Just a quick author's note: the next chapter will be updated much sooner than usual; you will understand why when you finish the chapter. I hope you enjoy this chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it, and I'm sorry for any grammatical errors but it's late where I am right now and I really need to go to sleep as I have the ACT test tomorrow. I'll probably fix any errors or anything I don't like about the chapter tomorrow afternoon -most likely the chapter name because I didn't want to spoil what happens in this chapter- but right now I'm going to bed. Hopefully I pass my ACT and go to college! I'm a bit curious to see your reactions to this chapter. I've been planning for this to happen forever!
"We drink to our youth, for the days come and gone.
For the Age of Oppression is now nearly done.
We'll drive out the Varden from this land that we own,
With our blood and our steel we will take back our home!
All hail to Galbatorix! You are our great King!
In your great honor we drink and we sing.
We're the children of the Empire, and we fight all our lives,
And when the Void beckons, every one of us dies!
But this land is ours and we'll see it wiped clean,
Of strange races that have sullied our hopes and our dreams.
All hail to Galbatorix! You are our great King!
In your great honor we drink and we sing.
We're the children of the Empire, and we fight all our lives,
And when the Void beckons, every one of us dies!
We drink to our youth, to days come and gone,
For the Age of Oppression is now nearly done."
The bard finished his song to the cheer of the crowd, copper coins falling into the man's open bag that was laid at his feet. The tavern was crowded with workers who had come for their daily mug, dimly lit and full of rowdy conversations; it was rather easily for Eragon to meet with Imun without fear of eavesdropping or ambush.
"It's been a while since I've heard that song," Eragon said idly as he drank from his tankard.
"Oh?" Imun raised a brow as he drank from his own tankard. The man had removed his hood, allowing Eragon to see his features for the first time. Imun was older, possibly nearing his fiftieth year, his dark hair having turned gray, and a long beard trailed downwards, but there was a certain youthfulness in his eyes. His eyes were a light brown, like chips of warm amber.
"It used to be a popular song with traders. Though perhaps it was only popular to prove one's loyalty to the Crown, rather than actually worshipping Galbatorix," Eragon said with a ponderous frown.
I've heard that song before, Saphira mused. In the Varden; it was sung by the soldiers. The lyrics are different, however.
They are the same song, only with a few words twisted and tweaked. The Empire and her people call the song the Age of Oppression, whilst the Varden call the song the Age of Aggression. One praises Galbatorix and condemns the Varden, whilst the other praises the Varden and condemns King Galbatorix. The rest of the lyrics are the same, save for the title. Eragon explained to her.
How so? Saphira asked curiously.
Instead of praising King Galbatorix, the Varden sings 'Down with Galbatorix! The killer of kings. On the day of your death we will drink and we will sing' seeing as Galbatorix slew King Angrenost of the Broddring Kingdom to form the Empire we know today.
Saphira's reply was dry: You humans and your songs…
Humans are not the most creative of the races, but our convictions remain strong and true, Eragon defended himself and his race to the dragon who merely snorted at the reply.
"There are two sides of this song," Imun mused, unknowingly repeating what Eragon had informed Saphira of. "It's interesting how similar both songs are and how a few tweaked words can change a whole meaning."
"Aye," Eragon agreed with the man, drinking from his tankard to hide the small smile playing at his lips.
Imun stared into his tankard thoughtfully, pale fingers stroking the chipped rim and grayed brows scrunched together ever so lightly.
"It's interesting, how sides are formed, of how sides control and change."
"How so?" Eragon asked.
Imun looked up him with those ageless amber eyes, suddenly weary. "There is always a side. Everyone is either on one side or the other; never can one have a foot placed on each side, a medium, for one of those sides will pull him to them." Imun stated as he stared into his mead. "The sides control those who join, oppressing them in some ways, but there is always a choice to make. Think of this, this world has been divided into three sides due to the war. The first side is supporting the Empire and King Galbatorix, some people might think lowly of those on that side, for many loathe the Black King and wish for him to enter the Void, but many of those on the Empire's side do it to protect their homes, their land and their loved ones."
