Chapter 8: Warrior

"Too slow."

With a single push of Eragon's blade, Roran was sent staggering back a few feet until he was able to stand still. Pushing his sweat drenched hair out of his eyes, he cursed.

"It's that you're too damned fast, Eragon. Why don't you slow down a little?" He panted as he readied the hammer in his hands. "The rest of us aren't riders."

"I'm only using half my speed and one third of my strength, Roran. The reason why you cannot keep up with my attacks is because you have too many wasted movements." Eragon held the dulled practice sword and slashed swiftly through the air. "Try again."

It was nighttime in the Varden camps. Soldiers hurried from one place to the other, making preparations for tomorrow's continued journey to Belatona. Some sat around campfires, exchanging battle stories. The calm before a storm.

Roran took a step forwards, and with a grunt he raised the weapon over his head and brought it down with extraordinary power. It would have shattered most shields easily, crippling the soldiers behind them with brutal force. But Eragon sidestepped the blow with no trouble and flicked his sword up to his cousin's chin.

Sighing in frustration, Roran dropped his hammer on to the ground and started kneading his temples furiously. The campfire crackled.

"Why can't I land a blow on you? Is the gap between us so great to this extreme?" Roran groaned as he felt the bruises that Eragon had left on him. "So large that I won't win against you no matter what I do?"

The rider shook his head.

"I've never seen a normal person wield the strength I've seen in you, and it is frightening in its own way. But no one has tutored you properly on fighting against an opponent that is near your own skill, or above it. That is your only weakness now, and it is possible for you to surpass most seasoned swordsmen if you train hard."

"Train hard, eh?" Roran grasped the handle of his hammer and pushed himself to his feet. "Will it really work, seeing how much time we have?"

"Every moment counts. While it is true now that you can defeat many soldiers with pure bravery and savage might, it would not last against one who has been trained, or is of another race. You've seen how you fared against the Ra'zac."

Roran grimaced at the memory.

"And it all comes back to this. Roran, you rely too much on your strength when delivering blows. And because you think me a strong enemy, you often use too much power, causing imbalance or obvious attacks to the trained eye." Eragon set his sword by his side, point down. "Again."

Roran moved cautiously towards the rider, approaching him with a slow pace. Just as he was going to raise his hammer, a voice stopped him.

"Stronghammer."

Roran turned around, and his eyes widened. "Ary…" he hesitated, unsure of how to address the elf. "Lady—"

Eragon bowed his head. "Arya Svit-Kona."

The princess walked towards the two with graceful, smooth strides that reminded Eragon of swaying grass in a light breeze. She nodded a greeting to the rider, and turned to Roran.

"Arya would be fine, Stronghammer." She replied. "I was watching from the distance, and I must say that I am impressed. Few men can match your speed or strength."

Roran bowed awkwardly. "You… you flatter me, Lady Arya."

"I speak only of the truth. Yet…" She frowned slightly, and to the surprise of the both of them, leaned towards Roran and whispered into his ear. Eragon watched them, perplexed.

Roran's brow furrowed. "My lady—" Arya simply shook her head and added a few more words.

As if making a hard decision, Roran turned to Eragon.

"Let us start. Lady Arya was kind enough to lend some advice." Shifting the hammer's position in his hands, Roran settled into a lower stance. "This time, you will be the one who loses."

The rider raised an eyebrow. What in Alagaesia did Arya tell him? But he gripped the sword tighter and started to watch his cousin closer than before.

Then, as if nothing changed before, Roran charged forwards with a roar. There were dozens of openings that he left unguarded, and a skilled warrior would have taken his life in a flash.

Eragon sighed. It looked as if his efforts to teach him had been for naught. Sliding to the side, he held up his blade.

"Ugh!"

Roran had slipped on the uneven ground. Reacting instantly, the rider went forwards to catch him, arms outstretched.

A cloud of sand billowed in front of his face. He blinked away the grains, and choked as copious amounts entered his throat. Before he could move, a swift kick knocked him off his feet and the hammer was placed on top of his head.

"My victory, Eragon." Came a voice from above him.

Brushing the dirt and sand off of his face, he was pulled upright by Roran's muscular arm. After coughing for a few moments, he stood up and stared accusingly at his cousin.

