I do not own the Inheritance Cycle.
I am so sorry for my hibernation, but I had to figure out how it would be best to continue from the last chapter. And though I'm not completely certain this is the best way to do it, and while I know I could do this differently, this is how I'm going to continue.
This is Eragon's POV from Chapter 44 and on. It's going to be split in two different parts.
Enjoy,
Tales of Gilead
Part 1 of 2
Eragon and Rose were hidden deep within a hovel in a large growth of brushwood. It reminded Eragon very much of the one he found in Carvahall, where he and Brom had spent their first night of travel, before he had cleaned it out years before. It was cramped and full of prickles, the barbs around him were always threatening to poke into him, leaving his skin to sting for hours.
A sigh in the back of his mind reminded him that this was not Carvahall.
He missed Carvahall with such intensity that it felt now like a physical pain within his chest. There were times his simple missing for his home turned into a carving and when it did, it would leave him breathless. But it was not Carvahall that he missed, what he missed were the simpler times with his cousin and uncle; a time when he did not have to worry about anything more than a hunting trip or where it was best to make a trade.
He frowned and shook his hand, the left one that he had wrapped the briars around, as a wave of nausea shook him.
He felt for once as if he were at home, in the woodland behind Carvahall waiting for game to pass by, that he was one hunting not the one being hunted.
Except, of course, he was not being hunted. There was no real danger; this was just Rose overreacting, looking for dangers where there were none to be found. Or, at least, he hoped.
Eragon didn't know what he would do if there was danger; he had left Zar'roc in his bag along with his best knife. He didn't even want to think of what Brom would say if he knew. Even with him hundreds of leagues away Eragon practicality hear the old man now telling him off for his stupidity, how his brain did indeed work and that it was not filled with rocks, that it was better to be prepared and not to leave a valuable weapon behind…
Eragon looked down at his thorn covered gloves. He did not know for certain why he had wrapped his hands in the briars, just that every time he tossed the strings of undergrowth to the ground they kept catching on his tunic, poking him. His gloves were thick enough to protect the skin underneath and as he thought about the thorns, he began to wonder about the idea of using it for a weapon. It would be good to know if he had something of use on him.
He would rather just use magic but the idea remained with him.
With a sigh he looked out from between the thin wiry branches, searching and listening for any movement. Gradually a blanket of cool blankness slipped over him, and for the first time he felt something familiar- something of the place he was born in. And though He may miss his home dearly but there was nothing left of it and he could not go back, not after all that he had learned and done.
At this moment, he needed to be focused but he found that more he tried that there was little to focus on. His mind felt divided; part of his thoughts were his own but the remaining were Saphira's. He could feel everything she was doing; the wind she was cutting through high above in the clouds, the whistling of air as she sped up, the keenness to come down to the ground and swoop those she cared up and to fly away with them. The only reason she wasn't down here already was because whoever was traveling down the path could now be heard.
Something he now hear also. It the crunching of many feet marching through the undergrowth, not troubling theirselves to be quiet, that now could be heard. Eragon thought that they didn't sound human.
He cast a small charm to allow them to hide from prying eyes, so that as long as he and Rose were quiet no one would be able to find them. And they were, hardly a sound came from either of them.
For a very long time they were silent, neither of them daring to move. Their breaths, and the teetering of birds, were the only things heard other than the marching. And then a large, gray hand came out of the shadows, pulling back a sapling and breaking it as the creature moved into the light. Before Eragon could recognize what the creature was, he heard Rose gasp and then her hand flew over her mouth.
Not a moment later, a dozen or so Urgals came up behind their leader, as ugly as Eragon thought them to be last time he saw them. The Urgals looked around with bright, piggy eyes and their snout-like noses wrinkling as if they were sniffing the air. After the Urgals, poured out humans, sitting edgily on top of steeds, where short red tunics and golden chainmail, a helm on each of their heads.
"Where're they?" the soldier nearest the Urgals sneered.