Eragon thought of that, a lump forming in his throat that made him struggle for breath. He thought of the many Imperial soldiers he had killed by his sword, arrows or magic. Had those men -most of them mere boys- only fought against him to defend their homes? Roran and the other villagers had fought for their village and loved ones, though it had been against the Empire, but that alone gave them the strength to flee the borders and reach Surda. Did the men who plagued him at night also plague their wives, parents or children with their absence? Most of them had been boys, boys turned men in time of war and hardship. Eragon could have easily been forced to enlist in the Imperial Army alongside his cousin had fate played out differently. Would they have been among those slain against the Varden?
Eragon knew that he would die for Roran, who was more brother than cousin. He would die for his loved ones. Had Saphira not hatched for him and if the Ra'zac had still attacked Carvahall, Eragon would have proudly fought by Roran's side to protect their own. He would have died alongside the villagers, but he would have died content at the thought that he had protected his home and loved ones. Did the men he kill feel such content, or were their last thoughts curses of his very existence?
The lump in his throat seemed to grow, constricting him and preventing him to breathe.
We're the children of the Empire, and we fight all our lives,
And when the Void beckons, every one of us dies!
His whole life, Eragon had fought. He fought for life when he had been born, when his mother, Selena, left him still in the cradle. He fought for his life whenever illness and disease struck his family. He fought for life during the harsh winter storms where food and warmth were scarce. He fought for Saphira when the Ra'zac appeared and –though Saphira had kidnapped him while doing so- for his uncle Garrow, though he had failed. He fought Durza. He fought Urgals and Imperial men. He fought Murtagh, his own brother and his dragon, Thorn. All his life, Eragon had fought.
It made him weary to realize that.
"The second side is the one supporting the Varden and Surda fight against the Empire." Imun continued, not realizing Eragon's dark thoughts." That one is an interesting side, comprised of multiple races. They even have a Rider with them. Or they did, until the Rider disappeared suddenly." Eragon shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "They fight for freedom. But what freedom is that? Galbatorix rules with an iron fist, there is no doubt of that, but in certain regards he is lax with handling his subjects. Why should Varden spend their resources and men fighting, when they can form their own independent nation? They certainly have both and the Hadarac Desert would serve as a border, protecting them from the King's wrath."
"Galbatorix would never allow such a thing to happen." Eragon murmured, "Surda only exists because the King never deemed it important enough to be brought to his rule."
Imun raised a brow at this, smiling as though agreeing. "Aye, Surda has only remained independent due to Galbatorix's lack of regard. I assume that this fact weighs heavily upon the Surdans and their king, to know that they could be crushed so easily."
Eragon held no sympathy for King Orrin.
Orrin had betrayed him after all. Weighted fears and paranoia of the Empire that weighed down on Orrin did little to make Eragon sympathize with the King of Surda, much less forgive his betrayal.
It was because of Orrin he was even here, surviving in the Empire while always looking over his shoulder, always weary of his location being found and brought to the King. He had no hope to defeat Galbatorix at the moment, his strength was too much for Eragon.
Imun studied him, noticing the weariness in the boy's eyes. "Northerners are often the most hardened of people," he noted softly, making Eragon glance up at him.
"How did you know I come from the north?" He asked, thinking of the features he had altered magically to make him appear with tanned skin and lighter features, something rare in the northern parts of the Empire.
"I was born in the north as well. I know you were too. I knew when I first saw you. The northern parts of the Empire are harsh and cruel to those who dwell within its lands, but yet still man has lived there for countless generations, carving themselves a place in that harsh, unforgivable landscape, but, as they did so, the landscape carved into them as well."
