A vast shadow flashed over the emerald sea of forest. This was accompanied by a soft rumble and the steady thud of wings, flapping through the air; the only noise in the vast, eerie, endless mass of trees.
The sun glinted off the owner of the shadow; casting red light on the land bellow. Hundreds of rubies came together to form the lithe body of a dragon. Everything about this beautiful creature was formidable. Three inch long fangs rested in his jaw. His claws were so hard, they could easily scratch diamond. His tough hide of glinting ruby armor was the hardest substance know to man, dwarf, and it was rumored, even elf. This dragon had thick legs and a stubby body. He was built for power and speed. Cords of muscles rippled beneath his skin with each flap of his wings. Sharp, white spikes ran down his spine, coving every inch-except for a two or three foot gap where the corded muscles of his shoulders met his long snaky neck. A tough, fat leather strap was fastened around this part of his scaly neck. In that space, on the leather, sat a man garbed in heavy wine-red armor.
He had his helmet in his left hand while the right held fast to a white spike. A red scabbard that held a sword red as his dragon was fastened to a black belt. The sword wasn't just anyone's sword. It was an Elven sword crafted for a cruel, deadly, crazy man. The leader of the Foresworn, as a matter of fact. Sharp, stern, brown eyes gleamed out behind thick, defined black brows. Not a hint of a smile rested on his face, but not exactly a frown. His thick, blackish-brown hair rippled in the gust that surged on him with each beat of the dragon's wings.
Other that gust, the air was still and stale. The two felt like they were flying indoors. The dragon had to work extra hard to stay afloat. The sky above was bright blue, but ahead were dark storm clouds and a veil of rain. They would likely as not have to stop before they reached the storm. But before they did, they hoped the might find what they were looking for.
Four sharp eyes searched for a gap in the trees. Anything abnormal. They searched for a city. An Elven city. It was rumored to be around here somewhere. Maybe in the trees. The dragon snapped his jaws with bone breaking force in his frustration. He want to fight something. As the man shifted in his saddle, clutching the sword with blood lust, it became apparent he wished for the same. But the order was to find it, nothing more; though both itched for battle. All they saw, though, was the same old boring pattern of trees; each one a bit brighter and healthier then the last.
It's got to be here someplace. Look at those trees! No way we can't be getting close. The man thought.
The Elven lands were endless. It was dangerous to be there, as he was their enemy and elves were fierce foes. But the reason for his gaze to be anywhere near here had nothing to do with them. It was deeper then difference in race. It was an ancient battle taken to epic proportions.
It was not them he sought …or feared. It was the one with hair of molten bronze and pure brown eyes and a lustrous sapphire-scaled dragon whom followed him. Only he had Elven abilities and ears pointed like an elf but was not he himself one. He whom had immense power. He was skilled in the magical arts, taught by the elves themselves and the last Dragon Rider. It was said he had been the first Rider ever to use magic at such a young age. He was so profoundly skilled with a sword, that if allowed to fight the man not even remotely tired, he could easily kill him. He was sure of this. He was a dangerous, terrible enemy…as well as the one he could call brother and not tell a lie in this. 'Twas true. The Riders had added to an already fierce battle, sibling rivalry.
His dragon was one to be feared just as much. She had a very lithe body and was fine-boned. She was far more graceful on land and water then any other dragon alive today; including his own. She neared thirty feet in length, though he couldn't be quite sure as he had only just barely seen her in battle. Her height was in the high teens. Her claws were sharp and harder then her younger counterpart, which seemed almost impossible, and her teeth were nearly half-a-foot long at the fang. The timber of her voice was enough to make even a war-hardened soldier flee with soiled garments. Her spikes were hard white knives; capable of piercing through bone like butter. Her glinting blue armor was often strengthened by thick, heavy dwarven dragon armor. And her tail could clear an entire forest with one deadly swipe. She was, though the male dragon never admitted it, very beautiful. But he did think it.
He imaged could them with perfect clarity. If only they knew how he felt! Then maybe they'd see what he was instead of what he could be. He wished not to be their enemy. But to truly be a family member. To belong. To feel safe as he closed his eyes to sleep. To have someone to share the burden he felt.
He was Murtagh, son of Morzan and Selena, burdened to forever have the blood of the leader of the Forsworn in his veins. The pain he'd endured from that monster was written crystal clear in a curved scar found between his heavy shoulder blades. And what's no less by the very sword he now carried. He was always treated like an outcast. He was untrustworthy by the blood of his father. He had thought, for so long, he was alone in this. Then came the bitter-sweat revelation that he wasn't. Eragon was son of Morzan and Selena as well. He had felt none of that terrible pain Murtagh had endured; but he was still his blood brother. But it came too late. He was more is brother when he hadn't known it then he was now, when he had been forced in to servitude forever by Galbatorix, their main enemy. And how could his brother ever forgive him for such treachery. How could he prove to-
A sharp, light emerald gleam yanked him out of his thoughts and back to reality. It glittered sharply in the sunlight. The gleam was too bright to see clearly. He quite couldn't make out what it was.