"That… was a low blow." He managed to choke out.

He shrugged. "If it were a real battle, it would have been me who survived and won, while you died. And that is all that matters."

"But—"

"Eragon." Said Arya quietly.

The rider sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "I… I know."

"I have told you before, in our lessons. You are far too gentle to your enemies, and oftentimes too naïve. You trust others too much. In many ways, you need more tutelage than your cousin does."

Eragon looked away from the elf's penetrating gaze. "Is giving people the trust they deserve a bad thing?"

"In times of war, no one deserves your complete trust, no matter how close they are to you." Arya looked at him directly in the eye, emerald orbs becoming cold. "Keep that in mind, Eragon."

"You already know that I disagree. And I will, until something proves me otherwise." Eragon stabbed his practice blade into the soft earth. "No matter how bloody the battles become."

Arya's eyes grew colder. "Then I hope that the day you realize your foolishness arrives swiftly. Otherwise, we might find you dead before it."

A steely silence appeared between the both of them. Eragon was looking towards the ground, fighting to hold his tongue and refrain from speaking more. The elf's features appeared calm, but the intense fire in her eyes said that she was anything but. She was furious.

Unbidden, the memory of Arya killing the wounded hawk in the woods of Du Weldenvarden flashed through his mind. He clenched his fists tighter.

"Do you know that by remaining the way you are, you are promising those people you care for a quick death?" Arya said expressionlessly. "Do you not think that Galbatorix wouldn't use this trait of yours against you?"

"I would die first before anyone does." Eragon replied, turning his back to Arya. "That I promise."

There was a pause.

"I wish you hadn't." Footsteps sounded behind him, and he knew that the elf had walked away.

Releasing the breath he had been holding, he gazed down at the practice sword. It remained where he had stuck it, standing tall and straight from the ground like a grave marker.

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Blodhgarm raced through the trees, eyes narrowing to slits as he looked at the horseman in front of him. He was certainly a spy; the elf had been watching him for a more than a few days. His mind was well shielded, and it was impossible for Blodhgarm to forcibly extract the information. But as the man returned to his master, all one had to do was follow him, to see who his traitorous fiend of a master was.

And to kill the bastard where he stood.

The rider continued on, oblivious to the fact that he was being followed. After a few turns in the forest, he galloped into a clearing, where a dark figure stood, almost completely concealed by the shadows cast by the trees.

"So you have completed your task?" The voice was chilling, even to the elf. He slid a short knife out of his belt, and lengthened his claws. He would have to be swift.

"I have, master." The man kneeled.

"Then… where is he?" the voice whispered. It was like the hiss of a serpent. "Not somewhere too far, I hope?"

The spy bowed his head lower.

"He has followed, and is behind me as we speak."

Blodhgarm's eyes widened. Gritting his teeth, he sprang from where he had hidden himself and leapt towards the shadowy outline in the darkness.

His blade sank into flesh.

The man who had been his bait stared back at him impassively with hollow orbs, paying no heed to the knife in his torso. Those were not the eyes of a person who was truly alive. Disgusted, the elf drew back his knife.

The corpse slumped down onto the ground, and Blodhgarm sheathed the bloody blade.

"You aren't even going to attempt to fight?" asked the voice in a mocking tone. "Content to wait for your death?"

The elf sighed. "I know who you are now, and I know that you are not one who is dull enough to let prey escape so easily. The very fact that you exposed your face is the confidence that I will never make it out of here alive."

The figure clapped. "Excellent, Blodhgarm-vor. I now know that I was not mistaken in deciding to kill you."

Even as the hundreds of enchanted arrows pierced his body, Blodhgarm's heart was tranquil as he raised his head and searched the skies for the one thing he wish to look at before his death.

The moon shone back at him, its beauty as breathtaking as it had ever been in his long, long life. It was not yet completely full, like a broken disk that one had forgotten to repair.

His last thoughts were on how much of a pity it was.

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I killed him.

It's not like I hate him, or dislike him in anyway. He just seemed like someone who would die as a sacrifice, and so I did.

About the tension between Eragon and Arya… it will be explained in coming chapters. There is a reason to everything, you know.

And please review!