Eragon thought of his uncle, Garrow, who was a hardworking man that was proud of his simple life farming. His uncle had been a man of character, always willing to help any of the villagers. But he was also harsh. He knew that life was treacherous despite the tranquility that graced the northern villages safe from the threat of war, because their very homeland was a threat be it in forms of winters, famine, flooding, or heavy snowfalls that trapped all but fools in their homes.
"I know who you are, Garrow." The way Imun spoke, hinting, made Eragon tense in his chair.
Eragon… Saphira murmured warily.
"What do you mean?" Eragon asked him, hiding his face as he drank deeply from his tankard, attempting to look relaxed when in reality he was wound tighter than a coil.
Imun laughed, "You really should give me more credit, boy. I'm not some daft stable boy who can't tell the difference between a dragon and a dragonfly." Imun leaned forward in his chair, hands clasped together. "It was smart, using magic to alter your face. Few would attempt it, too much could go wrong if one is not careful."
Eragon stared at him steadily, realizing that he held no weapons. His instincts were screaming at him to run, to get out of the inn. Saphira was whispering in his ear, telling him to leave, to flee.
He didn't.
He stayed in the chair; his curiosity outweighing his wariness by the smallest margin. If Imun was about to say what Eragon was thinking of, he would flee. He had learned long ago the dangers that sheltered in Dras Leona.
"What is the third side, you must surely wonder?" Imun reverted back to his original conversation. "It's yours, Eragon Shadeslayer."
Eragon leapt to his feet, hand flying to the empty space at his side that Undbitr, a spell already on his lips. None of the occupants seemed to have noticed him moving, too caught up in their drinking and own conversations. Imun sat still, clasped hands resting against the table.
Eragon, run! Saphira was urging him. He could sense her alarm running through their bond, flashes of her vision swarming his own, she had taken flight from where she had been resting in a cave and was heading towards Dras Leona as quickly as possible.
"Please, sit down," Imun gestured towards the now empty chair, "I assure you that I mean no harm."
Eragon remained where he was, looking at the aged man with narrowed, suspicious eyes.
Imun sighed impatiently, "If I had wanted you harmed, I would have done it sooner. I've known your identity since our first meeting, and I have yet to tell a single soul."
Eragon realized that the man was right. Imun could have easily alerted the city officials and the lord of Dras Leona, Marcus Tábor, of his true identity and whereabouts. And yet he hadn't. It was because of that small piece of information, and that information alone, that Eragon sat back down, his body still tense and ready to spring away from the man in case of sudden attack.
Imun smiled at him as he sat down, he looked almost grandfatherly. "Now as I was saying, Rider." Eragon's eyes narrowed at the title, all too aware of the people around them. Imun noticed this and said: "Do not worry, this inn is owned by the Black Lotus and we are rather known for our strong concoctions and brews. Most of these men are rather drunk and will probably forget this night, and if one were to eavesdrop on our conversation Len will be more than happy to ensure they hold their tongues," Imun nodded his head towards a hulking man sitting at a booth near the corner of the room, surveying the room and its occupants with a dark scowl.
Eragon looked at Len warily, noticing the sword sheathed at his side. He had left Undbitr and the Belt of Beloth the Wise in his room, under a myriad of enchantments to prevent someone stealing them. He regretted his decision.
"I am the second in command of the Black Lotus, only under Jorgr." Imun began simply, hands splayed out on the table.
"The Black Lotus is a criminal organization." Eragon noted.
Imun smiled at that, a smile that crinkled his eyes, "In certain ways, yes we are. But what makes a criminal? What we have done for you these past few weeks, freeing slaves and ensuring them safe passage up north, was illegal. But wasn't it right and just to do so, to free our fellow humans from other humans?"
Eragon remained silent at that, knowing that the older man was correct. What he had done had been highly illegal, but what he had done was just and right. Eragon too was, in a sense, a criminal.
"And what of you?" Imun leveled a steely gaze at the Rider. "Compared to myself, you're more of a criminal than I. The Empire does not know of me, but if it did I would be labeled a common criminal, while you are an enemy of the Empire, convicted of treason. There is a ransom for you, a rather hefty one too: an earldom. My ransom would be a couple of crowns, but yours is a castle, power and riches." Imun seemed to approve of this, perhaps even a bit impressed.
