carvahall- his ruined home. A small pocket of civilization, destroyed searching for-
Suddenly, Roran's mind clicked.
The Egg. Eragon's dragon.
Roran felt rage swell up inside of his head, pounding against his walls of reason.
Garrow.
Eragon is why their town burned. Why Katrina was forced to march until she was half dead. Why he was fighting, why he was here right now, why he was about to face some evil entity-
It is all Eragon's fault.
"Roran? Are you ready?"
Roran nodded, his teeth clenched. Lorgainn's animals came back to him, looking up expectantly as the white-haired youth sat atop his horse. Behind them, a rustle and crumble of dead wood was heard as Lorgainne's mages came from the half-frozen forest.
"We will continue on foot." Lorgainne stated, dismounting. Roran jumped from his horse, holding the hilt of his hammer tightly, his face red.
You killed Garrow, Eragon. You killed everyone.
"Set up watch around the castle. I will enter it alone, along with Lorgainne's forces." Roran spoke to his second in command, and the horseman nodded, telling Roran's mounted troops his orders.
Roran turned back to Lorgainn, who was surrounded by darkly-robed bloodmages, their animals sniffing. Foxes, dogs, and even bears made up the menagerie.
Roran saw a bloodmage with a hawk resting on his shoulder while a crow sat atop the wizard's hood. Roran moved forward, the heaviness of his boots dragging into the soft ground.
"Roran, you have no magic ability, so your advantage will be quickness. Keep your mind occupied, and whatever seems unreal, is. Do not allow yourself to be caught in an illusion. You may see people you care about, but you need to ignore them, their voices and calls. They are not there." Lorgainne's warning made Roran shiver.
"To think a magic-user could have so much power . . ."
"No. It is not the magic-user who would do this to you. It is this area itself. It is basked in Dark Spellcraft, causing our bodies to react differently. I have experienced what you will soon feel, because my body is sensitive to it. Once you get closer, you will understand. Just remember my words."
Roran remembered as he stepped through the tall ramparts, taking the same route the Urgals had before.
Hammer drawn, he looked about himself, the mages coming behind him silently. The insides of the castle were tattered and ruined.
Skeletons impaled on stakes stared at Roran as he peered about. The ground was littered with bones and ash, and his skin felt as if someone was softly caressing it, a slight tingle that unnerved him. He stopped, his vision growing hazy as he saw a woman ahead of him, laughing quietly to herself. She looked up at him, her eyes haggard and her face gaunt.
Her hands were bloody, and as she laughed, flesh came falling from her mouth. Roran looked at the woman's fingers, then realized she had been eating them. He saw her face again, this time inches away from his.
"Katrina?" Roran gasped. The wraith howled. Roran felt himself fall to the ground as phantom hands grasped his neck. He looked up and saw Katrina, laughing as black liquid dripped from her eyes, tears made of muck and acid. His eyesight faded, grew tighter . . .
"Roran!" Lorgainn shook him, and the wraith hissed, vanishing in the air. He helped Roran to his feet, Roran gasping heavily.
"I thought you said it wasn't real. I felt it. I felt hands around my neck." He said softly.
"If you allow yourself to fall prey to the magic, it will become real to your body. Know it for what it is- a falsehood, and it cannot hurt you. Let's go."
The wraith returned after they made their way deeper into the castle. It danced in Roran's view, again acting as Katrina, stabbing herself with a knife, giggling as she slid the razor across her wrists. Roran's stomach turned, but he marched onwards, ignoring the demonic show.
They continued into the castle's inner workings, having crossed the barren courtyard. Roran shook his head as two mages pried open the old doors, which opened with a heavy yowl. They were greeted with a dark hallway, statues of long-forgotten heroes marching down into a pit of blackness. Lorgainn lowered his gaze to the path in front of them.
"Just ahead. What we seek is just ahead." His eyes glowed a deep red.
Roran had to remind himself that Lorgainn was not a wraith. As they walked ahead, whispers bounced around them, a strange and fowl tongue.
"Do not listen." Lorgainn muttered as Roran tried to block out the sound. The animals seemed unaffected as they patted on the stone floor, claws clicking on the surface. They were twelve in total- twelve against some dark being. They were greeted by an arched doorway, which in turn led to a large room, circular in appearance. In the center of the room, a fire burned.
But the flames were black. Kneeling before the flame was an Urgal, beaten nearly half to death. The dark flames licked greedily at the beast, and a robed figure stood behind it, knife pressing into the creature's throat. Roran saw bodies of dead Urgals strewn about the room, necks open.
The knife flashed across the throat of the Urgal, and it fell into the fire. Flames exploded in mirth.
The robed figure vanished. Lorgainne was beside Roran in a matter of seconds.
"Gaisa-bouron!" He screamed, and a pulse of white energy erupted around them. The robed figure went flying back, hitting a wall as an open window shined down on the being's face as its hood fell backwards. If it was a man, it was the ugliest man Roran had ever seen. It had no ears, no nose, no lips. Tattoos were carved into its skin, horrible and dark. Blood seeped from the carvings, painting the beings face with red streaks as blood overflowed in the fleshly trenches of the being's appearance.
It snarled and pounced, hurtling forward. Lorgainn's mages sprung into action, speaking in tandem as they raised their hands. The being snarled as it was lifted into the air, the blood of it snaking from the freshly made wounds, self-inflicted.
Bloodmages.
Roran allowed himself a smile. But then he heard Katrina giggle. He looked towards the sound, but then was pushed backwards as he was thrown to the ground. In the air, the enemy magician weaved tendrils of his own blood around his body, impaling Lorgainne's men as they looked up at the creature, bewildered. Animal and man died the same, punctured in the heart by hardened spears of black blood. The tendrils snaked around men and threw them into the ebony blaze, which grew stronger and larger with each toss.
Roran roared and held his hammer tightly as tendrils came flying at him. He struck them away, but they recoiled and attacked back, cutting his arm and then both of his legs.
He fell to the ground, slick with blood as he watched the carnage unfold around him.
Their force was decimated.
Mages tried to no avail stave off the black snakes, but they kept on coming, and each newly made corpse exploded in a splash of liquid the color of night, which stabbed and choked and grabbed. Roran rose to his feet, knocking away tendrils as they resumed their assault. Lorgainn and three of his men still stood, huddled in a circle as they weaved a bloody wall around them. Roran looked on desperately, wishing he was closer as men who were outside of Lorgainn's defense were eviscerated. The enemy mage slowly floated to the ground, focusing all of its power on Lorgainn and the surviving trio. Roran ignored the pain in his legs as he charged, hammer held high.
He was silent, quick, fast . . .
The dark mage turned and looked at him, violent glee in its eyes as a spear of blood came crashing into Roran. It cut through metal and leather, cloth and skin.
It exited out of his back, and flung him around the room, his teeth chattering together as the tendril snaked deeper into his flesh. Finally the tentacle threw him into the blackness of the fire, the flames opening like the mouth of a black demon as his flesh began to burn.
Roran screamed, but by then he realized his lungs were now nothing but ash, sacrificed to the power of a cruel god.