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Disclaimer: I do not own The Elder Scrolls or The Inheritance Cycle.
Daemon gazed down at the bald-headed man before him, clad in robes that Daemon knew had to belong to a wizard from the way they looked. Although the robes were nothing like the ones at the College of Winterhold, he knew a mage when he saw one. The silver dragon's sharp eyes took in his surroundings, the men surrounding him. He noticed some of them twitching their hands towards their sheathed weapons, some holding bows with arrows nocked but not aiming... yet. He could smell their anxiety, their fear. They were afraid of him. If they knew what he was capable of, they'd have very good reason to be afraid of him, but they only feared him because he was a dragon and dragons were dangerous creatures.
A sudden mental prod caused Daemon to snap his gaze back to the bald-headed mage and give a warning growl while throwing his mental defences up to their strongest. The bald man's dark, cold eyes tightened into a small scowl and he spoke in a condescending tone. "Now, now, my friend. there's no need to react so defensively. I am merely seeing whether you can be trusted."
Do not speak to me like I'm some common animal, wizard. Daemon said with a growl, mouth curling to reveal his sharp teeth threateningly. he knew people with ill-intent when he saw them, and this bald man reminded him of those people. try and enter my mind without permission again, and you will not enjoy what happens afterwards.
The prod halted and retracted, but the bald man kept up with his cold sneer and condescending voice. "How can I be sure you can be trusted to enter this place, if you will not let me look into your mind? How are we to know that you do not serve Galbatorix?"
I serve one. Daemon said, holding his head up. None command me. I have come seeking the Varden for sanctuary, are you them?
"Perhaps... but how does a dragon, a wild one it seems, know of that?" The bald man questioned.
That is none of your concern. Do not test my patience further. I will repeat my question... there will not be a third time. Are you the Varden or have I wasted my time here?
"You will get no answers from me until I have searched your mind for treachery, dragon." The man sneered almost arrogantly, but it was still cold as the man's cold voice and the look in his eyes. "I know of only one dragon and three eggs in existence, you are neither of them. How are we to-"
"Have you lost your senses, spellcaster?!" The new voice caused Daemon and the bald man to turn their heads and see a new person arriving, this one a small figure standing by Daemon's foreleg. The diminutive man stood no higher than his knee, but was solidly built and wearing a set of chain-mail armor. A long, braided beard flowed from his face, which was set in a scowl at the taller, bald man.
A dwarf? Daemon thought to himself with surprise. The Dwemer in Tamriel had thought to be extinct, leaving only their structures, ruins and machines as remains. He did know that dwarves lived in these lands, but to see one for himself...
"Mind your place, Orik!" The bald man snapped with a cold glare. "By Ajihad's command, I am in charge of security and checking all that enter this mountain. The dragon will not enter until we are sure he can be trusted, and will do us no harm." The dwarf, Orik, remained silent but his face was flushed red with anger. The bald man returned his attention back to Daemon and took a step forward. "Now, dragon, if you wish to enter this mountain, then you will allow me to enter your mind and see your memories... or these men will shoot."
Daemon eyed the archers around and above him warily before almost scoffing. No arrow can pierce my hide, and they'll be dead before they grab their next one. Are you prepared to loose such capable men because of your own stupidity in daring to challenge a dragon? He slammed his tail down as a warning, making some of the men jump and grip their bows tighter. When Daemon spoke, it was in the ancient language. I have come with no intent to harm anyone in this mountain. I am not of the Empire nor do I serve them in any capacity, but I WILL defend myself if you force me to fight!
Even if they did not fully understand the words themselves, the meaning behind them was clear, and the soldiers slowly began to lower their weapons. The bald man, however, did not as his cold gaze remained locked with Daemon's cold silver eyes. He made to speak, but Daemon cut him off with a growl. if my words alone will not be proof enough, then perhaps this will. With that, he lowered his wings and revealed Arya on his back.
Orik gasped. "It's the egg-courier, Arya!"
"What?" For the first time, the bald man seemed surprised and even stunned.