"The Black Lotus exists for a reason. We appear to be a criminal organization, and we have dabbled in many an illegal affair, but we are not your enemy, Shadeslayer. If anything, we share a common goal."
The bard had begun to strum his lute again, humming lowly. The bard began to sing then, singing so softly it was almost eerie. His soft words slowly resonating through the inn.
"Down in the cellar and tossed the key.
I'll find my mum dead and that'll make three.
Black she rides and ends the tides.
Red Jenny comes for me."
"And that is?" Eragon asked, unable to hide the curiosity in his tone.
The bard sang softly, a low crooning sound like a mother's lullaby to quell her children's nightmares. He strummed his lute, the chords plucked delicately and the sound seemed to ring through the crowded inn, the strings thrumming.
"Scratch me eyes and rub with the poor.
I'll find my pap dead and that'll make four.
Black she rides and ends the rides.
Old Jenny comes for me."
"Why, to ensure the wellbeing of the Empire and her people." Imun said, drinking from his tankard. "You are a Rider, the only free Rider left. You are our only hope, Eragon Shadeslayer."
"Wheat fields alive.
I'll find my brother dead and that'll make five.
Black she rides and ends the tides.
Old Jenny comes for me."
"Who are you people?" Eragon asked warily. When he had first heard of this organization, he had thought that they had been the average criminal guild. It seemed he was wrong. The Black Lotus was something else entirely.
"The wind blows bad and twists
I'll find my love dead and that will make six.
Black she rides and ends the tides
Old Jenny comes for me."
The bard finished the song, bowing lowly as the drunken crowd roared in approval, banging their tankards of mead against the tables, chanting for more.
Imun drank from his own tankard, not answering the question for several moments as he drank. He smiled as he set down his tankard, dark brown eyes twinkling in good humor, before he stood up and placed several coins on the table to pay for the drinks. "An organization that transcends the borders of the Empire." He said vaguely as he wrapped himself in his cloak.
Eragon would have stopped him had he not been so bewildered by Imun's reply.
"Enjoy the rest of your stay within Dras Leona," Imun said candidly, placing something in the palm of Eragon's hand. "But beware of the city, Rider. There are a good few who would love nothing more than to see your head upon a pike."
Imun left then, leaving Eragon gaping at the man's cloaked back.
What an odd human, Saphira mused from within his mind. Eragon faintly noticed that she had returned to the cave when she realized that her Rider was safe and not in danger at the moment.
He knows something, Eragon said to her. He told me to beware the city, but whom must I be wary of? There are many who wish me dead, and they don't all reside within Dras Leona. But yet he sounded rather sure of himself, he knows something.
Eragon looked at what Imun had placed in his hand. A single brow rose in confusion as he looked at it.
It was a pai sho tile with of a black lotus embossed upon it.
After leaving the inn, Eragon had returned to his own quarters at the Golden Globe to grab Undbitr and the Belt of Beloth the Wise, though he left Blödhren in his nightstand that was covered in a multitude of protective wards to prevent anyone, save himself, from touching the blade. He had decided to roam the streets of Dras Leona, eager to see more of the city before he returned to Utgard.
He had heard rumors of buildings being burned down mysteriously by flames formed from a multitude of colors, most likely created from magic, and was curious if he could find any information of what had occurred.
Eragon stopped suddenly as he saw a large crowd of civilians, young and old alike, rich merchants and nobles mixed with the ragged peasants. Above them on a raised platform, a man stood before them wearing robes so dark it reminded Eragon of suffocating darkness. The robes were adorned with red markings, the dark color reminding the hidden Rider of freshly spilt blood. For a moment Eragon thought the man to be a slaver, but he saw no chained humans beside him. He stepped forward curiously.
