THE DRAGON RIDERS
CHAPTER 2: IN THE CHILL OF THE NIGHT
The glowing sun was slowly fading as it set calmly over the vast meadow that stretched as far as the sky itself. It met the everlasting horizon like two great wonders of nature coming together into one spectacular scene. The radiant light emanating from the sun illuminated the eye-dazzling landscape that sat in its place undisturbed. The ominous glow of the sun high lighted the never-ending columns and rows of crops. They took up nearly twenty-five square kilometers of space. The tall blades of grass that seemed as dry as hay were trampled by the blowing winds of autumn. The land was known as Palancar Valley to the small village of Carvahall, and seemed to be many kilometers away from the main part of the town. The deer had come down to graze and bed down lazily in the field, for predators rarely attacked out in the open. They had, in the previous year, been responsible for destroying over thirty-seven hectares of crops and farmland owned by numerous merchants and farm people who could not afford to pay their increasing debts if they could not bring in a successful harvest. The city was called Yazuac, named after the first monarch of the city. The nobles and lords of the city constantly spent its royalties. They spent it faster than it came in, resulting in a long term economic recession. And they decided, with difficulty, to drive the deer north towards Palancar Valley and Carvahall. Without realizing the severe consequences that were to befall them if they continued with their barbaric plan, they killed nearly seven-hundred of them, depleting their numbers to but a mere fraction of what it once was. The once great city had lost more than what the deer had destroyed. In their ignorance, Yazuac had lost its main meat, fur, and trade source. The city's former splendor and wealth had been lost. No more antlers to be used to make bows. No more thick fur and hides for the winter and for everyday materials. No more meat source. Not even any useful materials for trade, which was huge part to the success of the city, for it gave them an advantage over neighboring towns and cities, since they strictly controlled the most valuable resource to everyone in the northwestern part of the kingdom. Left with damaged farmlands that would take a year or two before the soil was once again rich as it use to be, the governors were forced to travel constantly and trade the valuable paintings and artifacts that had once defined their once great city.
The small population of Carvahall, no more than a meager five-hundred or so, enjoyed the tremendous riches the deer brought. Because of the immense size of Palancar Valley, the deer had unlimited grazing grounds and would still not do any major harm to the town, for the people from Yazuac had to trade their crops in order to receive the resources of the deer. The locals did not worry about what they were giving, for the deer had flourished in the uppermost mountains right beside Palancar Valley, and everyone had what they needed and more. The town prospered, and had grown vigorously. The population had sky-rocketed from five-hundred to a few thousand. The people expanded their territory, building new houses and businesses. It was a golden age. But these people were smarter. They did not over use any resource, nor did they diminish the value of any sector of land. The expansion seemed like a passing of the guard. Yazuac had practically given it's wealth to Carvahall and a new stronghold was emerging.
And with it came an unforeseen difficulty. One day, during the late summer, around August, when the merchants were out selling, and the farmers buying, a cavalry of twenty men rode into the town. They were garbed in metal-studded pieces of rough and torn leather. They wore these on their forearms and shins, allowing flexibility along with protection from many forms of attack. They all wore black chest-plates and had loose armor wrapped around their triceps and biceps. Each had a sheath on their right hip, within which was a sword with a black hilt that had a dark red ruby incrusted in the center. They bore no helms, for what did they have to fear from a probably defenseless town full of uneducated working class people? The lead rider had drawn his sword, and summoned all before him to kneel. He had then said "Your town has grown greatly over these past few years. You have successfully taken Yazuac's place. Your city will now be subject to annual taxes that must be paid to your rightful king, Galbatorix. If you come peacefully, we shall not harass you nor rob you of all your wealth. If, however, you are too proud to acknowledge yourselves as helpless, then we shall have no choice but to burn and batter your humble town. Speak now!"
A large man had emerged from the depths of the crowd. He spat on the ground in front of the soldiers. "Bah! You do not have the means to subjugate us to your will. We don't serve anyone but ourselves. And even if we did serve under another, why would we betray ourselves and serve that piece of cow dung? We outnumber you over one-hundred to one! What can you do against us?"
