The Swarm's Host

As he awoke to the sound of distant thunder, Eragon opened his eyes to a reddened sky as the soot filled air entered his lungs. He instinctively felt his breathe shaken but the air became only a mere nuisance as his sight finally cleared to see the deathly landscape before him.

Before Eragon was a land of desolation and devastation scorched with fire and brimstone, a land where the skies rained the very essence of the scorched earth and the only rivers he could see were red with the magma of the planet's blood. The flames that erupted from the ground gave off an intense heat, but he soon came to feel his senses shake more. He moved one step forward, his feet unaffected by the volcanic ground before him. As he moved forward, he eyed a cliff that seemed to pull him towards it.

Finally, as he moved towards the cliff's edge, a resonating screech came forth confusing him. He looked down and to his horror, he saw an army of creatures before him. There were thousands all ranging from fierce lizard-like bugs to impossibly large monstrosities to even winged freak of nature. He stumbled backwards and fell hitting his head on something soft. At this, a voice spoke out to him.

YoU. . .

He moved his head around as a tall, legless monster with two scythed arms. It looked at him with two red eyes as mouth split open letting out a screech. Eragon shook in fear as it slithered closer, eyes boring into his soul. Slowly but surely whispers came, entering his mind as it spoke softly but gradually got louder as the creature moved forward.

EMptY . . .

He couldn't help but crawl away but the creature followed slowly like a predator playing with its prey. The scythe arm came down stabbing his leg. Pain coursed through his veins sending him into shock. Terror finally reached its peak as he turned, looking face to face with the creature's visage. Alas his vision started to fade as the voice spoke in a whisper. The monster melded into the darkening blackness of his dream scape.

PeRfeCT

Chapter 3: Whispers in the Dark

There was not much to be said about nightmare before this one had occurred. They came once in a blue moon and he, like before, would wake up in a cold sweat, drink water, then go back to sleep and forget about the entire ordeal a morning later. However, this one had been far different from the others and a nagging feeling in the back of Eragon's head further cemented that this dream would not be one to leave behind.

He could still remember where he had been and see the creatures as clear as day. Each ridge of armor and lump of muscle was still fresh in his mind, blood thirsty screeches of rage and chaos still echoed in his mind. At the front of it all, however, one thing that he had remembered the most was the creature consuming every part of himself. He remembered each limb being lopped off his body and could somehow even feel the monster chewing on him.

And then there was the voice. It seemed familiar . . . but where did it come from? As much as he would have liked to have admit, nightmares were ominous for reasons beyond his understanding and, with the discovery of the strange stone, Eragon could feel a chill. Perhaps is had something to do with the egg-shaped rock; he did have a sudden increase of nightmare frequency when he had found the thing.

Stranger yet, he could also swear that the nightmares were all the same one. The first ones were barely conceivable and other times he could only feel the tingling sensations of something brushing against him. Voices, memories of a far off void of some unknown spoke to him.

Was the stone truly the cause of this?

He sighed and went to the night stand, where he splashed his face, shivering as the water ran down his neck. Refreshed, he turned around, taking the stone from under his bed and staring at the thing. The color had again changed, it was pulsing orange now.

Had he felt comfortable, Eragon would have placed this object on his row of shelves by the side of his bed. But, somehow, he just didn't feel safe. Perhaps it was the light, the nightmares, the look of the egg that bothered him. On the other hand, the egg was quite large and, now that he thought about it, it would have been quite difficult to find something to hold the thing in place.

Maybe he could ask around town or make his own little egg hold—

NO

He shook his head as if to rid himself of a daze. Why was he thinking about this now? He was gonna sell the damned thing anyways. Ugh, so much thinking about such an annoying object.

It had happened some other times when he had been working off his debt to pay Horst. Eragon would have melted his hand had the blacksmith not pulled Eragon's hand back.

Placing it in his pack, Eragon hurried to the kitchen, eager to see his family. Garrow, his adoptive uncle, and Roran, his cousin, were already there, eating chicken. As Eragon greeted them, Roran stood with a grin.

"Slept well?" Roran smiled.

Eragon yawned, "No, but I'll live."

Roran gave him a look but continued to eat. He knew of Eragon's restlessness, but didn't want to make things awkward already.

It had been several weeks after his return and Eragon's mood had shifted. Roran could tell the teen was far more aggressive than usual, almost going as far as punching a tree just to prove a point. Sometimes, Eragon would explode at the most random things only to find himself questioning why he had done so later. Roran scoffed; perhaps Eragon was finally experiencing his emotions to his fullest. Roran remembered how confused and weak-kneed he was with Katrina once he grasped the concept of love.

