- ELDEST -

MORZAN'S eyes narrowed as he looked at the army marching over the rolling hills of the north. Men held tall banners, each one flapping violently in the spring wind. Hishorse nickered, tapping its hoof on the mushy ground. Morzan heard a rustle of movement, and turned his head sideways while his second-in command, Hern Geisa, took up space beside him.

"Another victory, My Lord?" Hern asked, his voice muffled by the black full-helm he wore over his head. Morzan returned his critical eye to the rebel army before them. He lifted his pointed chin, and he could feel the soft touch of his long black hair as it was pushed forward, caressing his neck and cheeks.

"Yes. It will not be long until we make up for Lord Geron's blunders." Morzan muttered, shifting his grip on the reigns of his warhorse. A black cloak fluttered about his body like a crow attempting to take flight as Morzan's force grew behind him. Hundreds of knights rode astride black stallions as nearly a thousand footmen marched in their dusty aftermath, steel spears pointed towards the heavens. Archers sneaked behind the wall of soldiers, ready to offer devastating projectile damage while protected by their brothers-in-arms.

"The one who defeated Lord Geron . . . his name is Magebane, is it not?" Hern inquired. Morzan's mouth curled downwards as the rebel army ceased their advance.

"That is what the smallfolk say. A foolish name."

"There may be some truth to it. Lord Geron is no fool, My Lord Morzan. This Magebane must have some power if he was able to defeat Geron."

If Geron hadn't failed, the war in the north would have been over by now. Geron was sent to invade the far northern settlements, while Morzan would march for the closer castles. The plan had been for Geron to stall the far north while Morzan cut through the rebel lords who presided closer to the west. After Morzan defeated them, he was to join Geron, and smash the northern rebellion on two fronts.

But Geron had been defeated, and the remnants of his army turned to join the enemy.

"Magebane will fail, and then he will die." Morzan turned his head towards Geron.

"Sound the charge." Morzan commanded. Hern gave Morzan a questioning look, but did as he was bid, gripping the bullhorn that was tied to his neck and blowing on it with all of his might, face growing red in exertion. Morzan unclipped his cape, and urged his horse running forward, into the enemy line. Behind him, his knights galloped, lances drawn down as the rebel army answered Morzan's charge with their own. Morzan reigned in his horse to a halt, and carefully plucked off an ebony-colored glove as the thundering step of hooves was heard closer from his front and back. Morzan regarded a pale hand, and then watched as small orbs of fire sprouted from each of his fingers. The red circles of flame then rose into the air, growing larger as they did so. The enemy knights were nearly upon them, so close that Morzan could see the spittle dangling from the open mouths of their heavy steeds. Unlike the light cavalry of the west, northern armies employed hardened stallions, thick and corded with muscle. Morzan leapt from his saddle as his horse was run through by a mounted spearman. He flew over the shiny helmets of his knights as they met the rebel charge, crashing together in an orchestra of screams while blood painted the ground. Morzan landed on his feet, drawing his sword as infantrymen ran past him.

Zar'roc. He remembered when he crafted the blade, remembered toiling under the watchful and shrill elf Rhunon. He had been thirteen when Murtaghen hatched for him, and he was fourteen when he crafted Zar'roc with the help of Rhunon. When he was fifteen, he used that same blade to fell Riders much older than he, joining Galbatorix during his own rebellion, one that lasted for ten years, and then was given one hundred in peace. Now, war erupted again, and Morzan looked a mere five years older than he had been before. During his long life, Zar'roc was the only constant. Everyone else either betrayed him, or died.

An enemy knight broke free from the mounted mosh of battle, and charged at Morzan. The fallen Rider lifted his naked hand and caught the lance that was meant for his heart. Morzan slid backwards as the horse's powerful legs dug into the dirt, the point of the lance slowly tearing through Morzan's hand. He looked up at the knight who attacked him, and muttered a single word.

"Brisina." He whispered, and the man suddenly lurched forward as his body was engulfed with flame that ate away at his insides. The horse whinnied and then reared, Morzan allowing it to pass, dropping his sword and holding his arm as the lance that impaled his palm was wrenched free. He called his sword back into his hands, one of which was now slick with warm blood.

His knights had been able to turn away the rebel troops, and his army was advancing on their enemy's main force. Morzan knew that somewhere within the carnage, Hern directed his troops with grace and courage, a seemingly impossible feat for one in the center of hell. Morzan stepped into the ground, abandoned dead and dying lying about like uncollected cut trees. The scene of battle had shifted behind the enemy line, and Morzan watched from a slight incline in the land as his warriors fought in the low-valley the rebels had decided to charge from.

Morzan grinned. Had they simply stayed there instead of charging, they would have been able to deal heavier losses- but now Morzan could tell they were faltering. Westmen were more disciplined and well-trained than Northern savages.

Hern. Call back your men.

Morzan lifted his bleeding hand to the sky as the imperial army engaged in a mock rout. Knights belonging to him sped over the hill, backs flattened against their horses. The knights usually survived. Morzan regarded the few foot soldiers that lingered behind, some turning to fight the now-emboldened rebels. As Hern came upon him, Morzan lowered his bleeding hand.

Five streaks of light suddenly landed into the mass of soldiers, and the illuminations lingered in existence, ethereal and filled with mysterious beauty. The first of the Forsworn closed his eyes as he felt the increase in air pressure. He opened them again as sound ceased, glowing white orbs of heated air churning into the ground, expanding. The orbs drew wind back within it, and Morzan stuck himself to the ground as tall grass leaned towards the phenomena. Sound returned then, and as it did, the land was painted red and orange as five separate explosions came roaring into life, engulfing friend and foe. Morzan's dark eyes reflected the image of scattered fires across the land, while charred corpses were thrown about around five large craters, flame dancing along the curved circumference of the impact zones. A lone flag, propelled by recess energy, floated towards Morzan. He caught it in his hand, and saw the half-ruined sigil of the Varden : A blue eagle spread over a green field. The flag curled in Morzan's hands as azure colored fire ate away at it, until there was nothing left but ash. Morzan overturned his hand while Hern came up on him, still mounted.

"Another victory." He said, helmet covered with smut and sweat.

"How many of ours were caught in the fire?" Morzan asked as he felt himself grow unsteady. The spell was a powerful one, and he had used it for the sixth time in only two weeks. He would need to rest soon.

"By the looks of it, only one hundred or so. Mostly spearmen." Hern informed. Morzan nodded as he watched the pile of ash he dropped scatter in the wind, while five separate clouds of smoke lazily rose into the clear sky.

I am waiting for you, Magebane. And when I meet you in battle, you will die as your allies have here.