Myself and several companions rescued her from Gil'ead. She's been poisoned with something that will kill her had I not brought her here... the reason for me being here in the first place. Daemon explained.
"You see, spellcaster?" Orik turned to the bald mage. "He spoke in the ancient language that he means us no harm, and he has brought us Arya! Do you wish to start a war with the Elves because you wouldn't trust a dragon's word and actions?"
the bald man remained silent for several seconds, looking from Orik to Daemon, his expression still cold as ice. "I will have to speak with Ajihad about this."
Daemon briefly recognized the name as one Brom mentioned back in Teirm to Jeod. Speak to whoever you wish, you will not get into my mind. Nobody will. The bald man gave him another sneer, then his expression became blank and his lips moved, as if speaking to someone. After several more tense moment's his eyes focused on Daemon again.
"You have been permitted entrance into Farthen Dûr. Our leader, Ajihad, wishes to speak with you. Follow me." With a swift turn that made his robes flap, the bald man strode off down the hall.
What of Arya? Daemon called, not moving. He will not let Arya suffer anymore now that they were here. He wanted her safe before he goes anywhere else. The bald man looked at him, then snapped his fingers. A group of men came forward nervously, taking Arya off Daemon's back while under the silver dragon's watchful eyes. Once they got her down, they went off down a dark corridor, soon out of sight. Daemon hoped she would be okay.
"Come!" The old man barked, getting a growl from Daemon before he followed. He noticed the men following, still eyeing him nervously. The dwarf, Orik, walked beside him, muttering under his breath in a language that Daemon believed was dwarvish.
Thank you. He said to the dwarf, who showed a brief flicker of surprise before he merely grunted in response.
They proceeded down the tunnel for a while, the only sound being the echoes from Daemon's talons scraping along the floor, the thudding footsteps of the men and their boots, nervous, quiet whispers. Doors and gates occasionally disturbed the smooth walls, but they were always closed.
Having seen much larger tunnels and ruins in Skyrim, Daemon was not that awestruck by the size of the tunnel. Skyrim had much bigger stuff to behold, ruins that were practically built underground and stretching far into a mountain range. But Daemon could admit that this tunnel was crafted with incredible skill—the walls, floor, and ceiling were crafted with flawless precision. The angles at the bases of the walls were perfectly square, and as far as he could tell, the tunnel itself did not vary from its course by even an inch.
For nearly an hour the bald man led the way through the tunnel, never straying nor turning. At last a soft white glow became visible ahead of them, which increased in strength as they neared it.
Daemon could see thick marble pillars laced with rubies and amethysts standing in rows along the walls. Scores of lanterns hung between the pillars, suffusing the air with liquid brilliance. Gold tracery gleamed from the pillars' bases like molten thread. Arching over the ceiling were carved raven heads, their beaks open in mid-screech. At the end of the hallway rested two colossal black doors, accented by shimmering silver lines that depicted a seven-pointed crown that spanned both sides.
The bald man stopped and raised a hand. He turned to Daemon. "You will remain on the ground and follow us into the city. Attempt to fly and you will die."
Like your swords and arrows could scratch me. Daemon scoffed privately to himself. To the bald man, he just snorted in response. Without warning, the doors swung outward on hidden joints. As the rift widened between them, rays of sunlight streamed into the tunnel, falling on the silver dragon.
Daemon's eyes squinted a little as light fell on them but they soon adjusted after being in darkness for a while. When he saw what was up ahead, he was amazed as he always is when discovering a hidden city built into mountains or underground.
They were inside a massive volcanic crater. Its walls narrowed to a small ragged opening so high above that Daemon could not judge the distance—it might have been more than a dozen miles. A soft beam of light fell through the aperture, illuminating the crater's center, though it left the rest of the cavernous expanse in hushed twilight.
The crater's far side, hazy blue in the distance, looked to be nearly ten miles away. Giant icicles hundreds of feet thick and thousands of feet long hung leagues above them like glistening daggers. Farther down the crater's inner walls, dark mats of moss and lichen covered the rock.
