Well, hello there, please don't kill me. I have too many excuses to count, but I won't bore you with them. Out of all the things I'm updating, this is the one I worked the hardest on. I'm so awful at keeping deadlines on FF, but at least the updates pretty decent. I do have a more mapped out plan for the end of Evermore. You won't be seeing any of the rest of the Varden for the rest of the story, its just going to be about Zade's rock and the aftermath. The next chapter instead of this one is going to be the last battle chapter, then there'll be one more little fight/quest they will have to deal with. Should take no more than three chapters. I might round it out with a teaser for the next story, we'll have to see. No more blabbing cept I am going to change my name soon. So don't be surprised if this story pops up with another auther writing it, its still me. Just check the ID and you'll know for sure.
When Eragon had been little, rain had seemed like a blessing. Living on a farm, a decent downpour meant extra money to waste on sweets and the few attractions Carvahall had to offer. When dreams of adventure after a good rainfall rattled around in his skull, he would run down to the local wood smith, Grey. When he was little, Grey had seemed like the coolest guy alive when he pulled out intricately carved wood swords and scrolls speaking of amazing adventure and excitement.
Grey had come to Carvahall with Brom and now Eragon suspected the elder man had a past just as Brom had. He'd died over fifteen years ago, but Eragon could still smell fresh pine even after all these years.
But storms like the one that was currently going on had been what had taken Grey's life and forced Eragon and Rowan on low rations. Of course, there had been no medicine when they both consecutively fell deathly ill. Garrow's wife, Beilyn, devotedly watched them. Rowan got better, but Eragon required constant care. Disease had hit the young boy harder. She put all her energy into keeping him alive and when he was finally clear, her own immune system had been so weak, her life was claimed by the same thing that had almost taken Eragon's.
It had been the worst year of his life. Gazing downwards at his army, his family and friends and his home, he was determined there would be no repeats. Not today.
Thick mud made sucked at his legs in places and in others became so slick all the grace and balance in the universe couldn't keep him from slipping. All of his focus and concentration was on not getting squired like a wild boar by a spear or an arrow; not keeping the mud off his battered armor.
He was surprised his mind wasn't so focused on the here and now, but fighting had become so second nature for him he didn't need to pay attention to every swing of his sword. His every thought was on finding Arribane and the other generals to call a retreat before disaster struck. He reached out with his mind again and a sling of oaths flew from his lips. That army of those things was getting far too close for comfort. The steady thrum they made together was unsettling, like a hive of bees all tuned in to one frequency.
A shadow passed over him and he felt his heart drop. As if the fact that it was raining, people were screaming and dying all around him, and an army of ever encroaching…somethings were coming their way, now Thorn dropped from the skies close by him, his jaw snapping as he gave a low rumble. All around him, the fighting stilled, eye focused on the glinting ruby dragon. Even those on Thorn's side seemed to be shielding their throats.
Murtagh jumped from the saddle, his now-helmless hair plastered back with rain. Eragon instinctively hunched closer to the ground, readying himself for a fight. Would his brother have enough honor not to use Thorn's aid at all, given that the younger boy didn't have his own dragon? Or would that matter to him?
Eragon didn't have long to consider it. Murtagh stood straight, defiantly. But he wasn't facing Eragon. Instead, he and two other men were sizing one another up. Eragon would have ran, he didn't really have time to contemplate what was going on, but he recognized the way the two other men held themselves. His blood ran cold.
Hayden and Pace seemed to notice him as well. Hayden's bare face glanced at him nervously, as if telling him to go, but Eragon was having a hell of a time making himself. The two boys had grown on him and the idea that they would fight his brother, whom Eragon himself couldn't even defeat last time with a dragon, made him unwilling to tear away his eyes.
"I'll ask you both one more time." Murtagh held out his fist. "Where is he?"
Both boys stayed quiet, poised to fight and loyal to a fault. He could see Pace's eyes flash to his brother, calculating his strengths and the few faults he could find. The battle had taken a tole on even the red rider; blood had boomed from his side he kept carefully guarded with his left arm while his right unsheathed his blade in a flash of crimson. Zar'roc. It had been a while since Eragon had seen it up close. For some reason, despite the fact that he'd had it in his own hands so many times, it seemed more menacing in Murtagh's fist. Eragon could finally believe everything he'd been told it had done. All of the brutality and silent assassinations in the night.
