(A/N) SO we broke 40,000 yesterday. It's going to suck starting over in terms of views when Brisingr begins . . . so if you're following this story MAKE sure you get to the next part! Also, I'm going to be making a new (better) website. I am also going through Primary Bloodline again, because it needed some major editing. So when I re-release it, the book (which will still be free on the new site) will have a better cover, a codex, and a bunch of other things. ANDD if you haven't already, "like" Tower of magi (me) on facebook so I can talk directly to you about the rewrite project! (And if you want to see the map). Also, to a question Restrained Freedom asked . . . Yes there are rivers, but due to the nature of the neigh-impossible interface of Cartographer, it is hard to do. Once I get better at using it I shall add rivers/lakes.

The New World was vast.

Killian looked ahead at a large expansive jungle, birds chirping while fire crackled behind him. His men moved up slowly, causing long blades of grass that were nestled between black dirt and twisting roots to whisper as they brushed against clothing. Rem stood beside him, bearing his strange new body, one vermillion eye underneath a flap of red hair while one yellow eye was focused ahead. His one white arm rose to move a lock of hair away from his pupil, turning to Killian in the process.

" The Dwarib colonists flee deeper into their fortified towns. They are hiding something." Rem lowered his head as they passed underneath a large and weeping tree, vines sagging nearly to the floor of the jungle. Bugs filled the air between every man, while a thick heat clung to their damp clothing. Food had been difficult to find- many of Killian's men had died from eating poisonous foods. Hunting was dangerous. Every kill they made attracted a host of violent animals, of which Killian had never seen. Wolves the size of horses, gigantic lions with curving tusks, and wheezing basilisks that could change the color of their mottled skin in order to blend into the environment. Due to this, Killian's force was dehydrated, hungry, and tired.

Killian did not know if he himself could survive another battle.

The Dwarib forces attacked in the dead of night. They used weapons that Killian had never seen: staffs that fired exploding arrows that scared Killian's men and punctured the heaviest of armors. Above, what appeared to be floating sacks rained streams of fire from turrets onto the ground below, burning the forest and all that were within it. The only reason they had survived at all was due to Rem. The creature (Killian had long since refused to call Rem a boy) was able to summon the half-dead dragon that he had absorbed on the beachhead. The otherworldly beast made quick work of the Dwarib and their strange technology, but Killian wondered how long that would last. The Dwarib here were obviously regrouping for some final confrontation, some last attack that Killian was not sure he would survive.

The man trudged forward, his ultimate goal bellowing within his mind.

I will kill Galbatorix.

(Line break)

Nasuadon lifted a hooded head in the rain. Behind him Nasuada lagged, her boots sticking into the deep muddy roads of the Empire. Occasionally a merchant or a group of soldiers would plod by, metal hooves sending muck flying into the air as the torrent of rain descended upon them. The sky above was a disgusting slop of gray, while black clouds formed in the far distance. It was cold, and every time the wind blew Nasuadon shivered as the clothing he wore had long since begun to stick to him like an additional layer of skin.

"Sister, we must hurry," Nasuadon said as he fell back, taking Nasuada's arm and helping her to continue. Her face was gaunt and her hair was in disarray, slanted eyes shut in a grimace as she held her bulging stomach. Every step seemed to be akin to a mile for her, and her eyes bore large black circles that added to her haggard appearance. Nasaudon stomped ahead, spying a man on the side of the road, fixing with a large wheel that had slightly fallen off of his carriage.

"Wait here, Nasuada." Nasuadon squeezed Nasuada's shoulders, and walked towards the hunched over man. He wore a halfcape that began with a hood, covering his upper back while rain drenched his lower quarters. Mud stained his breeches as hands fumbled with locking mechanisms. Bored horses stamped idly as the world wept around them.

"Sir," Nasuadon began behind the man. The carriage driver seemed not to notice, swearing to himself as he attempted to fix his wheel. Nasuadon walked around the man, his boots filling with water and mud with every step. He knelt down and to the man's surprise, helped him attach his wheel to the frame of the carriage.

"Thank you, thank you . . . who are you?" The man questioned. Nasuadon smiled warmly.