Without warning, the lead horsemen beheaded the bearded man in front of him with one, swift, fluid motion, as if practiced. The head went flying into the arms of a nearby woman, who looked to afraid to let go of it. A spurt of blood sprayed on to the surrounding people, each of them recoiling in disgust.
"You now see how serious we are. Lay down your weapons or die." Several people dropped to their knees, hands on their heads. Yet several remained standing. "Very well," said the lead rider. He made an odd gesture with his sword-free hand, and, out of a dark corner, a fair number of arrows flew in the direction of the still defiant onlookers. They were all pierced by the arrows, and fell with finality to the dusty ground below. Other people had come out to watch, as the men were in the centre of the city. After a few seconds of silence, a storm of fifty men, half on horses, the other half on foot, stormed the intruders from all sides. The fourteen in the front were met by five of the twenty, and the locals were also struck with bows from unknown sources. Many fell right when they were struck, which caused the horses to trip up and send their riders flying. Within seconds the five members of Galbatorix's army dispatched the remaining members of the charge. The other three groups had engaged and were outnumbered over two to one. Still, they each disarmed and either killed or mortally wounded one Carvahall soldier each. These invaders seemed to have a lot more energy at their disposal, and the quickness of their blades caught many by surprise. The only advantage for the local army was that they had the passion to fight beyond death, but even they could not escape its clutches. All the soldiers of Galbatorix's army had to do was subdue their groups while slowly taking out a soldier or two. They were well coordinated, and their skill and reserve energy did not allow them to waver or falter. The first group that had killed the fourteen from the front had joined the other three, and, within a few minutes, killed the remaining thirty-six. The locals were slow and disorganized, making tactical attacks as easy as they could be. This was not the whole army of Carvahall, but if these men could not beat a group of twenty, the rest did not stand much chance either. Only one of the twenty remaining horsemen had been injured; a small slash upon the right cheek. There was something unnatural about these men, for they did not pant like normal men should after such an intense battle. And they defeated fifty men with such ease and quickness one could question their humaneness. Ever since that faithful day, Carvahall had had to pay half of its yearly income, along with other various other taxes, to Galbatorix's army. This halted the great expansion and left the town in ruins, for every man who reached the age of sixteen was required to serve in Galbatorix's army and pledge allegiance to him in the most binding of ways. Murders had taken a large spike upward, for anyone who dared challenge their captives would be punished in public severely to set an example. Palancar Valley, though, had remained untouched. The soldiers had not seen it, nor bothered to explore in that general direction. None recognized it as the source of the town's former stolen grandeur.
It was here that Eragon pondered these extreme political issues. He had often been criticized for being too involved in the affairs of the law by his father. A boy of your age shouldn't worry himself over the issues that aren't his problem. Eragon always wondered what about politics that attracted his interest. Despite not being able to read or write, and being fairly elementary in numbers, he listened to everything he heard, and he was always trying to eavesdrop on the mayor's conversations, although it had become increasingly difficult. At one point, a guard slashed his sword at Eragon, who escaped with a minor gash; nothing the local healer Selendra could not mend. He wondered how he would influence any political outcome, for he yearned for an education. But that was only for the people from the city, the ones with enough gold to buy their way in. Besides, he did not enjoy being pushed around by Galbatorix's soldiers for being but a simple farm boy whose duty in life was not to ask questions, but to work long hours every day with little food and a suffer in a shabby, leaking cabin. He gazed at his surroundings. Palancar Valley had yet to be intruded upon by the invaders. This was one of his most curious thoughts. This was the reason the deer stayed, and was major crop source. From their point of view, Eragon could not see how they would not one day come knocking on their creaky door and demand to purge the deer whenever they pleased. The only plausible explanation was that the men feared the range of mountains to the west of Palancar Valley. They were called Du Lefs Janear. What that meant Eragon had the slightest idea, but he was also told, as a child, that anyone who ventured into those mountains should be wary, for tales of odd occurrences and mysterious disappearances surrounded the name. If the men of Galbatorix's army believed such tales, Eragon had trouble comprehending why. He had gone hunting in them many times, almost always successful at catching at least a few rabbits. The abundance of edible vegetables, animals, and the breathtaking beauty would quell any doubts about the place's safety. Sure, predators lurked among the brush, hidden from all. But they were not to be feared, for they had learned that attacking humans was a dangerous thing to do.