"Here," one of the Urgals told him. His small eyes were sweeping the small valley. "Somewhere."
"Yes, yes," said the same soldier as before, "you said that before. Where is somewhere, though?"
Eragon scuffled closer, trying to get a better look, and hit Rose in the back with his elbow. She jolted and fell forward. As Eragon reached out to seize her, she grabbed ahold of a thick barbed branch in front of her, trying to steady herself, but the branch broke with rebounding snap! She fell forward, and then regained her balance before going very still.
Eragon cursed as all the Urgals and all the men looked in their direction. One of the Urgals pointed its stubby finger at the brush they were hiding in and said, "There."
He could feel his heart beating wildly against this chest, but a wall seemed to form between what he felt and what he needed to do. Taking ahold of Rose's arm, he pulled her, willing her to move, but she did not, completely frozen as the Urgals advanced. "Come on, Rose," he hissed at her. "Come on, move! Move now!" She did not move, nor did she seem to hear him. He cursed and continued, "They're coming. We don't have much time. We won't have time at all if you don't move!"
Rose stood up suddenly and shook his arm off, before she began to forcibly push him out of the brushwood. The reedy branches under their feet snapped as they hurried from the brushwood. At the hole Eragon had made in the back, he pulled the branches aside and pushed Rose through, letting her get ahead of him.
The Urgals grunted as they got closer, their footfalls were like distant thunder. When they reached the brushwood, Eragon and Rose had been in, they simply plowed through it, entangling theirselves in the thorns and prickles.
Burn them, said Saphira from somewhere above. It will be much simpler than blasting them into nothing, or have you forgotten your lesson? Be sensible, Eragon. Burn them.
It would not feel right to burn the Urgals. Yet as Eragon heard them snarl, he thought of the people lying dead in Yazuac, the years of childhood fearing them, the threats before he had tried to blast the Urgals away from Brom, and lastly Brom's anger when Eragon had put forth so much energy to blast them away.
I cannot save you this time, I'm too high up. Do it now!
He wheeled around on his heel, facing the Urgals in the brushwood, and raised his hand. "Brisingr!" he shouted and, as the dry wood caught ablaze with blue fire, he turned away.
Thorn is not far, said Saphira. Go to him. I will keep the two-leggeds busy.
By doing what? he said sharply, notching his arrow. I'm not running like a coward! Not when you're going off to get yourself killed!
Saphira snorted. I'm not going to be killed by those creatures, Eragon. I'm much smarter than they are, she said blatantly. Go to Thorn. I will see you before long.
And if I refuse? he challenged, turning around to see where the Urgals were. Some were burning in the fire trying to get out, he only one escaped, while others, the ones that stayed away from the brushwood, were running toward him and Rose. They weren't far behind.
Then I will have Thorn carry you away in his claws.
He frowned and looked ahead before turning around. He did not need to look to see that Saphira had already begun her attack on the Urgals, he could hear their shouts as she roared and snapped her massive teeth at them.
"Run!" Eragon shouted out to Rose. "Keep going. Thorn's not far." He stopped briefly and turned to let an arrow loose and then another, one of them hit an Urgal that was charging at them in the knee. It fell over, and pulled the arrow out before slowly rising. It limped forward, much slower than before.
Eragon turned away and sped up to Rose, before he turned again and let more arrows loose. He would follow her to Thorn, he did not want to waste the time looking for the dragon himself, and slow down a small unit of Urgals as much as he could as they came charging. Sometimes one of them would vanish and reappear with a loud thud as it fell collided with the ground- it was Saphira's work, Eragon knew it.
Eragon reached back in search of his arrow but is quiver was empty. He cursed, spinning around and caught up with Rose. She looked up him and sped up, racing him to Thorn who was shielded from view by a large blossoming bush, watching them as they sped forth.