"My name is Jex and my sister, the woman behind me, is named Haura. We lost our horses to raiders. How far away are we from Uru'baen?" Nasuadon asked. The man's face gave a sympathetic look.

"I hear you. This war has got everyone on edge. The armies that were defeated up North fled here, killing and pillaging. And now they say that the westerlands will be the home of the conflict. The young Langfeld King rises from the South, if merchants can be believed. These are dark days, indeed." The man gave Nasuadon a hand.

"My name is Freklyn March. We're going to be passing by Greypoole, but after that it is a straight shot to the capital. You're in luck; I'm going there to talk to Galbatorix. He spends all day on that throne of his, listening to the problems of the common people and meets out justice as he sees fit. A good man. Kind." Freklyn rose to his feet with a grunt, pulling his hood over his face as a fresh blast of rain was buffed by a howling gust of wind.

"We'll stay off of the center of the road, I'm sure we won't get stuck again. Get your sister so we can all stay out of this damnable weather."

Nasuadon collected Nasauada, assisting her as she entered the carriage. The man seemed to be a merchant himself, the back of his carriage filled with various foodstuffs, covered by a leather tarp. Nasuadon and Freklyn sat outside of the carriage on a raised seat, a leaning cover protecting them from most of the rain. Nasuadon watched as the heads of the two horses bobbed below him, while Freklyn whipped the reigns, controlling his steeds as he navigated the muddy roads.

"Everyone is fleeing to Uru'baen as of late. The city is certainly big enough to house the entire realm. War has everyone on edge. They all remember the tales their great grandfathers passed down, speaking of the Rebellion. Stories of how the North fell in rebellion reached down here as well. They say Gil'ead is nothing but a pile of ash, now. Those who don't bend the knee get their head chopped right off. Uru'baen is far away from the frontlines . . . for now." Freklyn shook his reigns again.

"For now?" Nasuadon asked, holding his arms in an attempt to keep warm.

"The rebel King has captured Aroughs. Feinster is next. If This King captures Feinster, this war will become real."

"What do you mean?" Nasuadon raised an eyebrow.

"Aroughs was a small city. Forty blind Urgals riding donkeys could have captured it. But Feinster is fortified. Lady Lorana controls the city, Head of House Lorana. She's a capable woman . . . very smart with a military sensibility about her. She keeps Feinster very defendable. If Orrin defeats her . . . Galbatorix will know he has a real war on his hands."

" War is a tragedy, no matter what side you bow down to." Nasuadon looked behind him to check on Nasuada. Her head rested on the side of the carriage, sleeping after days of travel on foot.

"I can agree to that. Hopefully Orrin is defeated at Feinster. If he is, the war will be a faraway trouble."

Greypoole came upon them suddenly, hidden in the fog caused by the pouring rain. The small township bore wavering flags of the Empire, an orb of fire with three pronged tongues licking at the air above. Wooden watchtowers were built into an oak palisade, and archers wearing green cloaks stared down at them as Freklyn approached the large doors that blockaded the road.

"Greypoole is a town and a checkpoint. There's no way around it, unless you want to travel off-road. Those men," Freklyn pointed to the archers.

"Greencloaks. If you try to navigate around Greypoole, they will get you if the bandits don't rob and kill you first."

They were called to a halt as a man wearing a boiled leather vest and a dark green cowl approached, flanked by two armed men. Their steps slushed against murky mud, puddles made from numerous other travelers overflowing with rainwater.

" Good morning," the man greeted. He had a friendly face, and he smiled warmly.

"Hello. I have the proper papers, sir." Freklyn reached into his pack, and produced a roll of parchment. Waving free of excess water, he handed it to the gateguard. The man inspected for a moment, smiled, and then waved them ahead.

"It is a little excessive, but it keeps us safe." Freklyn said as he urged his horses forward. The town of Greypoole came and went- a meager collection of weather worn houses bearing little to no importance was all that was seen of the town. In a short while, Greypoole was behind them.

Your destiny is coming, Murtagh. Uru'baen approaches. Nasuadon squeezed his hands into fists, and frowned deeply.