Another thing that seemed odd to Eragon was how strong the soldiers that patrolled their village were. It would take a long three on one assault just to slay one. And even then one or two of the locals would find themselves on their deathbed. And how was Galbatorix able to assert such control over such a vast distance? From what he could gather, he resided nearly two-thousand kilometers south of this area of Alagaesia. Weren't there other leaders of strong, south eastern empires that could attack him and end this tyranny? Then again, the news of the south never truly reached the ears of those in the far north. Galbatorix may not have even struck at them. And why would they risk their own necks to save a bunch of farm workers with little skill and no use? Eragon hated to think like this, but it was the hard truth of life. No one helped anyone, and everyone minded their own business. These matters along with many other personal difficulties coursed inside his head, sounding louder than the deepest drum struck by the strongest blacksmith right next to his ear.
Eragon rolled open his right sleeve where the guard who he had been thinking about had slashed him. The bandages were a light red, as a result of trace amounts of blood oozing from the long gash. He had refused to drink any herbal tea that would help the scar heal, for he wanted to keep it as a memento to his defiance of being forced into servitude by men with power beyond the ordinary. The injury made it harder to bend his arm at his elbow, and it constantly opened up and started to bleed again and again. Even pulling anything that would otherwise take minimal effort made him feel the strain on his arm. He smiled at a memory that had crossed his mind. His younger brother, Murtagh, had pestered him with questions about what he had done to deserve this. He remembered gloomily how he had told him he had fought his way through the best soldiers of Galbatorix's army and beheaded the newly installed mayor of Carvahall. His younger brother marveled at his stories until their father had said to stop teasing him; you don't want him to want to like war do you?
A branch cracked in front of Eragon. He suddenly remembered why he was sitting at the edge of the hill in the thickest of dry grass that he could find. I nice mule deer, a buck, had reached the salt lick that Eragon's father used for the cattle. It was no less than one-hundred feet away. Slowly, he lay down on his stomach, the small pebbles on the ground stinging him through his jacket made of deer hide, which he had gotten made by the town tailor, Luna. He grabbed his bow and slid to a more desirable shooting position, and moved with the wind and grass into a kneeling position. His eyes lingered upon the massive antlers upon the deer's head. It had four half-foot tines on each antler. The majesty of such an animal was awe-inspiring. Lifting his arrow, he strung his bow, and pulled back as hard and quietly as he could with his mangled right arm. The injury spurted out a small bit of dry, hot blood. He then placed his aim right behind the shoulder of the deer, and took in a deep inhale. He closed his left eye, and then came the hunter's silence. For a score of heartbeats, the animal looked innocently in his direction, ears perked upward. Eragon looked right at the animal, and without moving at all, let the bow slip through his fingers. The metal-tipped piece of wood struck the deer exactly where Eragon had aimed it. The animal fell down instantly, got back up, and then did a standing fall. Its legs flailed for a few moments; the body was still alive. Then, with few more kicks, lay still upon the bloodied grass.
Eragon ran up to the large carcass. His body seemed oddly stiff after being in such an awkward position for over an hour. The rack's width was from one of his elbows to the other if his arms were outstretched. He grinned, pleased with his success. He had gone a week without catching more than a few rabbits, which was hardly enough to pay expenses for cattle feed, salt lick, and clothing. This deer would last the whole month. With the antlers, he could make new bed frames, tables, chairs, and all sorts of furniture. The fur would serve as a winter blanket. The hide could be made into clothing for his little brother, for he was growing fast. A few pieces of meat could be sold, while the rest his small family kept and stored for the winter in their large stockpile of supplies for "just in case" situations that may arise. He took out his hand-length hunting knife and began to clean and gut the animal. Within a half hour, he had removed all of the insides, save for the liver and heart, and began to haul the one-hundred pounds of dead weight back to his small cabin.