Whatever the case may have been, Eragon, luckily, did not show any break in his normal self. Tired as the teen was, Eragon was still the eye rolling brother Roran still knew. As for Eragon's crush, Roran guessed, perhaps he would find out soon enough.

Taking a gander at Eragon's pack, Roran noticed the bulged form of the leather hold.

"Is that the stone?"

Eragon nodded, "Yes, honestly, I'm glad to be rid of the thing."

Roran raised an eyebrow, "Really, now? I'd kill to find something like that. You should get it made into a ring."

Scoffing, Eragon smirked, "I'm here to make crowns, not lose them Roran. Besides, what use would I for a ring? If anything, it'd be for you and Katrina." Eragon paused, "How is she, by the way? You did see her last night right?"

The young farm hand had been worried about the fair lady ever since she had driven her father off of him. Sloan was not the type to hurt his own daughter, but one couldn't be too sure with the butcher. It would not be surprising to find him doing disturbing things to his own daughter.

"She's fine. She told me that Sloan gave a fit, but after you left he calmed down. The news of traders must have raised his spirits."

Eragon nodded. The past days had been spent pickling, salting, shelling and preparing food for the winter. The surplus had also been gathered, set aside in separate containers to await their transportation to town. When they cleaned up the best they could, the trio of Garrow, Eragon, and Roran packed their surplus produce into the wagon. Eragon set the wrapped stone between bags of grain so it would not roll when the wagon hit bumps.

Harnessing the horses and clearing a path to the road, the three farmers were glad to see the traders' wagons had already broken the drifts. Thus they set off to town as carefully and swiftly as they could. By noon, they could see Carvahall.

The daylight certainly lightened the mood in the small earthy village. Laughter and shouts filled Carvahall as the villagers gathered to meet the traders. As the three came closer, they spotted the traders' temporary living quarters, spotting groups of wagons, tents, and fires spread randomly around the tents as spots of colors.

The churning crowds moved around the tents and booths clogging the main streets. Horses whinnied at the commotion but became mesmerized by the smells around them. Eragon, himself, could detect roasted hazelnuts that added a rich aroma to the air.

Once Garrow parked the wagon and picketed the horses, the older man pulled several coins from his pouch.

"Roran, do what you want, only be at Horst's in time for supper. Eragon, bring that stone and come with me."

Roran departed with a nod with a determined expression. Eragon grinned as he pocketed Garrow's coins. He already knew what to spend it on.

As Garrow led Eragon into the bustling crowd, the boy couldn't help but gaze the sights around him. Women were buying cloth, while husbands were examining the sharpness of blades or the toughness of hammers. Children ran up and down the road, giggling and shrieking. Spices, knives, pots, pans, anything Eragon thought of he could find.

However, something came to him as he watched the traders. They had a wary look to them compared to the years before. The gaunt men carried weapons with a new familiarity with grim looks on their face. The women and children had a frightened look to them and their clothes were patched in places.

Eragon frowned. He rememvered the traders as being full of good cheer, but there was none of that now. Garrow pushed down the street, searching for Merlock, a trader who specialized in trinkets and jewelry.

The found the goatee wearing sales man behind a booth, displaying brooches to a group of women. With each new piece he pulled, the man seemed to use his charm to pull each one in. By the end of his exchange, he had sold two or three pieces to the group and all the women gladly put on their lovely trinkets.

"Oh, why hello there," Merlock said with a merchant's tongue, "An amulet or trinket for a lady?"

Garrow stepped in before the merchant could continue, "We're here to sell something.

The merchant nodded, "Interesting . . . do you have the object in question?"

Eragon and his uncle stood uncomfortably as the older of the two looked around.

"We were hoping," Garrow continued, "To show it to you somewhere more private."

Merlock raised an eyebrow, but spoke smoothly, "In that case, let me invite you to my tent."

He gathered his wares and gently laid them in an iron-bound chest. Locking the wooden container, he ushered the two farmers up the street and into the temporary camp. After moving around, they all gathered into a crimson tent that was as flashy as the merchants own attitude.

When Merlock closed the flap and turned to them, he spoke as professionally as he could while holding his excitement.

"Please seat yourselves."

When they did, Eragon unwrapped the stone and set it between the two men. It was not orange anymore, to Eragon's worry, but rather blood red though Garrow and Merlock didn't seem to notice Eragon's distress. Merlock reached for it with a gleam in his eye, then stopped and asked, "May I?" When Garrow indicated his approval, Merlock picked it up.