He lowered his gaze and saw a wide cobblestone path extending from the doors' threshold. The path ran straight to the center of the crater, where it ended at the base of a snowy-white mountain that glittered like an uncut gem with thousands of colored lights. It was less than a tenth of the height of the crater that loomed over and around it, but its diminutive appearance was deceiving, for it was slightly higher than a mile.
Long as it was, the tunnel had only taken them through one side of the crater wall. As Daemon stared, he heard Orik say deeply, "Look well, dragon, for you stand in Farthen Dûr—discovered thousands of years ago by the father of our race, Korgan, while he tunneled for gold. And in the center stands our greatest achievement: Tronjheim, the city-mountain built from the purest marble." The doors grated to a halt.
This is a city... Daemon realized.
The bald man led the way forward with Orik, and Daemon followed. As he came into view, he noticed people, human and dwarf alike, stop whatever they were doing to stare at him in awe. Many showed wonder at his presences, while others – mainly the dwarves – frowned and scowled, and some even turned and walked away.
They neared the city-mountain, and Daemon saw that the white marble of Tronjheim was highly polished and shaped into flowing contours, as if it had been poured into place. It was dotted with countless round windows framed by elaborate carvings. A colored lantern hung in each window, casting a soft glow on the surrounding rock. No turrets or smokestacks were visible. Directly ahead, two thirty-foot-high gold griffins guarded a massive timber gate—recessed twenty yards into the base of Tronjheim—which was shadowed by thick trusses that supported an arched vault far overhead.
When they reached Tronjheim's base, Daemon paused to see if the bald man had any instructions. When none were forthcoming, he continued to the gate. The walls were lined with fluted pillars of blood-red jasper. Between the pillars hulked statues of outlandish creatures, captured forever by the sculptor's chisel.
The heavy gate rumbled open before them as hidden chains slowly raised the mammoth beams. A four-story-high passageway extended straight toward the center of Tronjheim. The top three levels were pierced by rows of archways that revealed gray tunnels curving off into the distance. Clumps of people filled the arches, eagerly watching Daemon. On ground level, however, the archways were barred by stout doors. Rich tapestries hung between the different levels, embroidered with heroic figures and tumultuous battle scenes.
A cheer rang in their ears as Daemon stepped into the hall and paraded down it. Unable to help himself, Daemon looked and snorted out a purff of smoke, which caused a further loud cheer though the Dragonborn noticed the dwarves did not partake in the cheering.
The mile-long hall ended in an arch flanked by black onyx pillars. Yellow zircons three times the size of a man capped the dark columns, coruscating piercing gold beams along the hall. Daemon stepped through the opening.
They were in a circular room, perhaps a thousand feet across, that reached up to Tronjheim's peak a mile overhead, narrowing as it rose. The walls were lined with arches—one row for each level of the city-mountain—and the floor was made of polished carnelian, upon which was etched a hammer girdled by twelve silver pentacles, like on Orik's helm.
The room was a nexus for four hallways—including the one they had just exited—that divided Tronjheim into quarters. The halls were identical except for the one opposite Daemon. To the right and left of that hall were tall arches that opened to descending stairs, which mirrored each other as they curved underground.
The ceiling was capped by a dawn-red star sapphire of monstrous size. The jewel was twenty yards across and nearly as thick. Its face had been carved to resemble a rose in full bloom, and so skilled was the craftsmanship, the flower almost seemed to be real. A wide belt of lanterns wrapped around the edge of the sapphire, which cast striated bands of blushing light over everything below. The flashing rays
of the star within the gem made it appear as if a giant eye gazed down at them.
Daemon had to admit, it was an impressive sight to behold.
He followed his escorts down a side passage and stopped before a set of wooden doors. The bald man curtly told him to mind his manners, as the people behind this door were the most powerful in the Varden. The doors were opened, and Daemon slowly walked inside. He found himself inside an elegant, two-story study paneled with rows of cedar bookshelves. A wrought-iron staircase wound up to a small balcony with two chairs and a reading table. White lanterns hung along the walls and ceiling so a book could be read anywhere in the room. The stone floor was covered by an intricate oval rug. At the far end of the room, a man stood behind a large walnut desk.