As he neared the crowd with curiosity, Eragon could hear the man on the platform speaking to the crowd. "We live in a time of hardship, the rebel barbarians known as the Varden are surging from the heathen south, taking away our lands, killing our people, and spreading the Empire into chaos!" His voice was smooth and seemed to have a certain pull towards it that seemed to bring the crowd towards him like a flock of sheep towards their shepherd. The mixed crowd were numbly muttering agreements as they looked at the speaker with interest in their eyes, as though whatever the man had been speaking of was what they had been thinking for the longest of time and only now was another singing the same tune.
"There is only one way to reach salvation in this time of sin and deceit!" The man continued, his dull brown eyes alight with passion and zeal. "The dwarves believe in their gods, merely farces of their drunken imagination -a sure sign of their ignorance! The cowardly elves hid in their forest and believe in no gods. Both races are heathens who have not yet seen the light that we, the humans, have seen! We alone have seen the true path, the path of salvation!"
The murmurs grew louder as more and more residents of Dres Leona crowded around the robed figure, who stood there arms spread wide as though to embrace them all. Eragon noticed how one of the sleeves seemed to droop near his right hand, the long flowing robes having hidden any sight of flesh the man had besides his face.
Eragon turned pale as he realized why the dark fabric drooped while the other sleeve remained up.
The man didn't have a right hand, the scarred flesh was a nasty pale white that surrounded the stump that looked as though it had been not chopped off, but hacked with a butcher knife.
His sharp brown eyes looked at the speaker with renewed interest. While the flowing red hood hid the man's head from the hairline up, leaving only his face to be seen, the leader of the rebelling Riders noticed things that none of the crowd saw.
There was a flash of pale, chalky skin as the man beckoned the crowd to grow closer, the man was missing his index and thumb on his left hand, one of the digits of his pinky was missing as well. The man seemed to slouch ever so slightly, preferring to put most of his weight on his right foot. He could see a small crate, nearly hidden under the robes, where his left foot was placed.
It appeared that the man didn't have a left foot either. Eragon could tell by the way he put some of his weight on his left side, how unbalanced the man seemed without his foot or toes to keep him balanced. Still the crowd did not notice this. They stared up at the priest, for surely that what he must be, with wide eyes as they listened on and on, soaking up the man's honeyed words like the sand in the Hadarac would spilt water.
"Man is the superior race, for we have the favor of the Old Ones." The man announced, his honeyed voice lowering grimly as he told the crowd this important piece of information. "And man, and man alone mind you, has the knowledge and intellect to understand the Old Ones and to worship them, as is our duty!"
Old Ones? Eragon wondered curiously. Having poured through many scrolls of the countless divine deities that the races of Alagaesia worshiped, save the elves, he never before had he heard of the Old Ones.
Perhaps some minor religion that only the humans that call this city their home worship? Saphira's voice echoed in his head, a hint of confusion hidden within her strong tone, not that she'd let it show. She had no care for what other humans that were not her Rider worshiped.
Perhaps, Eragon mused slightly to himself, but for some reason he couldn't help but notice the chill crawling up his spine, or how his stomach churned uncomfortably, sure signs of some dark premonition he had more or less synced with his body. He was a beacon for trouble, after all.
As Eragon continued his musing, the priest suddenly stilled, and, with a stiff slowness like that of a stumbling corpse, the man turned in Eragon's direction. Dull brown meet sharp brown, a sheep's gaze meeting that of a dragon.
And then the man's dull eyes, which reminded Eragon of muddy puddles, suddenly sharpened and burned. Had Eragon not been made of tougher steel, he may have backed up as the man looked at him with the rage of a thousand vengeful dragons. Pure hatred corrupted the muddy brown, turning the dull color into the glinting color of sharpened obsidian.
The man's form shuddered ever so slightly, the muttering humans did not notice with their weaker sight but Eragon would have been able to notice it a league away. It was not grief nor despair that made the man shake and shudder, it was pure unbridled hatred and rage, murderous fury with enough burning emotion to turn Du Weldenvarden into another Hadarac Desert.
