Disclaimer: Nothing familiar here is mine.

Yay! No more hand pains! To celebrate, I wrote all of this but the last page in one sitting because I got sidetracked by reading about Bridezillas in Etiquette Hell.

I'm posting this now, apologizing in advance since I might not be able to frequently post until New Year. Christmas and New Year (and the eve before both days) are pretty big celebrations here, spent with both sides of the extended family, so I'll be very busy even once I'm out of work for the holidays.

Chapter 8: The Second Act

Three days have passed since the Forsworn arrived and Garrow was feeling more and more uneasy. His camp in the Spine was unnoticed and yet he has heard nothing from the village since Albreich visited. He couldn't get anything from his view of Carvahall. The dragons swooped dangerously close a couple of times but they never spotted him.

There was something dull and broken within those beasts, and he was just thankful that they were not as bright and alert as the young Riders' dragons. He had no idea how to pass the time after eating a small, dry lunch. It felt like a test of patience, and he hoped he would win.

Shooting arrows at rotting logs became his new pastime, until he broke an arrow on a rock by accident. He stopped and spent his restless energy on walking around his camp – until he heard footsteps. Armed with nothing but his bow and arrows, he hid and began to wait. When Baldor's face came into view, Garrow moved out o fhis hiding place and waved the boy over.

"We couldn't come," Baldor panted, wiping sweat off his face. "They've been watching us too closely, the soldiers… Couldn't get away until now, but it won't be long either." He glanced at the peak with terrified eyes. "Staying here… you're a brave old man. Has there been any trouble with wild animals?"

"No, not right now," muttered Garrow. "What I'm interested right now is if those damned soldiers said anything new."

"Since you're a fugitive and all, one of them was bragging last night in Morn's tavern that they were all specially chosen for this. They're not a quiet bunch. They keep getting drunk every night and some of them already tore up Morn's common room – and that was just on the first day. Didn't even pay for the damage."

Garrow clenched his fist. He glanced at the distant village with sad, troubled eyes. "I have no idea why they would want to capture me again. I can't give anything to them anymore."

"A number of villagers were questioned today, including us." Baldor looked down. "None of us talked but you might want to consider turning yourself in."

Garrow glared at him, and the timid boy seemed to shrink. "I'd rather burn and take them along with me. They tortured me and would have done the same to my sons – even worse."

"Even if you stay hidden, they won't just give up and leave you alone. They might even think that we lied and let you escape – and you know that the Empire never forgives traitors. The entire village will be destroyed!"

"I can't leave you to be blamed but I can't lead them away. My days as a woodsman are far behind me, and I cannot evade thirty soliders – and two Riders. My sons could, but I can't. But I can't let someone get hurt because of me. Knowing the Forsworn though, they might become impatient and threaten someone else who could be injured by their dragons or their magic… We have to think of something."

"It's not a pretty situation."

Garrow intended to survive. He endured one of the elven Forsworn, he had to resist two more. He watched Baldor depart after a bit pmore of small talk, and began to wander through the path, barefoot as dusk began to veil the land. The moon slowly began to rise, its milky light casting a sheath over the shadowy mountains.

That was when he noticed something going on in Carvahall. Lanterns broke through the hazy darkness, moving from house to house. From the distance, they looked like fireflies headed for the center of the village. They then slowly streamed towards the edge of the village and to the line of torches by the soldiers' camp. He watched the scene for at least two hours, watching the lanterns bobbing against the steady light of the torches, before the groups dispersed and headed back to their homes and tents.

The following day, Garrow watched the strange activity in Carvahall. People flitted from house to house, and to the farms dotting the valley. Two men even entered the soldiers' camp and disappeared behind the Forsworn's tent for an hour.

It was right after dinner when Baldor arrived, the lad looking exhausted. The lines under his eyes were uncharacteristic of him. "Quimby's dead," he muttered. "Some soldiers were bothering Tara last night." Tara was Morn's wife – a very friendly woman who was close to Marian. "It wasn't a problem but they fought over who was to be served next, and Quimby tried to break them up, as usual."