The blood of Eragon and Murtagh's shared family covering the blade. His and Murtagh's and their father. He could hear the screams as they were cut short and silenced forever. The blade was made for killing.
Fire filled his veins and it took all the restrain Eragon had to sit on the sidelines as Murtagh's blade clashed against Hayden's. It was no contest. The brothers were fairly good fighters, but Murtagh was toying with them.
Eragon gritted his teeth as Pace tried to make his own counter to protect the younger, only to be deflected by Murtagh with lightning speed. Hayden ducked under Murtagh's arm and lunged, a move that probably would have worked if the elder hadn't ever seen it. Instead, the sound of Hayden's blade shattering rang out.
Hayden was jarred back with the impact. He collided heavily with the mud and didn't rise again. Pace hissed at Murtagh, trying to go check on his fallen younger brother. But Murtagh caught him, his blade hitting dangerously close to Pace's hand before the other managed to catch it.
It left a decent sized dent. If Murtagh could get in another powerful stroke like that, it would be over Eragon knew. Pace would be bladeless and vulnerable. Eragon had to intervene.
Like lightning, Hayden was suddenly on Murtagh's back. Unconventional yes but it did take the elder by surprise. Murtagh stumbled backwards due to the extra weight, his legs bending awkwardly. Pace jumped at him, lunging for his stomach.
"No!" It took Eragon a moment to realize it was him who had yelled that. All three seemed to be stunned by the sudden familiar yell. Unfortunately, it was Murtagh who recovered first.
He lashed back at Hayden, throwing the younger like he was weightless off his back. Hayden's head hit the tree with a sickening crack. Shocked, Pace made a lunge forward but was met by Murtagh, who seemed to have a renewed fervor to get out of the battle. Eragon and him made direct eye contact.
That was when he understood and he could feel his heart quicken. Murtagh put himself in danger not because he actually had been about to lose, but because he knew it would squeeze Eragon out of the wood work. He would have the rider right where he wanted him.
On an unseen command, suddenly Thorn was on him, his snaky jaws snapping at him. Eragon jumped backwards ten feet, making the soldiers around him jump too. Thorn pursued. His rider cracked across Pace's head with the pummel of his blade and joined his dragon in pursuit of Eragon, not stopping to watch as Pace fell to the ground. From the distance Eragon was, there was no way of discerning if he was dead or just knocked out and no time to go and check.
Remembering his mission and determined not to fail, Eragon raced through crowds of wildly fighting men. Some tried to hamper him as they saw Thorn's shadow giving chase. Unfortunately, even with Elven like agility and speed, Thorn was rapidly gaining on him. He suddenly was reminded that time he had tried to outrun a horse.
Eragon set up wards around himself just in time. The great dragon attempted to pluck Eragon right out of the crowd, only to be repelled by an invisible force field around him. The effort of restraining him zapped Eragon's strength, making him stumble for a moment before continuing forward.
For possibly the first time in forever, Eragon could feel true exhaustion gripping him. His heart seemed to have swelled up, ready to burst. An angry Thorn launched brutal ariel assaults from above while he had to be a gymnast to avoid the swords and spears on the ground. Meanwhile, he could feel Murtagh battering against his mental shields.
Pain wracked his body and he blindly drew energy from around him; from the corpses of the dying and injured alike. He kept his sword brandished and shield out. Unfortunately, none of it was enough.
As Thorn was deflected once more, the wards broke, sending Eragon flying down the hillside. He rolled, his body now drenched in a fine coating of mud and blood. Fell swords and twigs and anything else with a sharp point pierced his skin. He came to a stop next to the mutilated corpse of a horse, his back slapping against the saddle horn. Exhausted, he strained to get up, hunched over on all fours like some hunted animal.
"Oh how the mighty have fallen." Said a deadpanned voice. He looked over with acid in his gaze as Murtagh gracefully slid down the ravine, Thorn remaining on the top. "Are you really that helpless without your dragon that you can't fight me?"