By then the crowd had noticed something was amiss as the passionate man became silent, his gaze focused on a single face among a dozen others. A face that looked plain and common to those without the gift of magic or insight, Eragon had always been careful with altering his appearance so no one would recognize him.
For some reason Eragon wondered if the priest before him could see through his disguise, perhaps notice the way his eyes curved ever so slightly like that of an elf, or that his nose seemed a bit similar to that of his wanted poster. Eragon shook his head of these thoughts, his disguise was perfect, no normal man could detect him without him knowing it. The fact that his entire physical appearance was altered helped calm his fears.
The speaker got off of his platform, a small saddened smile stretched on his pale lips as he murmured condolences to the crowd of onlookers, stating that his duties were required of him elsewhere. The man then turned around and headed north, his pace hobbled and taut as his mismatched limbs struggled to work together enough to make the man walk. His dark cloak with crimson etchings soon faded into the sea of people, yet Eragon still felt wary.
Odd, Saphira noted calmly as she looked through Eragon's eyes, a small hint of tension slipped into her voice. Perhaps you should move on, little one.
Eragon blinked as though he had been stuck in some phase, almost sluggishly he nodded his head in agreement –not caring of what anyone would think of if they saw him nod his head in agreement to an invisible specter- the Rider turned the other way, stumbling through the crowd as though drunk.
As Eragon focused on why he had decided to wander the streets, the odd tale of burned buildings, the small bit of his head whispering their premonitions and worries but Eragon shoved aside those thoughts and instead focused on his mission to discover the mystery of the burned buildings; Eragon had been told of one of the locations and planned to visit. He had no time to wonder about the odd disfigured priest, nor to wonder why the priest seemed to hate him so.
Little did the young Rider know, the disfigured priest was not a priest of some minor religion that was unknown to most, but for an infamous cult renown in the Empire. The crippled man walked with a purpose to his mismatched steps, many of the civilians stepping out of his path as though burned by his very presence. Some bowed before him, some quivered and hurried away. In no time at all, his designation was before him.
A cathedral towered over the other buildings, its tallest spire reaching over five hundred feet. It
The priest's pitch black eyes became fixed upon the sharp spikes and pyres that seemed to pierce the sky itself, his eyes soaking in the etched pictures in the blackened stone. He entered the cathedral, noting the stone carvings that depicted strange beasts that from far away resembled a human, but from close up was nothing more than a nightmare turned reality. The priest's gods attacking and massacring misbehaving humans: the nonbelievers. As was the Old Ones right to kill the disobedient and weaker man.
He passed a statue that was nearly as old as the dark and forbidding cathedral. The priest stopped abruptly, his eyes taking in the sight of an Old One. Slowly he managed to bow himself so low his disfigured face nearly touched the darkened and mossy cobblestone. He muttered a quick prayer to the Old Ones: the masters of the humans. Gods and legends, judges and executioners, the destroyer of disbelievers, the drinker of their impure blood, the eater of man's flesh.
The priest then got back onto his mismatched feet and headed further into the cathedral, knowing the labyrinth of corridors and halls with acute memory.
The sightless eyes of the statue that depicted a Ra'zac seemed to follow the mutilated priest with grim satisfaction.
Eragon idly traced his hand against the worn cobblestone of an abandoned building, the roof now gone and nothing but rotten splinters and moldy hay. He pulled his hand away and saw that his tanned skin had darkened considerably, he rubbed his index and thumb together and watched as some of the dark powder rubbed off.
Soot. Eragon decided as he looked at the blackened stone with cold eyes. This house must have been burnt to the ground. It's hardly inhabitable. You think that the governor would want to not put houses to the torch, but alas what else is new in the Empire?