"Typical Quimby, interfering so that he can be assured of everyone's proper behavior," grumbled Garrow. His mood was turning darker by the minute. "How'd it happen?"

"A soldier threw a pitcher – hit him on the temple. He died right then and there."

The farmer, who was a part-time brewer at Morn's, was a common face in Carvahall and an important member of the community. How could he be gone just like that? "What happened after that? Were the men punished?"

"The Forsworn took his body and hauled it to their dragons. We tried to get it back but they won't talk. I'm afraid that the dragons ate it. Dad and Loring finally managed to convince them to release the body but the soldiers won't be facing punishment." Baldor shuddered. "I was about to leave when they handed him over. All his wife got was bones – every one nibbled clean of fresh and cracked open for the marrow."

"The dragons must have eaten him," Garrow muttered. He fought back the sudden churning in his stomach, caused by disgust. A person's spirit could never rest until the body received a proper burial, and Garrow felt horror for Quimby's fate. "Desecration."

"The soldiers weren't pleased with it either. Those dragons are not like the ones from legends – they're monsters."

Fear echoed through Garrow's being – the fear of the supernatural. Nothing normal could break something as mighty as a dragon. The lad in front of him reflected this very fear, hands clasped in quiet prayer to any god, known and unknown. Even if Galbatorix's dark feats were known through the land, facing it firsthand was another thing. Like it or not, the entire village of Carvahall was now involved in things that were once merely the stuff of songs and tales. "We have to do something about that."

When night began to wane, the air began to grow warmer. The full force of spring heat finally encased Palancar Valley by the afternoon, bringing a false appearance of peace to Carvahall. Fear and resentment was thinly veiled throughout the village – capable of breaking anytime. Still, the day proved dull, and nothing could be done by Garrow all day but brush his mare. That night, he laybefore the sky, watching the stars above the pines.

The moon was close to setting when he woke up to the scent of smoke. It hurt his throat and he coughed as he rose to his feet. His eyes burned and watered as he struggled to breathe through the fumes. He broke camp, saddled his mare and rode up the mountain in the search for clear air. That was when he realized that the smoke was climbing with him, and he began to ride through the forest instead. He did his best to maneuver in the dark until he found a ledge that was free of the smoky air.

Lungs finally clear, he began looking for the source. He spotted the source of fire and cringed hen he did. Carvahall's hay barn was covered in vivid violet flames and drab brown ones. The remains of its charred contents whirled above them in faint amber hues. Garrow felt choked as he watched the events before him. He wished he could help with the bucket brigade and yet, he needed to stay concealed.

He watched in horror as a spark landed on Delwin's house, setting the thatched roof on fire, and leap to Fisk's roof. Garrow could only watch in horror. Mishandling fire was a hanging offense in Carvahal. It was another matter if the soldiers – or the Forsworn – caused it. Garrow feared that the dragons were the ones which set it on fire, and anger coursed through him. What if the Forsworn were punishing Carvahal for shielding him? It would mean that he was responsible for that.

By dawn, the flames got extinguished and those that weren't at least burned out by themselves. Blaming himself for his cowardice, Garrow retreated to his camp, angry and upset, subjecting himself to troubled dreams.

Albreich visited by dusk, grim and tired. "Come with me," was all he said.

"Is something the matter?" Garrow tensed, aware that they may have decided to give him up. After all, he could be the cause for the fire and the villagers would want him gone. It might even be necessary, as nobody in Carvahall should be expected to sacrifice themselves for him. He won't allow them to easily give him up, though. He would rather fight for it.

"The soldiers started the fire because Morn banned them from the Seven Sheaves. Scumbags still managed to get themselves drunk and dropped a torch into the hay barn on their way back to their damned camp." Albreich sighed. "Gertrude handled the burns, and we tried to negotiate with the Forsworn but they just spat on us and refused to control their soldiers. Didn't even want to replace our losses and let the guilty ones face justice."

"Then why should I return?"

"Hammer and thongs." Albreich chuckled. Anger lit up his blue eyes. "We need your help to, er, remove the Forsworn."

"Lads, those are Riders. RIDERS!" Garrow's eyes widened. "They can easily destroy us."

