Chapter Seven – Blood-splattered Little Angel

Somewhere in the distance, an owl hooted loudly, disturbing the peace and tranquillity of the night air. The sound startled the young man greatly. He looked left and right, his eyes searching the low rooftops for any unusual movement. A moving shadow caught his attention. Without hesitation, he drew his sword and immediately dropped to the ground, hiding behind a row of shipping containers. They were full of wine bottles for the king's high court, but he was damned if this wasn't a better use of their large bulk. Finding a gap between two of the containers, he slowly pushed them apart using the palm of his hand – not much, just enough to see through.

Onto the street in front of him walked four armed soldiers, their faces hidden by darkness. The street was little more than a wide alleyway, with low-lying houses for soldiers off-duty on either side, and was used as a holding place for supplies until they could be transported to Gil'ead along the Ramr River. By all extents, the river wasn't wide enough or deep enough for any large transport vessels, but at the best of times when the weather was fair, several specially-crafted boats could easily sail downstream. Sailing upstream back to Urû'baen was quite a different matter. It normally required the use of a magician, unless the wind was virtually non-existent. Land transport wasn't necessarily an option, mainly because of Urgal scavenging parties and raids carried out by the Varden.

All the fuss so a few nobles can grow fatter on the expense of the people, he thought bitterly.

Silently, the group of soldiers separated into two groups of two and split up to either side of the street, their red armour clinking noisily. They obviously didn't care much for stealth, which was a big mistake, in his opinion. Fortunately, the king was asleep in his chamber this night, which made escape from the deadly fortress feasible, but still very difficult. At this point, it was either take the risk and go forward, or return to face the king's wrath. Neither option greatly appealed to him, but he knew he would never go back. Not to that man, or to that place. It was full of misery and despair, and he longed for freedom.

Nor were there any other routes to the small wharf beside the river. Not unless one fancied a walk around the fortress, and the eight thousand soldiers stationed there. The one good thing was that it was the dead of night, and two thirds of the garrison were sleeping, or drinking their way to an early grave. No, this road was the one practical way to reach the wharf, and these four soldiers stood between him and freedom.

No stranger's life is more important than my own. I will live by that creed, or I will die for not living by it.

With the silence of an unholy spectre, Murtagh raised himself into a crouching position behind the containers, listening for the movement of the guards. He found that they were only a few metres away, heading in his direction.

Now is the time to act, he thought, feeling his heart pounding against his chest. With one last great inhale, he jumped to his feet and lunged at the solider nearest to him across the container, burying his sword in the man's stomach. The guard gave a startled cry and fell to the ground as Murtagh withdrew the hand-and-a-half sword, and quickly brought it up to parry an attack from the second soldier. He caught the guard's sword between his own and the shipping container and rammed it downwards, where it stuck inside the wood. The foolish guard attempted to pull it free, which gave Murtagh all the opportunity he needed to slit his throat with the tip of his blade from afar.

By this time the other two soldiers had run across the street, and began to attack him furiously from two different angles. Murtagh grinned, relishing the new challenge. His lust for combat was marred only by the feeling that he had to kill in order to survive, and it could be no other way. One of the guards had a spear in lieu of a sword, which he was lunging at Murtagh with a feral snarl. One of his attacks came dangerously close to Murtagh's head, but it worked to his advantage. Grabbing the spear, he tried to tear it from the guard's grasp, but the soldier's grip was too strong.

Instead, the soldier stumbled forwards and was knocked off-balance. With a movement so fast it appeared to be naught but a reflex action, Murtagh swung his sword around and decapitated the man with a single forehand slice. His lifeless body dropped to Murtagh's feet, which caused the fourth guard to lose his morale. He dropped his sword and held up his hands in a gesture of fealty, but Murtagh could afford no mercy. He would alert the entire garrison if allowed to escape. Lunging forward, he pierced the soldier's heart with his blood-covered blade, adding another tally to the growing list of lives he had taken.