I don't think it's a house, Eragon. Look on the inside; notice the markings and rectangular patches of soot. Hardly something for a house, there were once benches and etched runes in here. I sense no magical energy so they must have been for decoration or for show. Perhaps this was a meeting hall for angry residents? I wouldn't be surprised, with the way this putrid heap of a city is run. Saphira informed her Rider.
Hmm, you're right Saphira. Eragon agreed as he chanced a look on the inside of the building. Indeed there were the faint markings of soot and ash ground into the rough stone, where benches made of weak wood had once caught aflame as with the rest of the building.
I do wonder though, who burned this building down? Eragon wondered internally, his sharp brown eyes taking in every detail, before he squinted as he saw something hidden underneath years of stagnant soot. He walked towards the end of what must have been an aisle and stepped upon a rickety old platform that looked like it would be able to hold a house cat, yet alone a full grown human male. But somehow he managed to walk on the aged platform to little to no trouble.
Eragon called upon the Ancient Language. With a whisper so soft it was barely audible the Rider spoke a spell gently, and, as though a gentle breeze had come into the ruined and burnt building, the stagnant and somewhat faded imprint of a fire long extinguished slowly left its place among the rough stone to reveal something that set Eragon's teeth on edge.
A small set of ruins written in the Ancient Language was before him, the message the color of the darkest of crimson, and seemed to gleam in the soft sunlight like freshly spilt blood. He read the message, which said:
'The Old Ones shall reign, the unbelievers shall be devoured and slain, while the believers shall sacrifice those who do not do the same.'
Saphira's growl echoed in Eragon's head, vibrating in his skull so loud that he was afraid he would start to shudder. An ugly omen and an even uglier meaning. The dragoness stated with a snarl, Eragon wouldn't have needed the bond to know that Saphira's hackles were raised.
Aye. Eragon couldn't help but agree. His eyes were locked upon the runes that wrote Old Ones. Realization clicked as he turned around and looked about the burnt building with renewed interest. Saphira, do you think this place was a temple? A place of religion?
Perhaps, it would explain the runes…. And the rather dark message to those who do not believe in these 'Old Ones'. Saphira spoke, both Rider and dragoness wondered for the hundredth time what an Old One was. Whoever that priest and his other disciples preach of, obviously they do not approve of other religions or places of worship that do not include their own…. I do not like this city, Eragon. We have been here before and you nearly died the last time… and from these crooked paths you and Brom fled with the Ra'zac on your heels, and where he died. Saphira said mournfully, thinking of the deceased Rider and their first mentor. This city is evil, little one. Its people and leaders corrupted, civilians suffer and cry for help but are never heard.
Eragon sighed wearily, knowing she was right. And that is why we're here, Saphira. He spoke to the dragoness with passion in his tone, the need to do right was obvious in both his heart and mind. We can help people, even more so now than before.
Saphira was silent for several minutes, as the connection between them grew quiet with few thoughts flittering through the edges of their bond like wisps of smoke. Eragon finally left the ruined building that had once been put to torch by magic.
Perhaps you are right. You've grown into a remarkable man, Eragon. Saphira suddenly spoke, her tone warm as she realized how much her Rider had grown for the better instead of the worse, as many would have assumed to the betrayals in their lives.
Eragon smiled at her words, happy at her assessment of his character and pleased to know it was true, at least in his humble opinion. I wouldn't be near half the man I am now without you. Eragon's smile grew wider, and now that we've freed so many men from their slavers and 'owners' we can now leave this dark city until the time calls for us to appear yet again on these cobblestone streets. Eragon paused outside of the burnt building, resting his back against the rough stonework as he looked up high in the sky.
Saphira laughed at that, the light growl echoing in his head, obviously pleased of the prospect of being able to be with her Rider.
Eragon's ear perked up at the sound of something whistle threw the air, the faint hiss of a fast object, the sound of a low yet sharp twang, the flutter of cloth against the soft breeze.
