Once again, review responses have been moved to the back! Thanks to everyone who reviewed, you guys are amazing. :hugs:
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4/4/101
Salem paced the length of the narrow jail, furious and sick with nerves. They let him go, she thought viciously, nails digging into her palms. Did he know this? Did he! By the gods, if he did, I'll wring his neck myself!
But no…she reconsidered, staring moodily at the barred window, high above her head. He looked as surprised as you did, Salem, didn't he? And what would be the point, to keep him overnight? There is none, and you know it…consider it damn bad luck.
Salem sighed, rubbing her eyes tiredly as she slid to the ground. She hadn't slept all night, and weariness was beginning to drag at her bones.
She threw one last look at the small rectangle of sunlight visible through the window. Gods, you don't know how much you miss it until it's gone, she reflected slowly, rubbing the bridge of her nose.
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Martaila circled around to the edge of the woods, Neal in the trees up above her. She snorted slightly, shaking her head—if she didn't know better, she'd swear he had monkey blood in his veins.
Right on cue, he dropped gently into the grass in front of her, not even making a rustle as he landed. Martaila started, then closed her eyes. "Neal. That's not funny."
"There are soldiers everywhere, Marta," he said softly, his dark face serious. "There's a circled camp up ahead, with at least forty or fifty soldiers. This has 'trap!' written all over it."
Martaila blew out her breath slowly, considering. "It's far too obvious to be a trap. With so many soldiers, we can easily avoid them. No, there's something else here. Those soldiers are a diversion, maybe, but they're not the actual trap. Have you seen any sight of Miyan?"
"No," Neal said.
Martaila bit her lip. "Well, the soldiers are about three hundred yards away from where Miyan said to meet. Three hundred yards to the east. Neal, be careful, all right, but please try to go ahead. See if you can find Miyan in any way."
Neal frowned slightly, but he nodded, clambering easily up into the trees again. His nondescript tan breeches and tunic blended in well with the forestry, throwing light shadows onto him. Martaila sighed, watching him go.
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Neal eyed the distance to the next branch before taking it, pulling himself up into a higher bough. At this height, unless he was extremely clumsy or extremely unlucky, no one could catch him.
Three hundred yards east was a challenge, especially when it meant jumping through tree after tree. Twice, a soldier passed directly under the branch he was sitting on, so close Neal could've tapped them with his foot. They never even noticed him.
It's amazing how many people don't look up for an intruder, he thought, shaking his head.
Neal sighed. Marta was a little overprotective of him, and lately that had grown to be rather annoying. Yes, she had his best interests at heart, but he was sick of hiding out in some corner for a misbegotten hope. The whole thing was doomed from the start, he thought sourly. Besides, just because my father was some Rider or the other doesn't mean that I could be one. Not that there was any hope from the beginning. The last dragon egg was too tightly protected, too tightly hidden.
But, he added reflectively as he emerged into a clearing, it gave them something to hope for. Something to strive for.
Neal shook his thoughts away, his eyes raking the clearing for any sign of Miyan, soldiers, or in fact a single human being. There was nobody there, but Neal could see a subtly arranged pattern of debris—a (very) rough outline of a bird, the symbol of Silica. It pointed towards the northwest.
"So you want us to chase you?" he muttered quietly to himself, examining the bird from his perch in the tree. "This is going to be fun. I'd better find Marta."
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Martaila tilted her head, acting perfectly casual as she judged the sounds behind her. There was somebody lurking behind her, and doing a rather bad job at hiding.
A snap of the twig right behind her. Martaila twisted, kicking her assailant squarely in the knee. He—no, she! fell down. Quick as a cat, Martaila jumped forward, gagging the woman's screams with her hand.
"Reya?" Martaila gasped, rolling off.
The maid didn't answer, staring up at the sky with huge eyes. "I didn't mean it, my lady," she wailed in a panicky whisper. "Don't leave me, don't leave me, please, don't—"
"Reya!" Martaila hushed with a sharp look. "Reya, what are you doing here? I'm not going to shout. You just surprised me, that's all."
The maid got shakily to her knees, her lip quivering as a sure sign of tears. "My lady," she said in a shaky whimper, "Why don't we leave? Why are we still here? My lady, let's go! Please—"
"Oh, no," a voice said in disgust. "What are you doing here, Reya?"
