Chapter 5- Brom Might Have Fashion Sense, but it's Only a Possibility

Daret.

They could see the hint of civilisation from a league away, along the banks of the river. It was the smallest piece of settlement that Flynn had ever had the glory to lay eyes upon, but that thought mattered not: the very fact that it was civilisation got the drums of his heart beating again.

He had accepted that his situation was very much real: the thin scar on his cheek reminded him of that every day. But there was some small fleck of hope that he had just ended up in the wilderness, the people he travelled with were crazy, and there would inexplicably be a phone connection in the town. You're dreaming the strange voice in his head said.

He had turned his phone on once a day only to check for any sign. So far, nothing. The battery was draining, and the open wilderness would not keep it functioning for long.

They rode toward the wild place in absolute silence, the village appearing from the outside, uninhabited. Brom's hand was on his sword, Eragon's bow on his lap. Flynn's comrades were beginning to rub off on him: the knife section of his tool lay open in his pocket. It still remained the most pathetic weapon within miles, but it was better than absolutely nothing. It had killed, after all.

Even with this precaution however, they still held the utmost caution. Brom halted them out of sights distance of any village folk. "You can't go into the village looking like that."
"What's wrong with me?" Flynn's thoughts on the old man's fashion sense had been few at best.
Eragon piped up. "The shirt you wear is strange and richly coloured. Your shoes and pants are of some material that I at least, have never seen before. And everything you wear seems to have writing on it. You look like some… far off noble. Or a magician."
Brom nodded in agreement.

Flynn sighed. "Of course I bloody do. Who's the magician here anyway?" He left his rant be. "So what exactly do you suggest I do?"

"Do you have anything else to wear?"
"No…no, wait now, I might have something." He rustled through the bag and procured possibly the multiverses most disgusting shirt, that he had picked up(read- literally ran into). "Will this do?"

He slipped the new shirt on, suddenly feeling very self-conscious of his flabs and the bruises along his ribs. They had healed up well, but still twanged every now and then. "Happy?"
"Is there anything you can do about the shoes?"
The latino closed his eyes and sighed once more. "It's the fact that they're bright red with rubber isn't it?"
"I have no idea what the second half of that sentence meant, but yes."

He jumped off Hyacinth and ground his feet into the dirt, rubbing the brown into the canvas. He could feel the dirt pore into his shoes, creating little lumps around his feet. "I hope this'll do."
Brom grunted, satisfied but not happy. "It's an improvement."


Their eyes flashed everywhere, scanning the buildings for signs of life. Some footprints looked somewhat recent, a pig snuffled somewhere in the heat. They rode all the way to the central square, thankful to find a lack of butchered corpses. Yet there was no noise or hint of people in this desert town. Tiny dust devils danced to an unknown beat. Flynn almost expected a tumbleweed to roll out from somewhere. "I don't like the feel of this." They urged their horses into a gallop, but only made it several strides before two wagons fell out from behind houses, blocking their path. How did they get there so silently? A man, stout and tanned hopped over them and planted himself firmly affront, sword at his waist and bow drawn.

"Halt! Lay down your weapons. You are surrounded by sixty archers. Move, and they'll shoot." A brick slid down Flynn's throat. Well at least I know that Brom and Eragon won't leave me here- these people would never take me. A new thought surfaced in his mind. I hope Saphira doesn't come, if they're even half decent archers she'll be screwed.

"What do you want?" Brom was cool as ever.
"Why have you come here?"
"To buy supplies and hear the news, nothing more. We're on our way to my cousin's house in Dras-Leona."
"You're armed heavily."
"So are you." Brom said. "These times are dangerous."

The man's attention turned to Flynn. "You, the one on the horse far too big for him. I'm not stupid, I can see that you haven't come here with this other pair. What are you up to?"

Flynn was not a good lier, but he could twist the truth. "I come from an island, far off the coast of here. I travelled to see family."
The man quirked an eyebrow. "An island, you say?"
Brom rescued him. "We found him a month ago, wandering and lost with nothing but his horse, that bag and the clothes on his back. He was attacked by bandits just past Utgard."
"Thankfully they didn't want Hyacinth here, otherwise I would have been dead. Something about her dying too soon." Too much?
His talking conscience replied. Nah.