Could it be?
Was it He?
No, just a bird…wait not a bird. A wyren, a cheap imitation of a dragon that was about a forth smaller. He knew wyrens were lighter colored and very rare. But they loved to show off Few could breathe fire, but many could breathe ice. Some could do both, even at the same time. But it was a rare trait, said to be only in the royal wyren blood lines. They normally lived further north though. So what was this one doing here? Most wyrens, he knew, had many good traits. But most wyrens were weaker then dragons. And less intelligent. They couldn't mind-speak, or if they could, they kept it a secret.
The wyren dove in and out of the clouds and trees, probably hunting. It dove low, pulling up just in time to only whack its tail against a tough tree. A few birds flew out of the tree; shirking with surprise as they tried to get the wyren away from their nest. It wasn't long till wyren gave chase to them. It moved its streamlined body fast on their tails. The weakest one, with a broken wing, prepared for the sting of death as the wyren's vicious jaws came into reach of the bird's back feathers. But to its surprise, and relief, the bite never came. Instead, the wyren sped past the group; moving so fast, they didn't know where it went. And the green scales easily blended in with the forest. The tricky devil stopped and hid in the high branches. As the birds started to pass, it flew out with four powerful strokes. The birds turned at the last second, but one faltered.
It was all the wyren needed to catch the tip of its wing in its jaws. The little white bird screamed in distress. It had been so careful. As the bird in the middle, it had expected not to get caught. Yet here it was in the wyren's grip. The wyren's scaly arm reached up and grabbed it out of its jaws so it could have a proper grip; cutting it in several places with its sharp claws.
The bird frantically peeped in distress. It struggled against the scale claws, lengthening its cuts. The wyren's head moved in on its head and bit into it. The peeping stopped. The wyren quickly ate it with gusto. A small amount of red covered its muzzle. It licked the remaining blood up.
Then, with a quiet growl it started diving again on the remaining birds, finding the exact tree and using the exact same method. On each dive, the sun gleamed on the bright lime scales, casting green hexagons on its shadow bellow.
Not that I don't like to watch birds dye or anything, but can we go? What are you looking at anyway?
His red mount, Thorn by name, spoke up. It was strange as he rarely spoke. When dragons speak, they speak in the minds of their riders; as no one can understand their language.
Look, between its shoulders… What is that?
Murtagh saw it too. His eyes strained. The gleam of the wyren's scales made it hard to see. But as the wyren stopped to eat another one of its catches, he was able to see it much better.
It was small, no more then a speck on a lime swirl of wyren. He could distinguish darker parts of it he hadn't seen yet, for it blended well into the wyren. A small tough of brown swirled about with the beat of the wings. A larger amount of peach stood fairly still.
Then the wyren, finished with that bird, dove, fast and sudden and the shape almost fell off. It stopped and nuzzled the shape back into position, then went back to hunting
A soft, sad cry broke through the air, like a baby whining to its mother to come get it. It stopped again to comfort it. It stayed still like this, flapping its wings long after the crying stopped. Then finally it went back to hunting.
Let's investigate.
Murtagh thought so to not give them away their position. The wyren would run away from the ruby dragon, so they'd need all the surprise they could get.
Thorn angled his body in direct path of the wyren. He then stopped beating his wings and tucked them against his body. He made a quick, noiseless dive. His streamlined body pushed against the air, making a soft, low humming sound. Murtagh's heart raced with the thrill of the dive. He always did love the feeling. Soon they could hear the thud of the wyren's wings on the air. The wyren caught another bird. As it paused to eat it, it looked up a second too late.
The force of a one-and-a-half ton dragon plowed into it; catching its tail in his jaw, the sudden force making it dropped its still alive catch. The little bird sped away; glad to still be alive, peeping to its family to spread the good news. The fangs drove deep into the wyren's tough hide. They gleamed with delight as they drew thick red blood.
The wyren screamed, loud and piecing, disturbing the serenity of the scene. Any other noises were blocked from Thorn and Murtagh's ears. The wyren struggled with sharp claws. One rammed the corner of Thorn's eye, making a terrible screech and Thorn roared so loud and full, the wyren stopped screaming and started trembling.
There! That cry again! Murtagh exclaimed as a soft wail rose through the silence. Let me see its back.
Without a word, Thorn pulled the trembling wyren back towards his rider. As soon as Thorn moved though, the wyren began to struggle again. A stray claw clipped Murtagh's out-stretched arm and pulled down, ripping blood, flesh, and muscle from elbow to wrist. Thorn and Murtagh roared in shared pain; giving the wyren the distraction it needed to pull away. It slipped out of Thorn's jaw like a cork from a bottle, sudden release of force popping it out hard and fast. Long stripes of red extended down to the tip of his tale, left by Thorn's teeth peeling off the scales and outer flesh.
Murtagh cursed and then reached for his magic and uttered one word, "Aaloyi." And with that, he healed his arm.