Martaila sighed in resignation and looked up into the trees. "Neal. Did you find him or not?"
"No," Neal said, a sharp look of contempt on his face as he stared down at Reya.
The maid sniffled and looked up, her gaze equally scornful. "The only one who could've put my lady up to this is some slut's bastard," she said coldly. "They have no sense of propriety or normalcy."
"Neal," Martaila said warningly, shaking her head. His jaw worked, and it was a long time before he spoke.
"I didn't find him," he said at last, his voice flat. "Just a marker pointing towards the northwest."
Martaila groaned, rubbing her face. Neal and Reya were glaring daggers at each other, mutinous expressions on their faces. It was time for drastic measures.
Martaila reached up, standing up onto her toes to add an extra four inches to her height. She grabbed Neal's shirt, sending him tumbling down to the floor.
Keeping a grip on him, she reached over to Reya, pulling them both close together. "Listen to me, you two," she said tightly. "Stop fighting. I don't care what insults you may have traded, but the fact of it is that we are going to die if you don't pull it together. There are soldiers out there, and they are not deaf. Do you understand me?"
She shook them both slightly before letting them go. Both of them gave her shocked glances, and she gritted her teeth. "You don't have to kiss and make up, but a handshake will do."
Grudgingly, they shook. It was the briefest handshake Martaila had ever seen in her life, more a flutter of the fingers than anything. She shook her head. "That will do. Now, Neal. What were you saying again?"
"A marker towards the northwest," he said, tearing his glare away from Reya. "Maybe Miyan's there."
"My lady," Reya burst in, "please don't get yourself killed, there are other—"
Martaila turned to Reya, laying a firm hand on her shoulder. "Reya, my dear, this is something I must do," she said gravely. "Please, stay here. It is safer for you."
Reya's lip trembled, but she nodded, folding her hands in her lap.
"Neal," Martaila said, "let's go."
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Neal dropped down from the trees after a while; it was easier to proceed on foot. They followed a line due northwest, always on a watch for soldiers or other markers. "How much longer do we have to go?" Neal asked softly, watchfully observing the forest.
Martaila stopped abruptly, narrowing her eyes. "Do you hear that, Neal?" she asked suddenly, looking around.
There was a faint rustle a few feet away, like the shuffling of feet on mast. "Stay here," Martaila said quietly, brushing the covering of leaves away.
There was a man standing just ahead, his right side towards them. Martaila recognized him instantly, breathing a sigh of relief. "Miyan," she said. Turning back slightly, she called, "Neal, you can come out."
She turned back to Miyan, who hadn't turned or even reacted at their presence. Martaila took a slow step forward, a sense of unease stirring within her. Something was wrong. "Miyan?"
She touched his shoulder lightly. He gasped, his eyes flicking towards her, his body not moving a single inch. His expression, though—it was screaming at her, go, go, go!
"Neal!" Martaila screamed, whirling around, knowing that it was useless. "Neal, get out of here!"
She gasped, turning back around as three arrows whistled through the air, burying themselves in Miyan's chest. He stumbled, then fell.
It's a trap, Martaila thought, numb. We walked right into it.
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Soldiers were appearing everywhere as illusions shattered. The real army wasn't behind them—they were hidden as trees, concealed as rocks, blending into hedges. They formed a circle around them, binding them in.
And out of all of them, he was there too, a smug smile on his face as he surveyed his trap. He knew he had them.
And there will be a third Rider, Martaila thought, sick with nerves. He'll use Neal, use Neal's heritage and make him the third Rider. He'll never be overthrown now.
No. That couldn't happen. That wouldn't happen.
Martaila was vaguely aware of Galbatorix speaking, gloating about his latest victory. The words didn't fully reach her brain; they were just random, garbled sounds.
She had a knife tucked into her skirt; she pulled that out now as she grabbed Neal's shirt. He looked startled, shocked, as she drew the knife across his throat.