He put the stone in his lap and reached to the side for a thin box. Inside was a large set of copper scales and when Merlock placed the stone on one side, he pulled out several other tools to continue his observations. Things progressed further and further on as Merlock did gentle taps or peered through his jeweler's glass. But as time progressed, something came through to Eragon that shook him.

It wasn't apparent to him at first, but as Merlock began to examine the stone, Eragon felt his perception of time slow to a crawl as reality slowly dragged on out into a dreamlike state. Things started to blur as Merlock touched the side, sound amplified to the point where Eragon could hear the soft scratching noises made from the merchant touch. Every tap and stare started to drag something down his throat and by the time Garrow glanced at Eragon, the young man had begun to sweat.

"Eragon," Garrow said worriedly, "What's wrong?"

The teen blinked and breathed heavily as if he had held his breath, "Huh, wh— oh . . . Um . . . could I go outside."

"Are you alright?"

Eragon nodded as he left. He muttered, "Yes, just . . just tired."

Once he stepped out and closed the tent's flap behind him, Eragon moved away from the tent as he fell to his knees and held his chest. His lungs felt tightened and the heat within him burned through as sweat. He almost wanted to claw at his throat, but as soon as he tore off his scarf, everything grew still. Eragon stared at the ground as his consciousness finally came back to him.

What was that? Eragon questioned as he shook. The white frost that lay before him emitted the cooling breeze that chilled his lungs, but despite this the heat would be something he would not forget. The feeling was a mix of what one felt when they wore too many clothes on a summer's day and moving too close to an open flame; a fabric irritation with a literal fire as you will.

The feeling happened so fast and dissipated, the teen had barely enough time to fully comprehend where it came from. That and Garrow apparently finishing quickly for the two.

"Eragon!" Garrow called out. Eragon stood and gathered himself. As soon as Garrow caught a glimpse of Eragon's disheveled figure, the uncle breathed a sigh of relief.

"There you are. I was worried when you just walked off like that."

"I'm sorry uncle Garrow," Eragon said rubbing the back of his head, "I think I just needed some air."

The old man nodded and sighed yet again. "Well, here's your stone." Garrow lifted the bag and handed it to the teen, "Merlock says he can't sell it."

Eragon gave an alarmed look, "What? But this thing must be worth something!"

Garrow shook his head, "He'd have to get lucky to find a customer with a taste in magic stones. If it is worth something, it just might have enough of a worth to be dangerous. He suggests holding onto it for now and keeping it safe."

The teen was about to retort when he felt a sudden headache come over him. Garrow looked to the boy as Eragon tried desperately to hide his grimace.

"Eragon," Garrow's voice was firm, "If you aren't feeling well, I'm sure Roran wouldn't mind leaving early just this once."

But Eragon wouldn't have any of that. It was childish, but he really didn't want to wait another year for the traders to come back.

"No," he said shaking his head, "I think I'll go off right now. I'll be fine, uncle. I promise."

The farmer frowned but didn't stop Eragon, "Don't take too long . . . You can always go to Horst's and rest up there."

Eragon nodded as he walked slowly back towards town. As soon as his uncle left his field of view, the teen shook as grabbed at his sides. What he had felt was beyond anything he had experienced. Was that what it felt to die . . . no. He had to set aside his grim thoughts.

The teen broke a smile despite his displeasure. His uncle would take several hours to trade out their stock and that time would be well spent for Eragon. Somewhat unnerved, Eragon held onto the stone in fear of it being stolen. Indeed as he continued through each stall, he was told similar stories of how their security had abandoned them and the presence of new dangers. Unless he made his way into the inner sanctum of the kingdom, this stone was not going to be leaving him.

But as the day crawled over into the night, Eragon soon found himself ignoring his plight and enjoying his time. With his meager stack of coins, he had managed to buy three sticks of malt candy and a small piping-hot cherry pie. In the cold of winter, these treats had found a way to warm him to the core.

The day's light was starting to pass as Eragon sate outside Morn's Tavern. He was impatient for the evening as that was when he could listen to the tales of the past. When the stars began to sparkle across the night and the fires lit up the creeping darkness, that was when Eragon could hear about magic, gods, and, if they were especially lucky, the Dragon Riders. Brom was Carvahall's storyteller, Brom. Eragon was familiar with the old man's tales, but it was still great to hear them once in a while alongside the troubadours' newer excellent tales.

