Chapter VII of Shadow, a work of fan fiction based on Christopher Paolini's InheritanceCycle.
Every week or so, a new chapter will be published, so stay on your toes for more!
Gïrnięn had waited a week for the skin of his eternal companion. Eragon-ebrithil had the skin sent to be made into a cloak. According to him, the cloak was heat resistant, also tough and hard to pierce. As the companion of the dragon, and with Cïtirinus' blessing, Eragon had it taken to the elves, so they could sing the cloak into shape. Subsequently, Cïtirinus' "brethren" had exhibited the same behavior, although with much less pain. The dwarf Orœthmis already had his cloak, a sparkling cyan with white wisps dancing on its surface, shifting and shimmering. Meanwhile, Eragon had already tried to track down the spell's caster, with little success. And all the while Gïrnięn still felt that dark reptilian tug at the back of his mind. The darkness refused to leave him, its residue simmering at the edges of his mind, working its way in, feeding on his worry and doubt… Gïrnięn's door crashed open. A breathless Urgal stood at the door, panting. He looked up, and Gïrnięn looked into his blazing eyes. They shone with terror.
"The dead… they're… coming…"
Gïrnięn's head shot up, first in surprise, then trying to laugh and trying to hold it in at the same time.
The Urgal must have seen the laughter in Gïrnięn's eyes, for he raised his monstrous head and simply replied, "Then you'll die."
The giant lumbered out of Gïrnięn's room. Traces of doubt tugged at his mind, and Cïtirinus tossed his mind in, frantic.
Gïrnięn! They're coming… Images of rotting corpses lurching forward flashed through his thoughts, tinted yellow.
Slightly panicking, Gïrnięn forced himself out of his now-empty room and looked outside. Horror grasped him as he caught his first full sight at the undead. An undead vulture spiraled out of the sky, gray flesh barely hanging to its whitened bones. Its cruel beak glimmered, and a worm poked out of one of its eye sockets. Some sort of fungus was still clinging to it. Gïrnięn took a second to wonder how he could see the tiny fungus, until he realized the demonic thing was upon him. Screaming jierda, Gïrnięn shattered the thing and clumps of flesh exploded and landed in his face. Wiping away the grisly material, Gïrnięn started helping with the defense of the island. He noticed that all the corpses were animals; no sentient race had been here long enough to consider burying their dead here. Shattering a bony hare, Gïrnięn looked up. The dragons were helping, swinging spiked tails and breathing large amounts of fire. He realized Cïtirinus' yellow flame and allowed himself a second of empathetic pride. However, the grisly things only rose up again and again, moving jerkily, like marionettes on strings.
Losing his concentration, Gïrnięn didn't notice the large bovine skeleton heading his way. Just as he was about to be gored by the wickedly sharp horns, he looked up and screamed, just as the thing stopped above him. It then shattered into pieces. Gïrnięn stood up, glancing around. The elf Jinaë stared at him impassively.
"Don't daydream, human. Next time I won't be there to save your sorry skin." Turning away, the elf melted back into the defenders.
Panting, Gïrnięn started repeating jierda again and again to repel the undead. As a result, the undead surrounded him in a little circle of five meters. Any undead who stepped into the circle was immediately obliterated. Gïrnięn tired quickly, but the undead hordes kept coming. Falling unconscious, Gïrnięn's last thought was: And to die at the hands of the dead. What irony.
Waking, Gïrnięn found himself lying on a cot, face to face with Jinaë.
"I thought I told you to stop daydreaming."
Gïrnięn moaned. "You know, you can be worse than the undead."
Jinaë's furious eyes burned into him. "You bet I could. If it was tolerated, I'd tear you into a million little pieces and throw you to the zombies."
Gïrnięn's mind shivered at the word zombie.
"Eragon-ebrithil's gone to investigate the undead attack. He left you this." She pointed to the cloak and slip resting on the table. "For some obscure reason, he's given you the 'permission slip' to claim your Rider's sword."
Gïrnięn ignored her after she started insulting him and looked at the table. The cloak was beautiful. Its sparkling yellow color was tempered by a golden glow that descended into amber by the edges of each scale, so that when it was shaken, its patterns moved in a hypnotic, kaleidoscopic fashion, almost like the sun radiating its rays outward. Donning it, Gïrnięn took the permission slip and stared at it, then tucked the parchment into a pocket on the inside of his cloak. Pulling down the hood, Gïrnięn stood up and exited the room, ready to receive his blade.
Arriving at the smith's place, Gïrnięn found Ÿreven on smith duty. The elf smith Rhunön extended her mind to control whoever was on smith duty, crafting a different sword for each Rider whenever a new one entered the island, retrieving their measurements and fighting styles from Eragon. Only with Eragon's permission slips were you allowed to retrieve one—Hence Orœthmis, is his shimmering cyan cloak, guarding the door. Orœthmis nodded briefly at Gïrnięn's cloak, and, once shown the permission slip, let him in.
"Let's see, code GV-0001. Looks like you're the only one with those initials, human." Orœthmis led Gïrnięn down the aisles of blades, hanging, waiting to be claimed. "I got my own permission slip just this morning, and I was OB-6345."
Gïrnięn ignored the dwarf, glancing down the rainbow of blades, each glittering with its deadly shimmer.
"The blades are alphabetized by your name first, then your parent's name. Then they are sorted numerically," The dwarf explained. "Let's see, GQ, GT… Aha. GV." Gïrnięn looked up at his blade, hanging there. The sword was a brilliant yellow, radiant with color. The hue darkened to amber at the edges, mimicking Cïtirinus' scales and underscales. It was hand and a half, dark leather wrapping the grip. The cross-guard was golden to match the blade, and the pommel was inset with a single citrine. Gïrnięn stepped forward and claimed it.
"Good. Now you just have to let Rhunön-Ÿreven work on it. Rhunön keeps complaining about how clumsy Ÿreven's body is." Orœthmis turned and started walking towards the Urgal. Following, Gïrnięn carried his sword and scabbard, affixed to a golden belt. Walking up to Ÿreven, Gïrnięn quickly went over a list of names for the blade with Cïtirinus.
Ignasia?
Very manly.
Garjzla?
Now, that's so cheesy, it sounds like a cheese.
Islingr?
You'd invoke concerns about copyrights with Vrael.
Bleikr?
Can't you think of anything better?
Kuldr?
You're hopeless
Solus-harmr?
Cïtirinus fell silent.
"Well then?" Rhunön's impatience expressed through Ÿreven's vocal chords was more than amusing. It took all Gïrnięn's discipline not to laugh.
"Solus-harmr."
"Hmm…" Ÿreven–Rhunön waved a hand at the blade. A rune appeared on it, graceful and elegant.
"There." He smiled. "Sun-sorrow."