"I knew you were behind it." Eragon hissed.
"Not me per say, but in general you're correct." Murtagh sneered back. He drew Zar'roc, splaying his legs to coax Eragon into a fight. "Come on! Don't make it seem like I am incompetent for not catching you before."
"You're not going to this time either." Eragon declared quietly. Murtagh relaxed ever so slightly. Good, he's getting a bit cocky. Before Murtagh could think of some witty retort, Eragon lunged forward, the force against Zar'roc near shattering his own blade. Murtagh took a moment to get back on even ground with him from the sudden impact which jarred his muscles, but when he did it was just like old times.
Eragon could distinctly remember Murtagh and him sparring, laughing. It seemed so long ago. Back when Murtagh had been wielding the silver hand-and-a-half and Eragon Zar'roc. And not only had the color of their blades changed, but their expressions as well. No smiling or laughing. Just sheer concentration and unadulterated hate on Eragon's part. Both boys drew energy from around them. Nothing was able to enter the ravine to interrupt. It would be dead and crash into one of them, giving the other an advantage for a moment.
Lightning flashed above and more rain fell. At this rate, this old ravine would become a lake and both would drown. Meanwhile, Eragon couldn't help but feel the presence of those things, getting ever closer. But he would not leave the pit. Not until he was capable of climbing up its muddy surface without having the fear of getting sliced in the back.
Still, fighting him brought forward familiar nostalgia. The desire to not fight him, to not believe he was evil. It hurt even more now that he knew there was a specific reason why they'd bonded so fast. Blood tended to make you closer in persona and ability; hence how close a match the two were.
Then Murtagh tried to pull something Eragon recognized. He remembered when Murtagh had disarmed him using a maneuver which, according to Arya, was completely new. Murtagh had invented it. He had pleaded for Murtagh to teach him it back when they were on each other's side, but Murtagh insisted it was his move and his alone. The few times Eragon had seen it, it was too fast for recreation. Arya, however, had managed to pick up on it. She was never as good as the real thing; it was so fast and ruthless that one of the stages had become lost in translation.
But after she used it on him a few times, he noticed something. There was a step in it which, for a split second, put the user off balance if you hit just the right part on the tang.
He'd never tried it when it mattered, but in that fight, there was no time to think. He struck Zar'roc's tang; feeling the resonating metal jar through his hand. The loosened blade slid upwards with his next stroke. Eragon swiftly caught it in his other hand. A stunned look crossed Murtagh's face as Eragon held his plain blade and Zar'roc to Murtagh's collarbone.
Murtagh closed his eyes, obviously waiting for Eragon to lob his head off. But Eragon hesitated. However much Eragon wanted to throw everything on his brother's shoulders…to blame him…it didn't seem right for Eragon to kill him. He thought of all the things his friends would say if he came back from the battle with the red rider slain by his hand. Hrothgar, whom had offered Murtagh shelter and eventually amnesty, would be alive if not for him. God only knew how many others would be breathing also. But he didn't see the guise of the red rider here. He saw his friend. His brother. Aiedail's father. Could he possibly even try to live with himself if he killed Murtagh?
His indecision made it so that he wouldn't find out this time around. Thorn's sweeping tail launched at him from behind, knocking him to the ground as the great red snarled viciously. But instead of advancing, the great dragon nuzzled his rider and the pair just stared at Eragon. Zar'roc was in reach; a little bit more than that, Eragon realized. The crimson blade was sheathed…in his side.
But all three of them did nothing. They just stared, as if both parties were shocked. Eragon felt a whisper of a consciousness touched his before repealing as Murtagh's face hardened. Curious, Eragon reached out to Murtagh's consciousness himself.
…bring him back with us but if we don't then….
I know, little one. It seems we are no longer alone. Both dragon and rider seemed to notice Eragon listening in, for Murtagh's next words were addressed to him.
Brother….we can't let you stay here….they're coming.
What's coming exactly? Eragon replied before he could even consider stopping himself.
That was when the horizon went black as a maddening melody filled the air. Eragon reached for his ears, screaming for it to be stopped. But even through the sound, he heard one last word in his mind before he closed it up.
Säkka.
