"It wasn't a good idea to let her wander off," Eragon said on a concerned voice, abandoning the fallen log that supported his weight. "She did not take the huthvir with her because of animals."
"Her decision," Arya said, sitting comfortably on the small wooden support, now that Eragon got up. "She doesn't care about you. Why do you care about her?"
Eragon squinted at the ruddy setting sun. The white formations of clouds mixed with nuances of orange, creating a spectacle of warm colors. "I don't know," he sighed, pacing around nervously.
"She is unpleasant and rude, but her help is invaluable."
They were both sitting in a glen, the same location where Saphira left them to go on a hunt. The tall, imposing trees were still a marvel to watch at, and occasionally, a squirrel would clamber them in search of nuts.
"What about Saphira?" Arya cut in sharply. "Shouldn't you be concerned about her?"
Eragon sighed, eyeing her. "There's nothing to be concerned about."
"Life had taught me that…" A muffled swish that was too loud to be natural summoned Eragon's attention.
With lightning fast reflexes, he pushed Arya hard enough to make her stumble like a twig behind the log and unsheathed his sword.
"Brisingr!" The blazing sword cut the thick wooden branch that came towards him with uncanny precision, the smoldering remnants falling uselessly besides him.
"Arya…"
Eragon did not even finish his warning in time. A shadowy figure—the one that launched the wooden missile towards him—was now upon him. His two swords locked with Brisingr, but the might of two arms overpowered Eragon's strength.
Lurching to one side to dodge the relentless attack, Eragon retreated behind a tree. The swordsman did not follow, offering Eragon a much needed pause. Steady thumps boomed in Eragon's ears, his heart beating frantically.
The swordsman was skilled, his expertise surpassing the one of a human. Eragon glanced at his arm, panting due to fear. Brising's pommel was slick with sweat, unsteady in his hand. It was only a defensive parry, yet Eragon's hand pulsed with pain from that vicious strike.
The wood creaked, splinters exploding, bouncing against his wards in a brownish cloud. Eragon did not twitch, despite the sudden pain in his cheek. He just stared with wide eyes at the scratch that pierced the tree, breathing the heavy scented air of burning wood. Tiny embers shifted around Brisingr, hovering around the fire that roused them to life.
Recovering from the abrupt shock, Eragon swung the fiery blade against the wood. Brisingr ran smoothly through the weak bark, until it met steel. Eragon shuddered.
The lumbering tree swayed to the side. As the trunk fell, Eragon glimpsed a smooth face, two dark eyes barely concealed by falling ebony hair. A mighty thud forced dust and debris to rise in ovation for a fallen tree. Splinters rained on top of the two warriors, the fire and the glistening metal embracing under the gaze of their owners.
"At least allow me to get the other sword back," the swordsman said, retreating his sword.
"Brisingr," Eragon whispered, wiping the trails of blood from his cheek. This man did not kill him. Undoubtedly, he could, for he was evil. That ominous stare bespoke of sinister intentions, of inexorable oaths. They had demands that none could ignore. Least of all Eragon's older brother.
"This means I can?" he asked, eyeing Brisingr.
Eragon shove the ruby blade aside, forcing the swordsman to jump backwards defensively.
"Murtagh," Eragon said, feeling spite flowing down his lips, "Riders curse me if I let you do that."
"I am already cursed," Murtagh said. "Once you settle with madness, everything makes sense." He pointed the brown sword—the other Rider sword—at him.
"And you may not know it, but you are a huge burden."
"Do not patronize me," Eragon spat. "If you settled with your death, many could have still lived."
"Like?" Murtagh inquired, raising an eyebrow.
"All those dragons, the Varden, Oromis!" Eragon said, uttering Brisingr's name under his breath. Words gave birth to twirling flames, subdued by the magic of the sword.
"Live my life," Murtagh said. "Be a slave, know no freedom. Then you could not be so smug."
"Let me release you," Eragon said with softer, more compassionate words. "Your pain does not have to breed suffering.
"I'm the older brother," Murtagh cut sharply. "That would not be proper."
Eragon gritted his teeth, strengthening the grip around Brisingr.
"Besides, we have to fight," he said. "And I need my other sword."
Murtagh tried to slither around Eragon, but Brisingr blocked his path promptly.
"That cut," Murtagh trailed a finger over his cheek, "it hurts more than it looks like, doesn't it?"
In that moment, Eragon shrugged anything that made up kindness, sympathy or pity for his brother and lunged at him.
Murtagh groaned, narrowly evading Eragon's blazing strike. The sweltering air around Brising churned and hissed. The hairs on his arms had already been singed.
Through squinted eyes, Eragon barely saw Murtagh's own swings before Brisingr—like a liquid fire—prevented them from inflicting damage. Though it slowed Murtagh's vicious attacks by pushing him into a defensive array of swings and dodges, Brisingr was as much of a surprising asset as it was a liability.
Murtagh no longer seemed daunted by Brisingr. His motions regained a majestic fluidity. The thrusts, swings and swipes of blade became more precise. For Eragon, it was harder to parry a lower strike when the flames of Brisingr threatened to gnaw at his leggings. After blocking an attack that aimed at his shoulder, Eragon called Brisingr's name.