Eragon glanced behind him, worriedly looking for Saphira but only saw a blue glint as she dived towards the ground. Why couldn't it have been Thorn who was fighting with the Urgals and soldiers instead of her?
Turning back, he saw that Rose had already climbed onto Thorn's back, and was waiting for him to do the same. He hesitated, looking back at direction Saphira was in and then rushed forward and climbed on, grabbing ahold of Rose for balance.
When he looked back towards Saphira, shouting for Thorn to go, a stabbing pain shoot through him. He looked over himself and released that it was not his pain. He wheeled back on Thorn's saddle, almost falling from the dragon's back, as his head began to spin.
He took a deep breath, trying to clear it.
Feeling Thorn dragon crouched down, with wings spread wide, to jump into the sky, Eragon looked back towards Saphira. He then swung his legs over Thorn's back and dropped to the ground. Something grazed him as he landed in a roll, and looking up into a mouthful of large dagger-sharp white teeth.
Eragon rolled away from Thorn and dived into a bush, before taking off towards Saphira in a run. She was hurt, something had happened to her, he was sure of it. His body tangled and stung with pain that was not his own, his steps were wobbly as if he were drunk.
He had to help her. Somehow, someway.
He saw Saphira rush toward him, her flight labored and swaying. Fool! She roared at him. I told you to go with Thorn!
Her anger cleared his head. He saw that she was hurt, there was scarlet droplets of blood arcing behind her as she flew. I can't leave you, he said. You're hurt.
The burning anger he felt from her softened but only a little. Little one, she said in a forgiving but hard voice, like brittle metal. I was just leaving.
Eragon frowned at her, and looked around at the advancing Urgals. I didn't know, he told her. You said you were going to try to hold them off so I thought you would keep trying.
There wouldn't have been a reason to if you were safe, she said and landed between him and the Urgals. It was a foolish thing to do. You should have listened to me.
Nodding, Eragon looked for the wound, and found it on the joint of her wing. He ignored Saphira's protects, telling him not to worry about it now, and healed her anyway. She looked at him with darkened eyes. If you're done wasting our time, she said, let's go.
Eragon grabbed the strap on her saddle and started to pull himself up. Out of nowhere something rammed into him knocking him to the ground. There was a noise like a gust of wind and then one like a screech of stone, so loud that Eragon thought his ears were burst.
Louder and louder it grew.
Until quite suddenly it was gone.
Now Eragon felt that he was on the ground but he saw nothing, and he felt as if he emptied of everything. Slowly his vision returned to him but it was strangely warped around the edges. He could not think of why that was; all of his thoughts were still.
There was something was caught in his throat. He tried to cough it up but found that there was no air to do so. When he tried to breath he found that he could not do this either. Every time he tried to breath he gasped painfully, feeling like an icy splinter was stuck inside of him, but could not stop himself from trying. He needed to breathe.
There was a roaring above him.
He could hear her thumping footfalls coming closer and closer but could not see her. He turned his head, his vision blurry, his breath caught in his throat. Something colored in red and gold was on top of him. It was holding him down.
He blinked, and gasped but no air came.
The soldier turned his head and shouted something. Eragon could not make out the words, they sounded strange to his ears as if the soldier were speaking another language.
He gasped again.
Suddenly the soldier was whipped off of him by a flash of blue scales and Saphira moved closer, her head hovering protectively over Eragon.
He gasped loudly but no air went into him. He couldn't speak to her, the words wouldn't form. His head was swimming. He felt as if were about to be ill.
There was another roar, and a flash of something long and dark as Saphira's head disappeared.
And then there was a pain along his head. Sharp and stabbing. It over took everything else.
Blackness enveloped him.
It was a swaying, swinging blackness.
There was nothing except it; that blackness that had become everything.
.
When Eragon came to his senses, he found that he was laying on flat panels of splintered wood, in a mess of deafening noise that made his head ache with stabbing pain. Something was moving beneath him. The movements were jutting and jiggery, and made loud screeches every so often. The lunging, bumping feeling was one he recognized but he hadn't felt it in sometime, and though the sounds were different, he knew he was on a cart.