The man grunted and died impaled on Murtagh's sword. With a great ringing sound, he withdrew the sword and allowed the man to fall at his feet. Four soldiers were no match for his skills with the blade. Galbatorix knew that. He was going to have to do better if he wanted to catch Murtagh.

Whether alive or dead.

Once the trail they were following reached the plains south of Utgard, it split into three segments – one ran north, towards Ceunon, whilst one headed directly across the plains and the other south respectively. Brom eventually discovered the Ra'zac's tracks, heading towards a small town called Yazuac, which Harry remembered seeing on Gertrude's map.

'Yazuac is four days from here, due east,' Brom said. 'The Anora River is our only supply of water, as there is neither pool nor stream between us and our quarry, if Yazuac is where they remain.'

Eragon looked excited at the prospect of finally catching up with the Ra'zac, but Harry felt solemn. When they finally did meet them in combat, he would have to make a choice: kill or be killed. Could he do it? Was he strong enough? Or was the stronger man the one that showed his enemies mercy? Voldemort was powerful, but that didn't make him a "strong" person, per se. He was afraid of emotion and afraid of death, which made him human, as unbelievable as it may have seemed – yet, being human, he ignored emotion and other people, which made him weak.

Brom could obviously read Harry's mind; not literally, since he was shielding it, but he read Harry's look with exceptional prudence.

'I hope you're prepared to do what is necessary,' Brom told him, as they refilled the water-skins. It was a very unsettled day, with much wind and little or no sunshine. Despite this, Harry did not complain. He had already offered to place an impervious charm around the four of them and the horses, but Brom had refused, saying that they needed to "man up".

'I'll do what is necessary, only if it is necessary,' Harry rebuked. Annoyed that the old man couldn't leave him to the peace and tranquillity of his own mind, he screwed the lid on his water-skin and hurried back over to Godric, his newly-named mount. He began to retie his pack to the horse's back, not really paying attention to what he was doing. He paid for it, however, when one of the straps got caught and he tried to yank it free, snapping the material in half. Sighing, he took out his wand at directed it towards the strap.

'Reparo'.The pack quickly repaired itself; this time, he made sure to properly secure everything safely. He didn't notice Eragon walking over beside him.

'You shouldn't be so harsh,' Eragon said casually, miming Harry's actions with Cadoc. 'We all have to get along nicely if we're going to work together against the Ra'zac.'

'Yes, I know that,' Harry said abruptly, fastening Aiedail sideways underneath the backpack. He had new bruises from recent sparring contests, and they were doing nothing to help lighten his unusually dark mood.

'So don't do it, then,' Eragon said, as though it were obvious.

'It's not as simple as that.'

'Oh?'

Harry took his time to answer, first mounting Godric and making sure the reigns were still stable. He didn't look at Eragon. 'Over a year ago, I swore that I wouldn't kill people, because it's what our evil tyrant did.' Even as he said it, he had a vivid flashback of the night Mad-Eye had been killed:

"I won't go blasting people out of the way just because they're there. That's Voldemort's job."

'Should I just change my mind because I'm no longer in my own land?' Harry asked rhetorically. 'After all, people are still people. Who gives me the right to end their lives?'

Eragon mounted Cadoc and together, they trotted over to where Brom was saddling Snowfire. 'I don't disagree with your philosophy,' Eragon said, 'but think about this: it's necessary to protect innocent people in the long-run. If the fate of Alagaësia rests on whether or not I remove those who make it a terrible place, it's worth it. I'm not saying that you should become an executioner or anything, but many of the king's people deserve it.'

Harry had to remind himself that Eragon was still only fifteen, and he eighteen. So young, yet talking about whether death was a necessary evil to make the world a better place.

For the greater good,he thought with disgust. It seems that slogan is destined to haunt me for the rest of my days.

Yet, as he thought it, he couldn't help wondering if it really would be such a bad thing – to end unnecessary suffering and torment. Soldiers did it in the modern world all the time and occasionally, it worked. He shook his head as they reached Brom.

Firstly, I need to witness some of this suffering, if it exists. Only then can I make any decision.

'Are you both ready?' Brom asked. 'Good – it's quite a long way to Yazuac. Let's move out.'