The man hurrumphed and looked at them carefully. "I don't think you mean us harm, but as your friend here shows, there are far too many bandits and urgal's around for me to trust you on solely your word."
"If it doesn't matter what we say, what happens now?" Continued Brom. The archers held deadly still on the roofs, and Flynn could hear the breaths of yet more people behind the houses. The hair on his arms stood on end with fear, and the beast nawed at the pit of his stomach.
"You say that you only want supplies. Do you agree to wait here whilst we gather what you need, then pay us and leave immediately?"
"Yes."

The man waved his arm and the archers relaxed as he lowered his own bow. "Then tell us what you want."

A precise list was recited, with the addition of a proper bridle for Hyacinth and gloves for Eragon. A boy ran off and the man came forward a little. "The names Trevor. Normally I'd shake your hand, but under such circumstances I'll keep my distance. Tell me, where are you from?"
"North, although we haven't lived any place long enough to call it home. Flynn is from far West, or so we're told." He kept silent and nodded in agreement. "Have urgal's forced you to take such measures?"
Worry was in the mans voice. "Unfortunately, yes, and other worse fiends. Do you have any news from other towns? We don't often hear from them, but received reports that they faced similar difficulties."
"I wish it wasn't ours to tell you this, but about a fortnight ago we passed through Yazuac. It was pillaged, all the villagers slaughtered and piled together. We would have tried to give them a decent burial, but three urgal's attacked us."

Flynn felt for the man. A look of absolute shock was plastered to his face. Tears were held back in his eyes. "This is a dark day. Still, I don't see how a trio of urgal's could have defeated the whole of Yazuac- they were good fighters, many my friends."
"There were signs of a band had passed through and ravaged it. I'm led to believe the ones we encountered were deserters."
"How large?"
Brom's eyebrows furrowed. "No greater than a hundred, and no less than fifty. Large enough to wipe out Yazuac, and if I'm not mistaken, either sum would prove fatal to you." Trevor agreed with signs of weariness and terror upon his face. "You should consider leaving this place."
"I'm aware, but the people here refuse to even think of it. Our small victories against individual urgal's have made them confident far beyond their abilities. I fear we shall wake one morning with our throats slashed," Trevor shrugged, "but this is their home."

The boy returned, arms laden with goods and set them by the horses. Brom paid the man as Eragon and himself packed. Flynn was curious about the man. "Why did they choose you, out of everyone, to protect the village?"
Trevor's eyebrows shot up in surprise as a bass ran from the smaller man. After his initial shock, he shrugged. "I served in the army for some years."
"The kings?"
"Who else?"

Brom threw Eragon the gloves as he checked over their wares. "Well," the elder stated, "as promised, we will leave now."
The man nodded. "When you enter Dras-Leona, could you do a favour? Alert the Empire to our plight and that of others. If word of this hasn't reached the king by now, that is worrying… and if he has heard but has chosen to do nothing, that is also cause for worry."
"We will carry your message. May your swords stay sharp!"
"And yours."

The trio rode off to meet Saphira. Flynn could feel eyes boring into his back all the way until they left the village. Their plight had left the man chilled to the bone. This wasn't right, wasn't the way a ruler should act, wasn't what people should have to do: there should be someone to protect them and their interests. You're not in the modern world anymore. Democracy isn't a thing. People can't just pull out their phone and read the news from the other side of the country- heck, most of them can't even read! This set off a chain of thought in Flynn's head. I can't even remember where we're going next, but I can remember details like this! What the hell brain!

"Eragon," he piped up suddenly, "you can't read, can you?"
"No, why would I need to?"

Brom's back straightened as he guffawed in disbelief. "You mean Garrow never taught you?"
"No, he knew how to read?"
Brom snorted. "Of course he did. Proud fool, he probably considered it an unnecessary luxury."