Eragon dove to the side as an arrow stuck to the rough stonework where his head had rested mere moments before, the rock shattering as the arrow pierced its wall, sending a cascade of chipped rubble and dust onto the Rider. His head snapped in the direction where the arrow had come, only to quickly roll to his side as yet another arrow flew towards at him with such speed it only appeared a small blur.
Eragon heard a roar of pure fury ring in his head; his body seemed to shiver at the pure emotions running through him. Despite his heartbeat pounding in his chest like a war drum, Eragon faintly heard a man shout a command. He heard the sound of more bows being drawn and arrows nocked, he heard the archers release the strings and the sound of arrows piercing the air as it came towards him with deadly speed and accuracy.
He desperately tried to leap out of the way, but the sudden onslaught of arrows forced him to try and shield himself with his arms, wrapping himself around his protective wards and spells.
He felt an arrow touch his enchantment before even being aware of where the arrow had been aimed, he felt the enchantments hold strong and true as his countless wards and defensive spells flaring up in order to protect him. For a second, Eragon believed that his spells and wards had stopped the arrow.
But then Eragon felt the arrow pierce through his many wards and enchantments as though they were nothing but air, slicing through the spells like a knife through warm butter, tearing apart his countless wards, spells, and enchantments like they were nothing but brittle parchment. All in mere seconds.
He was so caught off guard by his wards failing that he didn't even think of trying to dodge.
The young Rider howled in pain as he felt the arrow pierce through the fabric of his robes and into his flesh. His hand jerking towards his side where the feathers of the arrow protruded from his wound, he grasped his fingers around the shaft that appeared to be neither metal nor wood but he did not pull for fear of tearing more sensitive flesh and causing the wound to worsen.
He looked down at his bleeding wound and the protruding arrow with dim shock, his hands darkened by the stain of his blood. His head felt light-headed, whether from blood loss or the sheer fact that an arrow had broken through his spells and wards as though no wards had been placed there was utterly terrifying.
Is it of elven make? Eragon wondered through the continuing pounding of his head, the pounding matching that of his erratic heartbeat. Did Rhunön forge not only swords but also arrows? Only something of her work could do this… or am I wrong, and it's something more discreet and darker than that of an elf's work?
Eragon felt his strength begin to desert him, his power disappearing. He felt weak, helpless. He felt terrified.
Seconds had only passed by but, as he kneeled there in shock and exhaustion, he was aware of men wearing robes rushing towards his kneeling from, but they were running as though trapped within slow moving molasses, their forms seemingly trapped through time as they slowly came forward.
He looked at where the tip of the arrow was sunken into his flesh; he saw a glint of sunlight reflecting against the shiny crimson liquid still seeping out. The glint was neither of white nor of yellow but of magnificent purple, the few centimeters of the arrow not sunken in his side gleamed up at him like gemstones.
There was just something wrong about that purple metal, or perhaps it was some type of stone or gem? His blood was searing hot as though Saphira had surrounded him in her breath of fire, his veins burning as though they had been caught alight. But where the wound was, he felt nothing but cold and ice. His side was chilled while the rest was burning, he felt as though he had been stabbed with a frozen bar of iron. But it was just a measly arrow that had brought him down like a crippled doe.
He felt another arrow hit him somewhere above the knee, but by then Eragon's world was slowly turning dark. Since the first arrow Eragon felt his strength and energy leave him, leaving him as helpless as a newborn babe. He cursed himself, for he did not have the strength to call upon the Eldunarí for aid, and something told the Rider that they could not hear him anyway.
… Saphira… he weakly called out to his beloved companion.
As his head hit the ground and he saw dozens of boots surrounding him, Eragon looked up towards the sky using the rest of his energy, his eyes strained to find her, but all he saw was the sky, and he knew it was too late.
His last feeling before the darkness took him was of regret.
His last thought was of Saphira.
As the darkness took over and Eragon became numb to the world and those surrounding him, he faintly heard Saphira's roar full of pure fury and terror ring in his head like a church bell, resonating within him even as unconsciousness took him into its embrace.
ERAGON!