Come on, Tornac, where the blazes are you? Murtagh thought urgently. Here he was, standing beside the gates, but his friend had not shown up. He wouldn't have deserted Murtagh, of that he was certain… but then, where was he? Murtagh had been waiting for nigh on ten minutes.

Deciding that he could wait no longer, else risk being captured, he dispatched both soldiers guarding the gates and turned a reel, so they swung outwards. Quickly, he stole a horse from the nearby stable and rode outside the walls, stopping only when he saw the trap Galbatorix had snared. Forty or so soldiers stood there impressively, looking at him with menace strewn across their well-trained faces. Tornac's body lay in a crumpled heap beside the soldiers. His head lay several metres away from there.

'Godsdammit…' Murtagh whispered, aghast.

The soldiers formed a perfect semicircle around the area of the gates, so there was no way he could force his way through a gap in their ranks. What's more, the alarms in the fortress began to sound. Distant, blaring horns let the entire garrison know of his escape. No doubt someone had heard the din in the street and had contacted the garrison commander. The soldiers knew that he couldn't escape any other way, so they didn't even bother to attack – they simply stood there, unmoving.

Despair and hopelessness threatened to engulf Murtagh, but then he seen Tornac once more, and anger began to form in their stead; a great tide of anger that swept over him like one of the great waves in the Alagaësian Sea that were known to capsize fishing boats and ships. With an almighty rush of daring and bravado, he lurched the horse forward, shouting incoherent obscenities at the soldiers – cursing them, cursing their king.

The horse would never make it through the soldiers, he knew. It was time for something unexpected – a move he had managed to execute only once in training before. As the horse galloped furiously, neighing as it did so, he stood up on its back, feeling like a complete madman, gripped by the pox. The soldiers couldn't quite believe what they were seeing, and he couldn't quite believe what he was doing. As the horse reached the soldiers, one of them took it down with a pike he was carrying. Before it fell to the ground, as it remained standing tall – taller than any of the soldiers, Murtagh rushed along its back and jumped through the air, landing behind the soldiers and ending his jump in a practiced roll along the ground.

He didn't stop there, either. He refused to relent, even for a moment. After rolling, he jumped to his feet and began to run towards the wharf as fast as his legs would allow him, leaving the astounded soldiers staring after him. They didn't even chase him. Perhaps they thought he would be impossible to catch, or perhaps they thought he deserved to escape after his daring escapade. Whatever the reason, he chose to ignore it as he stole one of the small boats from the wharf and began to sail downriver, leaving them in his wake.

'Gods above…' Eragon whispered, holding his bow tightly.

Harry stopped examining the town and looked forward, only to feel like throwing up. Having been warned not to expect a warm welcome in suspicious times, he definitely didn't expect this. They rode into the centre of Yazuac, only to discover the horrific fate that had befallen the townspeople. They were greeted by a mountain of bodies, the corpses forever froze in expressions of pain and terror. By the size of the pile, Harry guessed that the entire village lay before them. Men and women, old and young… none had been granted mercy. Above the rest lay a dead infant, no more than two years old – a spear rose from his impaled chest, used as a way to ferry the grotesque message the evil that had caused this massacre wanted to spread:

"Fear us."

The smell was nauseating, but Harry forced himself not to throw up. His body was in shock at the scene unfolding before them; it was "Magic is Might" all over again, only on a much worse scale. At least in that case, the muggles had been (apparently) resting peacefully. Here, however, there was no peace to be found. Only the death and despair of a way of life scourged from the face of the world… forever. No survivors…

Harry knew that he had to act quickly. He took out his wand and pointed it at a random point in the street.

'Homenum revelio.'

Nothing. The centre of town was now abandoned.

'I'd say these bodies are maybe… two, three days old?' Harry suggested, judging by the level of decomposition and the terrible smell.

Brom nodded in response.

'Who could have done this?' Eragon asked weakly.