"This concerns the entire village now. Besides, I think their madness has stripped them of some powers. You should at least meet Father and the others. Be glad that you've got a chance to get out of these cursed mountains."

Silence reigned as Garrow decided. "It's either this, or run for it. I can run later."

The two men sneaked into Carvahall, using everything from trees and brush to shadows in order to conceal themselves. They reached Horst's forge eventually, quietly slipping inside the dimly-lit workshop. Horst stood inside, arms crossed, together with Delwin, Gedric and Loring. Young men from the village were also there – Baldor, Loring's three sons, Parr and Quimby's thirteen-year-old son, Nolfavrell.

Horst nodded to Garrow with a grim smile. "You made it, I see. No misfortune befell upon you from the Spine?"

"Sheer luck."

"Ah, yes. Loring, if you may…?"

The shoemaker's eyes darkened. He gazed at the window. "We tried to reason with these Riders – these Forsworn, but they refused to reason with us. I simply cannot believe that they think like we do. They are not in the right state of mind." He wheezed. "I do not think that they can still feel any remorse for what they are doing, only revel in our misery and the chaos that they cause. These elven monsters…"

"Elves are not monsters," Garrow said, remembering the girl named Arya. "These people are simply monsters."

The men scowled and nodded. Delwin gave them long looks. "Everyone's life is as take as a result of this. If we were unable to contain that fire, many would have been killed, and survivors would have lost their possessions. We wish to drive these Forsworn away from Carvahall. Will you join us?"

Garrow remembered the Riders' account of their rescue attempt. "Not even six dragons and seven people could drive away one of them and his dragon. What can we do against two? We can barely fight, we can't use magic. We have no dragons. Besides, what if we do succeed? The king might send all six of them to destroy the entire village – no, the entire valley!"

We can't just sit and wait for them to destroy the village either. We can't let them abuse us, we must strike back," Horst told him gravely.

Loring nodded with a rich, hearty laugh. "We must fortify first, before we fight. We will make them regret the day that they set foot on Carvahall and tried to make our lives miserable."

The men began to distribute shovels, pitchforks and anything else that might be used to drive away the soldiers and the Forsworn. Garrow strode to his pack, where his old sword was tied to. The pale yellow sheath was a little painful to look at, but he drew the blade and smiled. He won't use it – not now that he was past his prime. He picked up a flail.

"Scare, not kill," Horst said quietly. "We might have to break some bones but we can't be carried away. Don't even dare stand and fight even if you feel brave or heroic. We're against Riders and trained soldiers."

The men, equipped and grim-faced, marched out of the forge and towards the edge of Carvahall. After quiet, personal prayers, they headed to the camp, which was eerily quiet. Soldiers, aside from the four patrolling sentries, were asleep. The dragons themselves were dozing by the fire. After quick orders from Horst, Albreich and Delwin ambushed two of the sentries while Garrow accompanied Parr to attack the other two.

Flail in hand, Garrow held his breath as he followed the clueless soldier, terrified of the sudden energy in his body. He hid behind a house, body shaking. He had to hold on until Horst made his signal.

Horst ran out of his hiding place with a loud yell. He led the charge to the tents while Garrow moved forward with a swing of his flail. The sentry yelped as the weapon crunched against his shoulder. The man yelled in pain, dropping his halbered and staggering back as Garrow struck his ribs and his back. He retreated, screaming and asking for help.

With a shout, Garrow ran after him as fast as he could, ignoring the wool tent he knocked in. He smashed the top of a soldier's helm as the man began to emerge out of his tent. He almost bumped against the cackling Loring, who was jabbing his pitchfork at the soldiers. Confusion and chaos was evident throughout the place. Garrow hit a soldier who was trying to string a bow, and used his flail to smash the wooden weapon. He laughed as the soldier fled.

The dragons let out a mighty roar, rising to the air, unable to do anything but circle the area. They can't risk attacking without destroying the camp and killing their own partners.

The two Riders stepped out of their tent looking disheveled but still fair, as elves often were in their tales. Both of them had a fractured look in their eyes – as if something was broken in them. Their iridescent blades were out, but before they could attack or cast a spell, Baldor unleashed the horses after them.

