A penny for my thought? Okay, I know you don't really care, but here goes:
*I hate it when people just use this random magic in Inheritance fics, like "And Arya just instantly had perfect mascara." NO. The shoulder relocating thing really grated on my nerves, but what can you do?
*I don't want anything super de duper drastic to happen like "Eragon defeats Galby, the end." I've tried. I've tried fics incorporating the fourth egg. It just ain't happnin'. I don't have the paitience. Or time.
Anyway, forgive me, the dialogue is pretty unrealistic. If I hadn't already published the last chapter, I would've cut this part. It took me SO long, but I got myself into that mess. And muchas gracias to my loyal reviewers. You know who you are. Inspirational. It took so freaking long to write the last sentece in this, but I've found a new book series! Artemis Fowl. Read 'em. And of course homework, friends, et cetera, and all that crap is finally taking over my life. Oh well. CHAPTER 12! (Please excuse my random all-over-the-place thoughts).
"Duel Arya?" Murtagh confirmed, a note of incredulity coloring his tone. "She's an ELF!"
"And you're Morzan's son. You may be evenly matched. From what Eragon's told me, I've gathered that you beat him before you could even use magic," Fredric said, smiling, his previous agitation and disgust but a memory now.
"Yes…" Murtagh said slowly.
Before he could say anything else, Fredric exclaimed, "Wonderful! Meet me outside this tent in an hour."
An hour later, the better part of the Varden was gathered outside the weaponry. Murtagh's palms were sweating incessantly as he spun Zar'roc, and paced inside the tent.
Nasuada stormed toward the crowd. They were congregating around the armory, she realized.
"What is the meaning of this?" demanded the head of the Varden when she found Fredric.
The weapons master grinned. "A duel!" he said simply.
"A duel? Between whom? And why are you allowing this?"
"Between Murtagh and Arya! It's all in good fun, my lady. It was my idea, to tell the truth. But it's going to be brilliant!"
"Arya agreed to fight Murtagh?" Nasuada asked, amusement overriding her sense of dutifulness for a moment.
Fredric nodded. "It took a bit of prodding, but in the end, I convinced her."
Nasuada shook her head. "This is no time for dueling. I'm leaving for Feinster in the morning with Murtagh, and –" the rest of her protests were drowned out by thunderous cheering.
"They're starting!" Fredric exclaimed.
Murtagh exited the tent to deafening cheers. He stalked onto the field. The elf, Arya, seemed to approach him in slow motion, twirling her sword like a tempest.
Murtagh blinked and time caught up with him. He could here nothing else when the elf said, "Draw your sword, Argetlam."
The name caught Murtagh by surprise; He'd only ever heard his brother called shining palm. He drew his sword and squared off against Arya.
Without warning, she swung her thin blade up to his shoulder. He blocked at the last moment, shocked. Then he scowled with determination.
He cleaved Zar'roc through the air. The elf ducked, her hair flying up. Zar'roc trimmed a few strands. She chopped at his legs. Fighting was exhilarating. The large assembled crowed soon escaped his notice, and his only focus was dealing and avoiding blows. The elf did not look strong. On the contrary, at first glance you'd think her a dainty maiden. Murtagh had never known her in Farthen Dûr. She was evidently a fierce warrior.
Murtagh was having trouble keeping track of time now. He figured he should be beginning to tire, but adrenaline fueled his limbs and willed him to fight longer. Something in the crowd distracted Arya for a moment.
The red rider took the entrance.
Her neck was exposed and unguarded.
Murtagh blinked, the motion taking a fragment of a second.
A bout of sparks red and yellow sparks from both blades filled the air and Murtagh felt his shoulder give jolt, meeting an unyielding force. How the devil…?
A moment later he was on the ground, grasping his dislocated shoulder and gasping for air, the flat of a thin, graceful blade pressed against his neck.
Arya peered down at him; Murtagh glared up at her. The elf raised her eyebrow and sheathed her left-handed sword.
"You have a prowess in swordplay, Murtagh Shur'tugal."
Murtagh could only stare at her, short on breath, the pain in his shoulder worsening by the second.
When he regained his breath, he muttered a spell to pop his shoulder back into its socket, and stood. The elf still watched him, her green-eyed gaze unwavering. Murtagh did not know whether to bow, or shake hands, or anything, as he did not know the elves customs.
Nasuada saved him the trouble by rushing up.
"Murtagh! Why would you even think of dueling Arya?"
"It was Fredric's idea," Murtagh countered. He had known it would cause nothing but pain for him from the start.
"I've already had it out with him. And Arya! What brought on this behavior? You know full well we're leaving for Feinster in less than a day!"
"He is proficient in the art of swordplay," Arya said. "That is all I wished to know."
"Of course he is!" Nasuada snapped. "How else could he have beaten Eragon on the Burning Plains?"
"That was a test of strength. This was a test of endurance and agility. Murtagh passed." Arya strode away.
Nasuada looked infuriated. "That elf! And you! Don't think for a moment that I'm finished with you! You think you can just go gallivanting off and then reveal yourself to the whole Varden!" She crossed her arms. "Go, go! Jörmundur, clear the field!" Nasuada continued her tirade. "They must be terrified."
"You said I could go out," Murtagh said, casting his eyes down and feeling very much like a young child.
"You know what I meant. Now, just stay in my tent until tomorrow. I'll have someone direct you to your new quarters in a few hours."
"Yes, lady." Murtagh took off through the horde of people.
He found Nasuada's tent without difficulty this time. He was just beginning to grow accustomed to the Varden, and was reluctant to leave.
Just like in Farthen Dûr, He thought. He sighed. Thorn?
Yes, Little Misery?
I'm sorry, but I think I've blown my chances of seeing in person sky high.
Thorn mentally growled. I see. What have you done this time?
Murtagh chuckled. Got into a duel with an elf.
Stupid of you.
Humph. I didn't really think I could best her; I was simply testing my abilities.
And making a fool of yourself?
As a matter of fact, no, Murtagh snapped. Anyway, the point is, Nasuada has confined me to this tent until we depart for Feinster.
They continued a string of idle conversation until a servant came to show Murtagh his tent. It was only about five tents from Nasuada's red one.
The red rider sulked into the tent, not even bothering to thank the servant for what he most certainly was not grateful for. He dropped on the low four-poster bed and crossed his arms.
All he could do now was wait.
Thank you SOOO much for reading! (I'm assuming you have, if you've made it this far down the page). Can I thank you in advance for REVIEWING? Thank you for reviewing! Seriously, when I get those emails, I smile like heck. I love 'em. I tried to look over the chapter for mistakes, but I've gotta be somewhere. See ya.
-Seastar