His skin gleamed the color of oiled ebony. The dome of his head was shaved bare, but a closely trimmed black beard covered his chin and upper lip. Strong features shadowed his face, and grave, intelligent eyes lurked under his brow. His shoulders were broad and powerful, emphasized by a tapered red vest embroidered with gold thread and clasped over a rich purple shirt. He bore himself with great dignity, exuding an intense, commanding air.
This must be Ajihad... Daemon realized as he approached before coming to a stop with a respectable space between him and the leader of the Varden. To his right, another dwarf stood, but this one was no ordinary dwarf. Upon his head sat a crown of gold encrusted with many jewels, in his hand a massive war hammer with a similarly decorated handle. Daemon realized that this dwarf must be the king Orik had been muttering about to himself as they had traversed the city.
Behind him, Daemon heard the doors shut loudly, spotting the bald man out the corner of his eye going over to the staircase and joined another figure in the shadow. Daemon had to keep from staring when he realized that the second figure was an exact twin of the man who tried to invade his mind, the pair of them watching him closely. A series of chills ran down his scaled back, and then the dark-skinned man stood and addressed him.
"Welcome to Tronjheim, dragon. I am Ajihad." He spoke with a strange accent, yet his voice was calm and level. He gestured to the regal-looking dwarf by his side. "This is his royal highness, King Hrothgar, leader of the dwarven clans." Daemon inclined his head in a show of respect.
I am honoured. Ajihad studied him for a moment, then addressed him again.
"My advisors tell me that you refused to be inspected, although you claim you meant us no harm. This has placed me in a difficult position."
Daemon held the man's stare. I did not do it out of disrespect. But my mind is my own, and none may enter unless I believe they can be trusted to see my memories.
"Be that as it may, we cannot fully accept or trust you, until we are given some explanation as to who you are and what brings you here." Ajihad said.
Daemon knew this. With a rebellion like the Varden up against the Empire, they had to ensure anyone that came searching for them could be trusted. Obviously searching through their minds and memories was their way of checking for those that want to be allies of the Varden. But then again, a part of Daemon rebelled. His business was his own. He glanced at the Twins, narrowing his eyes a little as mistrust built within him the more he looked at them.
It was not my intent to cause such difficulty for you, or anyone here in the Varden. Daemon assured, and his tone proved it as he spoke with assurance. But the secrets I carry affect not only my life, but the lives of those closest to me, some of which are very important to me, and the Varden as a whole as well as all of the land. But, if I must extend a branch of trust, then I ask that you do so in return, and I will only reveal this information to those that I conclude can be trusted. His deep, silver eyes studied Ajihad. I request that I speak with you and his highness, king Hrothgar, only about this.
Ajihad stared at him for a moment, his expression unreadable. "Had that request been made by any other man... I would've had them killed. But as a dragon, you get certain privileges. Leave us!" The last statement was directed at the guards, and they bowed and exited the room. King Hrothgar also dismissed his personal guards.
Them as well. Daemon looked at the Twins. Ajihad claimed they are his advisors, but Daemon insisted. The Twins soon left with identical scowls on their faces. As Orik made to leave, Daemon placed his tail in front of the dwarf to halt him. Not you, Orik. You fought for my admittance into the mountain, for that I can see you are trustworthy.
Orik paused, then bowed his head and returned to stand next to his king. With a thud, the wooden doors shut, leaving only the three men and the dragon in the room.
"Now, explain." Ajihad demanded.
Daemon nodded. What I am about to tell you and speak of must stay between us unless I give my consent for others to be told. I ask you to swear this to me in the ancient language, so I know you speak the truth. He half expected them to argue, but after only a few moments hesitation, they agreed. One after the other, they swore their secrecy to Daemon in the ancient language. He thanked them, then took another deep breath to steady himself. Now... do not panic.