Despite his home leaking, rotting, and being cold, he would not trade it for anything else. Home was home, it could not be replaced. It took him another fifteen minutes to drag the deer up the hill and to his door that was falling off of its hinges. He banged his fist against the peeling wood once. A few moments later, a little boy opened the door. He had short, raven colored hair, and wide, innocent green eyes. His skin was pale, and he wore a similar shirt and trousers to Eragon. His shirt was thin and white, while his pants were thick and black. He had a long face that showed he yearned to know everything, like his older brother.
"Got something this time?" he asked mockingly. Eragon was too tired to smile, so he gave an abrupt, choked laugh.
"Help me drag it around back," he said in an exasperated voice. Together, they carefully pulled the animal around to the back of the house, where their father was finishing feeding the few chickens and goats they had. His face was etched with hard lines that came from decades of backbreaking labor. He wore a thick, grey sweater with the sleeves rolled up. His arms bore many bruises from fights. His trousers were the same as Eragon's and his younger brother's. His beard was a mix of black and grey, and he wore a sun hat to protect his face from the flies and the sun. He looked up. His eyes were a dull grey, and gave the feeling that he was devoid of any reason. His whole appearance gave the impression that he was a simple man that did not care, minded his own business, and worked for no one but him and his family.
"Good, you got something this time. Hang it up and skin it. I could use the fur to make some new gloves. These ones are getting ripped and worn." He lifted up his right hand, indicating the glove that looked like a decaying banana peel. He and his brother set to work, lifting up the animal on a nearby branch, skinning the hide, and bringing it inside. Their, they placed it in a large pot of boiling water, allowing the bacteria to melt off. After a few minutes, they removed the pelt and began to fashion gloves and other small materials out of a small section of the hide. It was about an hour before they finished and placed their newly made accessories near the fire to warm. Their work was elementary compared to the handwork of the town's knitters, but they would suffice.
Eragon examined his hands. They were covered in blood and hair. He stepped out the door, where he found his father still tending to the chickens and their small personal garden.
"I'm going to wash up in the waterfall," he said while passing him. His father gave him a not and grunted. "Grab some greens from their, will you? We need them unless you want to eat tasteless, raw meat." He passed Eragon a rusty bucket. "Fill that up with the vegetables, and with some cold water." Just then, Murtagh, his younger brother, came running out of the house, an excited expression on his face.
"Can I come too?" he begged in a pleading voice. He looked quickly from Eragon to their father, Garrow, who nodded in silent agreement. Filled with giddiness, his brother skipped down the hill to where Eragon's bow lay, offering to carry it and the bows. His excitement made Eragon feel older, as if he was watching a live memory. They traversed the vast distance of land, and reached the edge of the mountains. He noticed that the place where he usually entered had a few light footprints in them, but going in the opposite direction. He looked down in confusion, then took the bow from his brother and strung it with an arrow. He walked in cautiously, thinking that a soldier would pop out at them at any time, brandishing a gleaming blade, and demanding to know what they were doing here. The water source they were going to was a great secret, for they did not have to pay Galbatorix's army to use the well in the heart of Carvahall. He was not confident that he could even win any fight with one arrow and a bow. They slowly edged toward the small water fall, fear coursing in the air. Eragon remembered that the night previously, he had awoken in the middle of the night, hearing whooshing sounds and the cracking of falling trees. He had put them off as a dream.
They reached the small creek, where Murtagh filled up the bucket with various roots and fruits from the trees, while Eragon tried to rid the stains of blood on his hands and clothes. Just as he finished, he heard a small rustle twenty yards ahead of him. He could not see anything at this time of night, and passed it off as the wind. And then he heard something metal drop. He looked around, bow in hand, and saw his brother pointing at something.