Then he focused on the wyren who was busy flying away. It had covered a great distance in that short time and Murtagh was impressed. Never the less, the little brute had hurt his arm and would have to pay in time.
"Letta." He said and the wyren froze in mid air. It couldn't move. Murtagh sensed its anguish and gave a cold, cruel smile.
Thorn lazily flew to the green creature, its eyes darting here, dashing there. Then green eyes focused the on the two, piecing through them, searching their souls for any small glint of kindness.
Those eyes. Those eyes! They were more dragon-like then any creature he'd ever met. And its other features were so dragon-like, he'd have sworn it was a young fledgling dragon if he didn't know any better. Its claws, teeth, spikes, tail. All were far more then a little dragon like. Not only that, but it seemed much larger then it had at first. Still to small to be an adult dragon, but it was closer then should be. In Murtagh's studies, he'd been told they were smaller then this and less dragon like… With great effort, he peeled his attention from the wyren and to the sleeping blob on his back.
It was a baby. No surprise there. Its skin was a soft, smooth, creamy peach. She was obviously a girl; wearing a dress-like outfit made of fresh emerald leaves. They appeared to be alive, like they simply grew onto her. The baby stirred. She opened her big, emerald-shaped-and-colored green eyes. A tough of silky brown hair blew in a light breeze, the first all day. The hair that was moved revealed pointed ears.
An elf!
We should kill it!
Murtagh looked down at Zar'roc, misery, his blade. It would be in its nature to commit such a heinous crime. He put one hand on it and slowly unsheathed it. It was a beautiful blade, despite the crimes it was used for. It screamed for blood. Murtagh gave a twisted smile as he remembered the last time he'd used it. He'd stolen it from Eragon then. And before that, it was used to give him his scar. How ironic. He once had been nearly killed by it, and now it was his greatest weapon. Thorn gave a low growl.
Except you, boy. He chortled.
Thorn gave a satisfied nod. Just get it over with, Murtagh. Before Eragon comes and we can't anymore.
Murtagh turned his attention back to the little elf. He gave her a cold, emotionless stare. She stared right back with an uncontrollable spirit. She blew a large bubble. It broke off into three. Murtagh gasped. It could have been his imagination, but he saw things in the bubbles.
In one, her saw himself as a happy father, bouncing a beautiful young lady on his lap, laughing as she said something silly.
In another, he saw himself on the top of a mound of bloody bodies with a sword stained in their lives. He was faintly crying.
In the last, he saw his reflection. A cold man stared back at him, with a menacing look on his face and wielding an evil looking sword. As he watched, through gentle changes and modifications, instead of himself he saw his father. He saw a greedy, evil tyrant who cared for no one, not even his flesh and blood. He frowned at the image as he sheathed Zar'roc. He didn't see it, but the image changed till it looked like Eragon.
The images grew, larger and larger till finally, they popped. She gave a sad look and babbled a bit. Then she looked at him with her cute green eyes. He almost unconsciously touched her consciousness. A pastel rainbow danced though his head. Light pinks, reds, blues, yellows, golds, greens, and purples rippled in a pond of color.
He couldn't. He wouldn't.
…No. I mean, she's just a harmless baby.
It's our duty!
Our job, was to find Eragon. Not kill harmless baby elves.
It is one in the same! She won't stay harmless!
…No… but she doesn't know any better. For all she knows, she is on our side.
The little elf reached up, begging to be held. He picked her up and tucked her next to him.
We shouldn't do this…you're gonna regret it…
Probably. But for now, I'll regret not bringing her.
I will say no more. But if she pees of poops on me…
He blew a steady, hot torrent of flames. The wyren gulped and began squirming even more then ever. Murtagh felt his magic was being strained.
We'll have a little elf-roast. Got it?
Ya but if you do that, we'll also be having a dragon roast to go with it.
They slowly began flying away. The wyren struggled to move, but not away from them; towards them. Murtagh's eyes showed a hint of worry. It may unleash its fire or ice on them or if they were extremely unlucky, both.
Murtagh released the spell on the wyren when he was a good distance away. Turned toward them and gave a low, benign hiss. Its emerald eyes seemed to cuss them.
A female voice came into his head, surprising him. He looked around. No elves. No anybody. It had to be the wyren. The voice was low and strong and had a tinge of malice in it.
If you hurt her…
Then the wyren did something terrifying. It blew out fire…but not just fire. At the core of the flame, a blizzard stormed. He wasn't sure if it was just hot or if it was ice. What ever it was, it wouldn't feel good to get hit with…
He worried she would follow them, but she did not. Instead, she disappeared with the blink of and eye back into the forest.
Murtagh and Thorn were silent on the trip back, shocked by the wyren's display of anger. Thorn was able to fly much faster, as there was a wind and they were moving with it.
The sea of evergreens quickly began getting scarcer, blotchier. Soon forest opened up to prairies, prairies to mountains to rivers, rivers to lakes.
Near dusk, Murtagh and Thorn saw a familiar sight. Mount Ralivine. They flew over its icy peak to behold Onyx gates. They had reached the black city of Uru'baen.