Flynn nodded at Eragon. "You, my boy, are going to be taught how to read."
"Thank-you, but why?"
Flynn spluttered in amazement. He'd never particularly considered that it may be considered a useless skill. There's so much that I've just taken for granted… "Because," he took a breath to compose himself, "reading allows you to broaden your skillset, gain knew information significantly easier, write things so that you may record things and allow you to live a fuller life."
Brom blinked. "Good answer."
"Thank-you." It may have been an almost exact quote from a year 10 essay, but that didn't matter at that very moment. "Eragon, do you know what the alphabet is… wait, Brom, you use letters like a, b, c, d right?"

Whilst the young man confirmed with his elder that yes, indeed he was going to teach Eragon the right language, they reached Saphira. The very look on her face told them she was fuming. That and the smoke pouring from her nostrils. The horses stepped back and flared their nostrils in nerves. He could feel Hyacinth shaking beneath him. Thank God I got a docile horse. Dragon and rider engaged in some sort of mental battle, intensifying as Saphira use a claw to sweep Eragon's legs from under him. "What are you doing!" The boy yelped as she placed a claw upon his chest. The elder pair could do nothing but watch. The squirming and strange facial expressions exchanged back and forth continued for several minutes, until it appeared to be over.

"Well?" Brom demanded.
"She wants me to ride he tomorrow."
A twinkle appeared in his eyes. "Well, you do have a saddle. I suppose if the two of you stay out of sight it won't be a problem."
"But if you're attacked, or if there's an accident? I won't be able to get there in time…"
Saphira's voice rumbled throughout their minds. Exactly, little one.

Brom was struggling to hide a smile. "It's worth the risk. You need to learn how to ride her anyway. Think about it like this: with you flying ahead and looking at the ground, you'll be able to spot any surprises."
Eragon's fear was evident, and he still remained unconvinced. "I rode her for a few days just after Flynn… arrived."
"If you call holding on for dear life flying boy, my robe is made of gold."

Eragon looked at Saphira as they mentally exchanged. "Alright, I'll do it." Saphira let her claw off him and took off with a twist.


They made camp at sundown. Their traditional pattern of sparring whilst dinner stewed was as normal (resultant in Flynn, as always, being thrashed in the first round). He could feel himself improving: he knew what to do, it was simply a matter of lacking the physical prowess to do it. He could see Eragon was passing through that stage: over the weeks the boy was getting leaner, his skin tanning, muscles hardening. It was only to be expected.

Yet as he watched the boy progress, he grew wary that nothing was happening to himself. He was barely sunburnt, his bruises didn't appear until days after they had been given, and refused to disappear as fast as they should. Worry began to form. Am I sick? Yet despite this peculiarity, Flynn didn't feel negatively efffected. Besides, even if he knew the root of the matter he wouldn't have anything to treat it. All he had was a few, of what was essentially, home remedies. Worrying, or so the remaining rational part of his mind dictated, was useless.

Lost in thought, the stick he had just jabbed at Eragon shattered into two. Another powerful blow finished off both Brom's and the boy's. Brom tossed the remains onto the fire. "We've done all we can with these: there is only so much you can learn using branches. It is time to use a blade."

Brom went to the bags and removed a blood red sword. Zac. Zain. Zarric. Something along those lines- the name of a sword had never come across as particularly important to the Australian. Brom sent him an apologetic look. "I'm sorry, I would let you join if we had another sword: but it's more a matter of it being more vital for him to know than you. You understand?"
Flynn nodded with no little relief. "It's fine, have fun."

The rider had been examining the weapon with great interest. "We'll cut each other to ribbons!"
"Again, you forget magic." He held his sword to the fire and commanded toward it. "Geuloth du knifr!" A small red spark flickered between the sword and the man's fingers. Flynn no longer shivered: he had gotten used to the crackle in the air, electricity making hairs stand on end, the surge of energy. He checked dinner and sat next to Saphira to watch.

Brom admonished the rider before they begun. "These swords won't cut, but they can still break bones. Now that's something I'd prefer to avoid, so please don't flail around: a blow to the neck may prove fatal."

Flynn grinned grimly. "Yeah, please save me the hard work. There's not much around here to make any suitable splint, or to bury a body. I'd prefer not to float you down the river."

Saphira made a choking-growling sound deep in her throat, which he now recognised as laughter.

Life moved on. They ate, they slept, and silently in moments when homesickness and travelling became too much, they wept.