A small creature, with four legs and shiny, golden scales approached him. It had two more limbs on its back that spread out two feet across, like wings. Eragon knelt down and examined the creature. He had not seen anything of its sort before. It had three claws on each foot, and one retractable claw on the outer part of the foot. The scales overlapped each other and gleamed like gold. It had a tail with a large spike on the end, like a club. On its face were whiskers and two golden eyes. Smoke emitted from the nostrils of the creature as it coughed, a slight growling noise. But the most intriguing aspect of the creature was a rich blue stone incrusted in its forhead. Inside it was another, lighter blue stone. Something swirled within the depths of that peculiar part of the creature. The layers of blue and turquoise and every other shade of that color thrummed inside the depths of the stone upon the creature's brow. In that instant, Eragon lost all sense of reason, all sense of right and wrong. He stared at the stone of blue, mesmerized by its astounding beauty and wisdom. And, without thinking, without hearing, without seeing, he reached out with his right hand and touched the blue stone with his palm.
In that instant, Eragon's mind left the immediate scene. In his mind, he saw thousands of people, bloodied and mangled, running around desperately. He saw to his left a dirtied river, full of crimson spots. A sea of blood seamed to be raining from the sky. Magnificent, unknown creatures with the most ravenous looks circled the ground, killing everything within reach. Above him soared a majestic golden creature, looking more powerful than the sun itself. Blood dripped from its underside. And there before him stood his younger brother, only a little older and less enthusiastic. And from his chest protruded a death-stained sword, so engulfed in blood that the true color of the blade was hard to see. The look on his brother's face was not of ease, but rather one of freedom.
With a start, Eragon fell to his knees, coming back to reality. His brother seemed troubled. "What is it?" he asked, concerned. Eragon remembered the scene so vividly that he could not bring himself to say it. "Just blacked out, I suppose." His brother did not seem to be convinced. Eragon then felt a burning sensation in his right palm. He looked at it. It was smoking. There was a large black mark, like soot from a fire that was slashed diagonally from right to left. He looked at it in wonder, considering how to get rid of it. But when he touched it, it didn't smudged. To the contrary, his hand felt as normal as before. The mark seemed to be imbued into his skin. He then realized what he had just touched, and looked up. The creature was still their, its eyes just as innocent as his Murtagh's. For some reason, Eragon felt a pull toward the creature, as if he should protect it as if it was family. The creature crept closer and lay on top of his lap. He suddenly felt a great rush of affection for the creature, as if he was all it had in the world. He was too immersed in his treatment of the creature that he failed to hear his brother let out a terrible wail.
He only realized that anything had happened after a few long seconds. He whirled around to see a figure immerge from where he had heard a "rustle" just a few moments ago. He instinctively reached for his bow and then stopped. Something was not letting him close his grip. Try as he might, he could not even open it any more. He was paralyzed. Only his eyes could move. He watched in silent terror as their attacker came towards them. She knelt beside Murtagh and put her hand over his stomach. With the greatest effort it had ever taken him, Eragon managed to turn his head to the left just enough to see the crimson patch on his brother's chest. His horror at the sight would have left him motionless even if he wasn't frozen in place by some sort of supernatural power. He saw that the attacker was a girl of his height, with hip length, wavy red hair, and sleek eyes and pointed ears. She looked like a cat-human hybrid almost. She looked at Eragon, and, with a swift, graceful movement, struck him on the temple with her hand. The blow was much greater than Eragon had braced himself for, and he was sent rolling for several yards. He could move now, but it took him a few seconds to regain his composure after such a devastating strike. His sight was dimming, though he could still think slowly. He saw a flash of white light over Murtagh's body, and then his brother shuddered and went limp. Eragon began to get up but the blow had taken its toll. His knees buckled and he fell flat on his stomach. The woman then walked over to him, and with a kick that would normally do no more than give a little sting, knocked him unconscious. For a split second, he saw the golden creature writher in pain with him, as if they were one. And then he passed into the deep sleep, seeing last the woman kneeling over him, the stars glistening behind her.