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Astonishment swept across Galbatorix's face, followed by a sharp, growing anger. In one single move, she had demolished his hope for his second Rider, destroyed his easiest way to crush the Varden, and worst of all, delayed his dream of the Empire. "You—" he whispered, half-stunned, his gaze locked on Martaila's. "What—you—"
She stood there, breathing hard, tears glinting at the edges of her eyes. The bloody knife dropped from her hand into the grass to lay there unnoticed. How dare she stand there? How dare she be defiant, he would not be challenged!
Galbatorix opened his hand, letting raging black fire blaze from his hand, swallowing the woman in a cloak of flames. He watched her burn, anger seething viciously in the pit of his stomach. It wasn't enough. Her death, her pain, none of it was enough to repay what she had taken from him.
Around the clearing, the soldiers stood immobile, watching the bonfire sputter, then fall into a heap of ashes. Martaila was nowhere to be seen.
Galbatorix strode over to Neal's dead body, studying the still, pale face. The dead could not be revived, that was true. But in his head, Galbatorix knew that he would hear their unidentifiable, drifting calls.
Damn.
He turned to the captain. "Bury him," he ordered coldly, and strode back in the direction of the palace.
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End of Chapter Thirty-Two
So. Ahem.
Since Silica is basically eradicated, I'll be moving onto Murtagh/Salem's perspective soon enough. I know I'm a hideous liar when it comes to time schedules, but I have it all planned out now—there will be four more chapters until the end. :cough cough: Okay, okay, give or take one or two. Or three. It depends on how things go. I have decided (at the moment) to end this story at the Burning Plains, because it's seriously getting kind of long anyway. I might change my mind, but don't count on it.
Um…I was going to say something else. Oh, yeah. I'm going to be going on vacation next week, so there probably won't be an update. I will seriously try to get one up, but the odds are 4:1 against (I have no idea how I calculated that, by the way).
Also, do you guys need an explainer chapter at the end? Because some people were telling me the plot was too diffcult to grasp, I thought about making a supplementary chapter to lay out everything when I'm done with the main story. Tell me in your reviews! And yes, this is a not-so-subtle ploy to get more reviews. :wink:
Its.Garnet.Time: Ah, don't be so scared…I mean, planes aren't all THAT bad. It's not like it's the end of the tunnel or something. Or…is it:DUN DUN DUN:
Alsdssg: Nope, not a single shred of Murtagh here. Bwahaha, I'm evil. Next chapter will be devoted to him and his screaming fan club…or not. :cough:
Gewher: Well, sixteen floors isn't that bad, really. I mean, Taiwan (where I live) is hideously polluted, the result of cramming a couple million people onto a lousy island that's about the size of Maryland. So the people who live way down on the first floor have to deal with mosquitos, smog, and all sorts of fun stuff and things. Whee.
You don't have to worry about getting the characters from this fanfic mixed up with Empire. Three guesses why. OO
DragonRider2000: Sure! I know this fanfic ain't perfect, and there are parts everybody doesn't understand every once in a while. Glad to explain.
Silver sliver: Aww! Now I'm going to blush, and my ego has just inflated another three inches.
And sadly, yes, it is going to end soon. Man, I'm going to cry just out of sheer wistfulness when I write that last chapter, type that last reviewer response, and post it for one last time on the Internet! Oh! OH:sobs:
Well, it'll be a new experience, I guess. It makes me wonder what I'll do after this, though.
Mistress-of-Misery:sigh:
Once again, I bow to your sheer detailness and your sleuthy eye. I'm going to change Murtagh's age to 21, and Salem's to 19. I'm figuring that Eragon's about seventeenish, and they're roughly four years apart. That should fix it. O.o.
Mrs Pierre Bouvier: Yep, I'm very proud of my perserverence (sp?)! Every time I was tempted to slack off, I remembered just how much I hated writers who would lag off in the middle of the story. Then my conscience would kick me and I'd be forced to write. Blech.
Fallonaiya Sedai: Well, the plot is beginning to wind down, with me killing off most of the characters and all. :blinks: Wow, I'm evil.
K.A.T. Hiwatari: Wow, thanks for your (many) reviews! What's wrong with a Salem/Murtagh romance! Well, okay, you're not the first person to say it wouldn't be the best match, but I would like a romance…:sniff:
As for your request, well, I'm going on vacation so I don't know when I can get on a computer next, but I will try to get it to you by next week if possible. See you then!