Chapter X 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!
I'm thinking about changing the title, if you're interested in voting, please enter a suggestion in the comments. I will pick one to change my title to. Alternatively, you can vote to keep the title the same. Thanks for your support! Special credit to Naerys Targaryen and , who have followed me for so long!
Because this is the tenth chapter, I'm giving you something special that will happen every ten chapters—a third person limited viewpoint of an unknown character (I'm not giving away who it is) before the main storyline.
"Eka bidja framvír du Daéda abr Dauthí." is translated as "I beg before the Lord of Death."
A dark shape twisted and writhed in its nest, the putrid stink of death and decay surrounding it. The rotting corpses of countless unknown surrounded it, as it breathed in the sickly sweet smell of rot, wreathed with the triumph of victory. It turned its first head around at the sound of a prey-creature scrambling around the undergrowth. Absentmindedly, one of the other heads darted out and picked up a large hare, ripping into it. The stomach was shared by all four heads, so only one needed to eat. One of the heads almost impaled itself on its own spines while trying to reach back and groom itself. Grumbling, it looked up at the half rotting figure lurching out of the shadows. The thing opened its mouth. Slowly, a rasping voice poured out.
"Lord Letæst calls on you."
"For what purpossssssse?" The dark, distinctively reptilian voice poured out its throat.
The corpse managed a gruesome grin. "Assassination."
The sensation of freefalling was disconcerting—especially when your surroundings were constantly shifting. Gïrnięn looked up uncomfortably as his surroundings shifted. At first they'd been more realistic: castles, towers, forts, keeps, knights… Then they'd shown him wondrous things: an army of slaves building gigantic golden monuments, a wall that stretched to the horizon, a gigantic statue of a god, people in strange and foreign clothing walking about, speaking into small boxes that had constantly shifting appearances… Now they had degenerated into intricate geometric patterns, the colors of the visible spectrum flashing on lines against a black background, constantly opening and closing. And through all this, they were rapidly heading up, which could only mean one thing—he was still falling. Without solid ground to stand on, Gïrnięn felt a little strange that he was going to die falling down an endless tunnel. He could repeatedly hear his name being sang, in a sweet, lyrical manner, but also full of sorrow—that is, funeral music. Sighing, he resigned himself to falling, when, suddenly, his body met with solid ground. However, his surroundings were completely black. Rising from where he lay prostrate on the ground, Gïrnięn stood up—to see that the black had melted away, to be replaced by a maze of obsidian mirrors. Looking at the reflections around him, Gïrnięn stepped forward and, as he set his foot down, just a bit too heavily, cracks started to spread. Slightly afraid and anxious to escape, Gïrnięn lightly stepped down the hall, only to find himself somehow in an obsidian cubicle, with infinite reflections of himself around him. Desperate, Gïrnięn drew Solus-harmr and struck the wall beside him. It vibrated resonantly, filling the cubicle with sound. As the cubicle vibrated, the obsidian started cracking, and shards of it fell from the ceiling. Gïrnięn suddenly realized that he was about to be buried alive, and jumped out of the way as more shards rained down, littering the floor like dark, reflective, decaying, bones. Accidentally backing into a wall, Gïrnięn turned in absolute horror as the wall cracked, then shattered outward, bursting open. Shielding himself from under his cloak, Gïrnięn looked up as a figure burst through the opening. Squinting with surprise, he realized that the figure was himself, though tinted black. The thing took one look at him, and suddenly multiplied to hundreds. Screaming and wailing, more reflections tried to claw their way out of their obsidian prisons, closer and closer to succeeding. Wailing with despair, Gïrnięn desperately tossed his mind at the reflections, though it was no use—he received only something that was cold, hard, and blank. Panicking, Gïrnięn flung his mind out randomly, trying to halt himself. He watched with equal parts horror, wonder, and revulsion as the Gïrnięn-shadows flesh fell off, revealing bare bone underneath. Their faces were fixed in leering, ghoulish grins—the grin of death. Screaming, he instinctively reached for Cïtirinus, and found contact.
Cïtirinus!
What happened? All of a sudden you were out of range, so we flew to try and find you. What are you doing so in the eastern Beor Mountains?
So I'm not in Illirea?
No! You're down there somewhere. Here, I'll take your senses and see what you're doing.
Suddenly, everything melted away as a flash of yellow penetrated the darkness. Gïrnięn stood up, looking at the wind howling around him. Apparently he and the others and parted ways unintentionally. Looking back at the gaping hole, he shivered. Apparently the labyrinth could cast illusions on you. Looking up, he sighted Cïtirinus spiraling overhead, about to dive. He waved his arm, even though he knew he didn't have to. As Cïtirinus landed, kicking up large clouds of dust, Gïrnięn moved forward to envelop the adolescent dragon in an awkward embrace. Cïtirinus sat down, signaling Gïrnięn to mount him.
Cïtirinus?
Yes?
Let's go find the others.
Gïrnięn lay in his bedroll, exchanging the day's events with Cïtirinus. Sighing with pleasure after the deer that Cïtirinus had caught, Gïrnięn fell into a peaceful sleep.
Darkness surrounded him, as leering, ghoulish grins peeked out from everywhere. Lurching back, Gïrnięn bumped into a cloaked figure. From behind him, a voice of a corpse slithered out.
"Lord Letæst rex, Lord Supreme of Death, Archduke of Misery, King of Illusion, and Prince of Pain issues to you and your companions a formal challenge. The Trinity Council has selected a champion to meet you at noon on the eve of last day of this year. The lord of undeath shall be present, watching the tournament. If your champion dies, we shall be free to control Illirea; while if our champion dies, our forces will retreat to the edge of the Western Ocean, and the Supreme Lord will vow not to intrude upon this land again. If you agree to comply, speak into this…" The corpse handed Gïrnięn a glittering skull crafted from the finest obsidian. The surface seemed to dance with the contorted faces of tortured spirits. "These exact words: 'Eka bidja framvír du Daéda abr Dauthí.'"
And then… everything went dark.