Ajihad, Hrothgar and Orik's eyes widened as they watched the silver dragon shrink change, twists and turn, until finally a man stood in the dragon's place. Shirtless, barefoot, but with pants on.
"I am Daemon the Dragonborn, hero of Skyrim in Tamriel..."
Finally, they had made it. Eragon, Murtagh and Saphira had made it to the waterfall that Arya showed Eragon and Daemon, the waterfall that will be next to the entrance into the Varden. The journey had been tough on all three of them, but they managed to pull through. And they were pursued by Urgals, which they had spotted two days ago. Murtagh had discovered that it was no ordinary Urgals chasing them. They were in fact Kull; elite breeds of Urgals, standing nearly eight feet tall and thicker around than a man was tall. They never stopped, never rested, never gave up.
Then there was a secret that Murtagh had revealed when an argument between him and Eragon spiralled out of control... he was the son of Morzan.
However, despite his parentage, Murtagh made it clear he had no love for his father, as evident when he showed a scar on his body that had been caused during one of Morzan's many drunken rages. However, Eragon had his doubts to which Murtagh told him the Varden will put them at ease once they recognize who Murtagh is.
In the two days they had been fleeing, Eragon and the others had entered the narrow valley that lead to Lake Kostha-merna. In the distance they could hear the steady sound of a waterfall, and they knew they were getting close. The forest they were galloping through ended, and they found themselves on a pebble beach directly to the left of the mouth of the Beartooth River. The deep Kostha-merna filled the valley ahead, blocking their way. The mountain wall restricted passage on either side of the water to a thin strip of shore no more than a few steps wide. At the lake's far end, a broad sheet of water tumbled down a black cliff into mounds of frothing water as it met the lake's surface.
"Do we go to the falls?" asked Murtagh tightly.
"Yes." Eragon took the lead and picked his way along the lake's left side. The pebbles underfoot were damp and slime covered. There was barely enough room for Saphira between the sheer valley wall and the lake; she had to walk with two feet in the water.
They were halfway to the waterfall when Murtagh warned, "Urgals!"
Eragon whirled around, rocks spraying from under his heel. By the shore of Kóstha-mérna, where they had been only minutes before, hulking figures streamed out of the forest. The Urgals massed before the lake. One of them gestured at Saphira; guttural words drifted over the water. Immediately the horde split and started around both sides of the lake, leaving Eragon and Murtagh without an escape route. The narrow shore forced the bulky Kull to march single file.
"Run!" barked Murtagh, drawing his sword and slapping the horses on their flanks. Saphira took off without warning and wheeled back toward the Urgals.
"No!" cried Eragon, shouting with his mind, Come back! but she continued, heedless to his pleas. With an agonizing effort, he tore his gaze from her and plunged forward, wrenching Zar'roc from its sheath.
Saphira dived at the Urgals, bellowing fiercely. They tried to scatter but were trapped against the mountainside. She caught a Kull between her talons and carried the screaming creature aloft, tearing at him with her fangs. The silent body crashed into the lake a moment later, an arm and a leg missing.
The Kull continued around Kóstha-mérna undeterred. With smoke streaming from her nostrils, Saphira dived at them again. She twisted and rolled as a cloud of black arrows shot toward her. Most of the darts glanced off her scaled sides, leaving no more than bruises, but she roared as the rest pierced her wings.
Eragon's arms twinged with sympathetic pain, and he had to restrain himself from rushing to her defense. Fear flooded his veins as he saw the line of Urgals closing in on them. He tried to run faster, but his muscles were too tired, the rocks too slippery.
Then, with a loud splash, Saphira plunged into Kóstha-mérna. She submerged completely, sending ripples across the lake. The Urgals nervously eyed the dark water lapping their feet. One growled something indecipherable and jabbed his spear at the lake.
The water exploded as Saphira's head shot out of the depths. Her jaws closed on the spear, breaking it like a twig as she tore it out of the Kull's hands with a vicious twist. Before she could seize the Urgal himself, his companions thrust at her with their spears, bloodying her nose.