Why would he be on a cart?
He tried to move his arms but found that they were bound tightly behind his back. He frowned in confusion; what was going on?
Slowly he opened his eyes to see where he was, and was instantly blinded by a glaring white light. He jammed them shut with a groan.
"Is he awake?" a heavy voice asked from somewhere around him. He didn't recognize the voice.
Something hard and pointed poked him in the side. He fought the urge to move, and focused instead on staying still.
"Nah," said another voice.
"Good," said the same voice as before. "Grevist wouldn't be happy if he were. He'd want us to him to get the Iron Tower, at least, before he awoke."
"He'd be much happier if brought him the right one," said a different voice.
"It's a Rider," said yet another man's voice. "Grevist will be pleased enough with that."
There was the sound of someone scoffing, and then, "It don't matter what we bring Grevist, he won't be pleased with what we have to tell him."
There was a round of agreement from several other men, and then they all fell silent.
Eragon didn't dare open his eyes now, nonetheless move. He had a fair idea of what was going on; that he had been knocked unconscious and taken by the soldiers to Gil'ead, or at least he thought he was in Gil'ead.
He gathered that he had been attacked when he was getting ready to climb onto Saphira- Saphira! he thought suddenly. But where was she?
Eragon cast out his mind for Saphira but did not feel her. Nothing of her, not even her calmer sleeping mind. He could feel the soldiers' minds and the people around him but little more. His head fought against him as he tried to continue and he withdrew into himself, his heart pounding behind his eyelids. His mind felt as if it were trying to split in two at the effort.
For now he would just have to wait and see if Saphira was behind him- he thought, and hoped, that she wasn't- and try to come up with some plan.
With a great amount of effort he forced himself to remain still. He was only able to do so because of the amount of times he pretended to be asleep over the last weeks, when he was truly just listening to the sounds of night, avoiding sleep because of the dreams that might come. There were times during those nights where Eragon had felt Selena pressing the palms of her hands against his forehead as if checking for fever and cluck her tongue when she felt one, or Brom walk loudly around his head and bend down for a moment just lingering there as if he were waiting for something.
He wiggled his legs and found that were unbound. That was strange. Why would they only bind his arm and not his legs? Eragon was not question it too much though, in his mind it was a blessing. Despite the fact that it was a small one.
The cart gave a great heave, probably hitting a stone, pitching Eragon into air some. His head came down onto the wood so hard that he thought he was going to be knocked out again. He wasn't but a great lurch of stabbing pain hurtled through his head stunning him for a moment.
He groaned again but this time the men didn't seem to notice.
Eragon felt a brief moment of encouragement; maybe he would be able to find a way out this mess without having to fight. He couldn't be that lucky could he? No, it was likely he was not but he had to try.
He listened to the sounds for a moment, they seemed to overtake everything else in harsh blaring beats of sound. He slowly summoned the willpower, and his mind swirled as he concentrated as he search for the strange, intangible world of feeling where his magery held its power. Bracing himself he pulled some of that power forward and focusing it, he said, "Jierda!"
Immediately the cart lurched, slamming Eragon forward, and loudly buckled. Before the soldiers could think to take action Eragon and a knocked one of the guards to the ground as he jumped off the cart. Two of the soldiers, taken completely off guard, stood with their mouths open. Eragon charged between these two and ducked under the flinging arms of another, braking through their ranks and onto open street.
A man shouted behind him, harshly giving out orders but Eragon did not dare to look back. He kept his eyes on the road as he bolted blindly through the crowd, only snatching a look as he sped around a corner: two soldiers were in pursuit. Eragon had a good lead, but his head was pulsing with black pain and more than once he nearly lost his balance. He knew he didn't have long before the pain became too much.
He gritted his teeth, pushing the feeling aside. All he knew was that he had to keep going.