As soon as the flames quenched, Murtagh swung to Eragon's head—a deadly, fast but predictable slash—Murtagh used the distraction offered by Eragon's parry to dash towards Zar'roc.
Eragon sneered with sinister satisfaction.
"Wind choke," he uttered.
Nothing happened. Murtagh's wards deflected his spell. Eragon frowned, drawing forth most of his energy.
"Crumble," he commanded the fallen tree, the rocks, the earth. But nothing happened. Grunting with irritation, Eragon mentally tackled the wards of this strange land in hope that his training and power would suffice.
"You want to defeat Galbatorix," Murtagh said. Eragon jolted back to reality from his failed attempts, brandishing his sword.
With two Rider swords, Murtagh walked with firm steps, displaying his dominating appearance. Steeling himself, Eragon did not falter. Murtagh may have been the older brother, but Oromis passed the legacy of the Riders to Eragon alone. In his arm, he bore not Brisingr, but the fate of Alagaesia itself. To protect them, Eragon wished, by defeating Galbatorix.
"We are siblings, Eragon. Darkness claimed me, but you seek it willingly." Murtagh's eyes narrowed. Eragon saw his resolution, the starkness in his stare "Dispose of it."
Eragon pursed his lips. "If I don't kill you, Galbatorix is going to use you."
"I am your brother."
"You are my enemy," Eragon retorted.
Murtagh sighed, the grip on his swords tightening. "Better be prepared, Eragon. There are certain forces and entities that want something from us."
When Eragon parted lips to speak, Murtagh's powerful right-handed blow brought forth a moan instead. Metal screeched with fury as sapphire and ruby met in a series of terse attacks. Where Zar'roc sneaked, Brisingr prepared to intercept it. When Brisingr wriggled past Zar'roc, the brown sword shove it aside.
With one sword, Murtagh fended off Eragon. Against two, Eragon could barely keep up with the pace of the fight. The storm of swords surrounded Eragon. Each narrow dodge or fortunate parry was dwarfed by a much too fierce retaliation. Murtagh aimed at his neck with a sword, while the other arm slyly slid to his legs. By blocking the first blow and jumping sideways for the second, Eragon displayed a vulnerability that Murtagh immediately tackled.
Locking all three swords together, Murtagh pushed Eragon backwards and used his shoulder to send him to the ground. Even then, the fight was not over. From his lower position, Eragon intercepted most of his strikes, and a well placed thrust allowed him to stand on equal ground once again.
The series of attack repeated. With fatigue slowing his reactions, each attack seemed faster, more vicious. Brisingr fended off the swords well on its own, but the weakness that dwelled in Eragon's legs betrayed them. One slip in concentration, a single reckless sidestep, and Zar'roc connected with Eragon's thigh.
Blood rushed out in crimson rivulets, the hot liquid trickling down his leg. Murtagh spun fiercely, ducking under Brisingr, hitting it with Zar'roc when the grip feinted. Eragon gritted his teeth.
His wrist throbbed with pain, and the rest of his arm felt numb due to effort. Valiantly, he lunged forward, thrusting Brisingr forward. Zar'roc tackled it down, and Brisingr fell. A coldness, veiled in a lost memory, touched Eragon's neck.
"Blast it," Murtagh rolled his eyes. The cold, alien surface withdrew from Eragon's sweat dripping neck, bringing forth a much too tense exhale.
"Instead of giving up, use a spell that distracts the opponent."
Eragon heard his words, but hate urged him to let them pass by idly. Murtagh—Galbatorix's slave, the epitome of selfishness—was now giving him advice? Just like his master, Murtagh merely mocked the last Lead Rider before the oaths forced him to act.
While Murtagh continued to spew his poison in the form of haughty advices, Eragon voiced a healing spell loudly, grabbing a handful of dust with the other. Too focused on lecturing him about improper spells to mend scrapes, Murtagh did not seem to notice his treachery.
"Brisingr," he mumbled. Azure flames engulfed the blade, scorching the earth under it.
"That was unexpected," he grunted, eyeing the sword. It was the distraction Eragon was waiting for.
Lashing out, Eragon threw the earth particles at Murtagh's face, his right fist tight with fury. Although a Rider, Murtagh still possessed the fragility of men. Memories of punched victims still lingered in Eragon's mind, and his calluses were a testimony to his destructive power.
Lithely, Murtagh moved sideways and grabbed Eragon's arm, twisting it. The pressure almost snapped the limb from Eragon's body, but he merely groaned.
"That, I expected," Murtagh said, pushing him to the ground like a hay doll.
Beaten and defeated, Eragon squirmed restlessly to his feet. Bulged, bloodshot eyes protruded from his reddened face, staring at Murtagh malevolently. A constant, laborious pant cooled his boiling blood, forcing the veins at his temples to subside.
Not far away from him, Murtagh shook his head. Eragon no longer paid attention to him, however. Finding Saphira before Murtagh fled obsessed him. With her help, Eragon was able to reclaim Brisingr and overpower his brother.