Brom bowed his head. 'Those who love the pain and suffering of others. They wear the many faces and go by many…' Harry wasn't listening to him, and instinctively blocked out the sound of his voice without knowing it; something else had caught his attention. Alone, away from the mountain of bodies, lay the body of a small girl, around seven or eight years old, Harry guessed. Dismounting, he slowly walked over and stared into the blankness of her cold, pale face, wondering how anyone could do such a thing.

She was a sweet-looking little girl, wearing a homemade dress and holding a doll made of straw and wool. Her blood-soaked body had clearly been forgotten about. Her killers had moved on to the next innocent, leaving her to rot on the ground. Feeling tears begin to appear, he crouched down and shut her eyes, so she looked more peaceful. He bowed his head and shut his own as well.

'I swear to you,' he whispered, 'I'm going to find the people responsible for this… and I'm going to avenge you and your people.'

Opening his eyes once more, Harry stood up; gently taking the doll she had been holding with him. Somehow, miraculously, it remained free from blood. He would keep it as a testament to the people of Yazuac… and the little girl. He placed it in his backpack, away from everything else in a different compartment.

Suddenly, Brom cursed and ran for Snowfire urgently. 'Ride!' he hissed tightly. 'There are still Urgals here!'

Harry quickly mounted Godric and began to ride towards the edge of Yazuac, following Eragon. Brom was behind the two of them. He felt the wind rip around his hair, before a grotesquely-formed creature appeared from nowhere and blocked his pathway. He didn't have time to react, as the horse immediately turned to avoid the Urgal. However, that was obviously the Urgal's plan, as he ran forwards and shoved the horse with all his might, shoving it roughly into one of the wooden houses. Harry cried out as it stumbled over and he fell from its high back, landing awkwardly. In front of him, Eragon was literally punched off the back of Cadoc.

The Urgal leaned over Harry and placed its massive foot on his chest. Harry looked up at the creature with repulsion – it was at least a foot higher than his 5' 9", with twisted horns sprouting from the side of its war-beaten face. Its arms were like miniature tree-trunks and it looked as though it could squash Harry simply by pressing down on his chest with its massive foot. It leered at him, displaying rows of brown, deformed teeth. It raised its spear to strike.

Harry didn't give it a chance to do more than that – he quickly whipped out his wand and blasted it off of his chest into a nearby building. He quickly jumped to his feet and unsheathed Aiedail – time to make his promise a reality. Brom was involved in a similar battle, so he couldn't help, whilst Eragon was nowhere to be seen. The Urgal quickly jumped to its feet and ran at him, howling its savage war cry. Harry looked at it with disgust and raised his wand with one hand, Aiedail in the other. He felt great hatred rise up in him like a fire – hatred far greater than that he had felt when Bellatrix had killed Sirius. He didn't think, just acted.

'Sectumsempra!'

The Urgal was thrown backwards, blood spurting from the slash marks across its body. Harry slowly walked over to it, giving the spell time to run its course. This time, he didn't feel remorse for using it; he felt satisfaction for removing this disgusting abomination from the world. Wheezing, it struggled to stand up, only making it to its knees. Harry took one look at the creature before swinging his sword at its neck.

The force of the blow decapitated it.

Without a second glance, Harry hurried over to Brom, who had been knocked down by his own opponent. As the second Urgal raised the war-hammer it was carrying high above its head, Harry quickstepped behind it and plunged his sword into its chest. After a few seconds, he tore it out again and let the monster fall to the ground, the war-hammer still in hand.

Brom was wounded, Harry knew. His suspicions were confirmed when he saw the long, blood-soaked cut running down the old man's arm. He had been knocked out cold, as well. Harry picked the old man up and placed one of his arms around his shoulders, only to remember that Eragon wasn't there. He looked around frantically, searching for his friend. Finally, he emerged from behind one of the houses, looking like he had come straight from the pits of Hell.

'What the Hell happened to you?' Harry exclaimed. Eragon looked as though he hadn't eaten or slept in days. He sagged against the building, trying to stay on his feet.

'Later,' he dismissed. Harry noted how faint his voice was; it alarmed him greatly. 'Right now, we have to get the blazes out of this town before more Urgals show up.'