Wanting to escape the cold, Eragon entered the tavern, letting the enclosed heat warm his chilled form. The inside was filled with the waxy smells of flickering tallow candles and the smoke of the crackling fire. People crowded solid oak tables and listened to two traders. Morn tended his bar, his sleeves rolled up to his elbow. His face, though short and mashed, had a manly ridge to it. When he looked up from a mug he was cleaning, the bartender smiled.

"Eragon! Good to see you. Where's your uncle?"

"Buying," said Eragon with a shrug. "He's going to be a while."

"And Roran?"

"Not tending sick animals like last year."

Morn grinned, "Good, good . . ."

Eragon turned to look around towards the traders. As the teen did so, Morn placed a glass of fresh milk in front of Eragon. When Eragon glanced back, he did a double take as he looked down and back up towards the smirking bartender.

"I'm not a child Morn," Eragon chuckled.

The stoat man shrugged, "Meh, your still growing boy, so drink up. It's on me."

Not one to be rude, Eragon took the free drink with a sigh as he chugged down the viscous liquid. Once he finished, Eragon gestured at the two traders, "Who are they?"

"Grain buyers. They bought everyone's seed at ridiculously low prices and now they're telling wild stories just to justify themselves."

Eragon's expression grew dark. Families like Eragon's own needed that money and they couldn't get by without it.

"What kind of stories?" he said uncharacteristically dark. Even Morn raised an eyebrow at him.

"Have a hear. They say the Varden and Urgals are massing an army to attack us and supposedly it's only through the grace of the king that we've been protected."

The teen rolled his eyes, but listened in on the traders that spoke. The first was a fat pathetic mess in Eragon's eyes, but a normal merchant in the vision of most others. The trader vainly tried to pull back his expanding buttocks to fit within the chair.

"No, no, you don't understand. It is only through the king's unceasing efforts on your behalf that you are able to argue with us in safety."

Some jeered at the plump merchant, "Right, why don't you also tell us the Riders have returned and you've each killed a hundred elves. Do you think we're children to believe in your tales? We can take care of ourselves."

The trader's thin companion stopped his larger friend with a wave of his hand. "You misunderstand. The Empire cannot take care of each and every one of you personally as they must keep the Urgals and the Varden at bay."

"Lies!" called a woman, "The Varden wouldn't ally themselves with Urgals."

The fat man sighed, "The Varden have no interest in helping you. That's a falsehood perpetuated by the traitors in an attempt to disrupt the Empire and convince us that the real threat is inside –not outside— of our borders. All they want to do is overthrow the king and take possession of our land."

The traders were starting to aggravate Eragon. He wanted to just say something, anything to shut them up. As his anger started to rise, his skin started to prickle in anticipation. His leg gained a twitch as well and soon the rest of this body followed suit and shook in anger. In hindsight, he really shouldn't have been this angry, or angry enough to want the traders dead, but it almost felt good to get angrier. Every moment his anger began to rise was euphoric, a high of emotion that he had never felt before.

In fact, he felt so good that he never even got to feel his fingers bleed as he scraped the wooden surface of the bar. Had Morn not grabbed his attention, he may have dug his way through to the other side.

"Hol- Eragon!"

Suddenly he took himself and moved back from where he sat. When he took a gander back at his hand, he gripped his wrist to ease as a rush of pain spread from his fingers to his head. It was shocking to say the least, not being aware and then suddenly being aware of what happened to him. With that, he moved towards the door, but right before he left, he turned back towards the bartender and muttered, "Sorry . . ."

Outside, the cold numbed the pain, but it did little to calm his mind. This familiar feeling of tearing and ripping was starting up again, his skin almost feeling hot enough to melt ice with a touch. Everything began to slow down and in a daze he stumbled around to find a place to sit. Voices moved in circles, lights whispered to him, and his feelings guided him towards some place, some unknown place.

Nothing made sense to him, things and shapes were distorted beyond belief as he got on his knees. Just as he felt like tearing out his own parched throat, soothing warmth came from his bag in a tingling sensation. The stone was speaking to him.

He ripped open the bag, almost crazed and uncaring of its condition afterwards. The rock seemed to emulate his emotions as it shifted from green, red, blue, gray, orange, and back to green. Its coloration almost danced to him, cooing him to touch them and reassuring him that everything would be alright. Oh, how wonderful it would be to just . . . to just touch it.

RelAeSE mE

Yes . . . yes

Just do that . . . and let it end

So he grabbed the rock and smashed it downwards . . . and then he slept.