Saphira jerked back and hissed angrily, beating the water with her tail. Keeping his spear pointed at her, the lead Kull tried to edge past, but halted when she snapped at his legs. The string of Urgals was forced to stop as she held him at bay. Meanwhile, the Kull on the other side of the lake still hurried toward the falls.
I've trapped them, she told Eragon tersely, but hurry—I cannot hold them long. Archers on the shore were already taking aim at her. Eragon concentrated on going faster, but a rock gave under his boot and he pitched forward. Murtagh's strong arm kept him on his feet, and clasping each other's forearms, they urged the horses forward with shouts.
They were almost to the waterfall. The noise was overwhelming, like an avalanche. A white wall of water gushed down the cliff, pounding the rocks below with a fury that sent mist spraying through the air to run down their faces. Four yards from the thunderous curtain, the beach widened, giving them room to maneuver.
Saphira roared as an Urgal spear grazed her haunch, then retreated underwater. With her withdrawal the Kull rushed forward with long strides. They were only a few hundred feet away. "What do we do now?" Murtagh demanded coldly.
"I don't know. Let me think!" cried Eragon, searching Arya's memories for her final instructions. He scanned the ground until he found a rock the size of an apple, grabbed it, then pounded on the cliff next to the falls, shouting, "Aí varden abr du Shur'tugals gata vanta!"
Nothing happened.
He tried again, shouting louder than before, but only succeeded in bruising his hand. He turned in despair to Murtagh. "We're trap—" His words were cut off as Saphira leapt out of the lake, dousing them with icy water. She landed on the beach and crouched, ready to fight.
The horses backpedaled wildly, trying to bolt. Eragon reached out with his mind to steady them. Behind you! cried Saphira. He turned and glimpsed the lead Urgal running at him, heavy spear raised. Up close a Kull was as tall as a small giant, with legs and arms as thick as tree trunks.
Murtagh drew back his arm and threw his sword with incredible speed. The long weapon revolved once, then struck the Kull point first in the chest with a dull crunch. The huge Urgal toppled to the ground with a strangled gurgle. Before another Kull could attack, Murtagh dashed forward and yanked his sword out of the body.
Eragon raised his palm, shouting, "Jierda theirra kalfis!" Sharp cracks resounded off the cliff. Twenty of the charging Urgals fell into Kóstha-mérna, howling and clutching their legs where shards of bone protruded. Without breaking stride, the rest of the Urgals advanced over their fallen companions. Eragon struggled against his weariness, putting a hand on Saphira for support.
A flight of arrows, impossible to see in the darkness, brushed past them and clattered against the cliff. Eragon and Murtagh ducked, covering their heads. With a small growl, Saphira jumped over them so that her armored sides shielded them and the horses. A chorus of clinks sounded as a second volley of arrows bounced off her scales.
"What now?" shouted Murtagh. There was still no opening in the cliff. "We can't stay here!"
Eragon heard Saphira snarl as an arrow caught the edge of her wing, tearing the thin membrane. He looked around wildly, trying to understand why Arya's instructions had not worked. "I don't know! This is where we're supposed to be!"
Murtagh dropped his sword, snatched his bow from Tornac's saddlebags, and with a swift motion loosed an arrow from between the spikes on Saphira's back. A moment later an Urgal toppled into the water.
"You'd better think of something because we can't stave off an entire army!" Murtagh shouted.
Eragon, growled Saphira urgently.
What!
We're on the wrong side of the lake! I've seen Arya's memories through you, and I just realized that this isn't the right place. She tucked her head against her breast as another flight of arrows sped toward them. Her tail flicked in pain as they struck her. I can't keep this up! They're tearing me to pieces!
Eragon looked on helplessly as the Urgals closed in, Saphira trying to fight off as many as she can but the arrows will soon strike her dead if they don't get out of here.
Suddenly, all became silent as a loud, furious roar drowned out the pounding of the waterfall. All eyes, human, dragon and Urgal alike, looked up as an ear-splitting roar echoed though the valley.
Guess who's coming, and he's PISSED!