Formora let out a cry, the female elf looking enraged as she dodged the horses. She regrouped with Kialandi, only to be swept away by the fleeing soldiers. The dragons roared and flew after them, growling viciously at the villagers.

We just want you to feel so great and victorious, so that your destruction will be more bitter, a mad voice said, resonating through the men's minds. You would make a good dinner – that human was just an appetizer. We shall rally our other kin to partake in this delightful feast.

Garrow winced. "Dragon," he said. "They're going to fetch the other Forsworn."

Carvahall blazed into life as lamps began to light up shuttered windows. Entranced, Garrow watched the people mill around to look for the source of the chaos.

Soft sobbing broke the muffled silence. Quimby's son, Nolfavrell, knelt by a dead soldier, stabbing him aimlessly in the chest as he tried to fight back his tears. With a jolt, Garrow felt pain inside him, and guilt. His own sons weren't that much older than Nolfavrell, and yet the one before him was but a boy.

"He shouldn't have come," he said as Gedric and Albreich pulled the lad away from the corpse.

"It was his right," Horst said. "Killing a soldier means that it will be harder for us to get rid of those bastards."

"We have to make barricades – the road and the space between houses. We can't let them attack us by surprise." Garrow watched Delwin bandage his arm with a strip of his shirt.

After organizing the group, Albreich and Baldor ran to the forge to retrieve Quimby's wagon from the forge, with Loring's sons accompanying Parr to search for items which can be used in securing the village. While that happened, people began to gather at the very edge of the field, eyes scouring the empty camp and resting upon the dead soldier.

"What just happened here?" asked Fisk.

Loring straightened up and strode towards the carpenter. "What happened? Well, let me tell you." He smiled in childish glee. "We routed them all, those dung-headed milk drinkers! We caught them with their boots off, whipped them like dogs!"

"Good to hear!" Strong-voiced Birgit said, flicking back her auburn hair as she wrapped her arms around Nolfavrell. She ignored the blood smeared across her son's pale face. "They deserve to die. Cowards killed my husband, they shall pay for it."

Thane stepped up, eyes flashing. "You're mad, Horst! The Forsworn are not frightened of you, even if the soldiers are. They have dragons, you idiot! Galbatorix might send the rest of his blasted Riders after us, and they won't give up until they have Garrow."

"Then let's hand him over," Sloan said with a sneer.

Horst raised his hands to get their attention. "It's true that none of us is worth more than the entire village and yet, Galbatorix won't let us escape because of our resistance even if we surrender Garrow to him. We'll be no better than the Varden for him."

"But why in the blazes did you attack?" Thane demanded angrily. "Who gave you the authority to decide upon dooming all of us?"

Birgit growled, removing her hands from her son's face. She showed them her blood-stained palms, as if accusing. "Would you let them kill your wife, burn us? What happened to your manhood, loam breaker?"

"Those blasted milk-drinkers burned my farm, kidnapped me to drive away my sons and Katrina, let those dragons devour Quimby and wished to destroy the entire village," growled Garrow. "They won't think twice about tearing apart and destroying our families. We can't just let such crimes go unpunished. If we do, we're no more than frightened rabits, cowering and awaiting our own doom. We must stand up and defend ourselves." He watched Albreich and Baldor stride towards them with the wagon. "We shall debate later. For now, we prepare and defend. Who is with us?"

The forty or so men who volunteered took the task of making Carvahall impenetrable, and it wasn't exactly easy. Garrow worked with them, nailing fence slats between house, using rock-filled barrels to make makeshift walls and using logs to block the main road with two tipped wagons. He hurried from one chore to another, his mind filled with thoughts of Roran, Murtagh and Eragon. He knew that they were young and had so much thrust upon their hands. What if the king caught them, or sent the other members of the Forsworn after them?

Garrow moved to tossing water on the thatching of Kiselt's house in order to prevent it from catching fire when Parr began to shout.

"Forsworn!"

The female, Formora, stood just out of bowshot far down the road, dressed in her full armor. She stood tall and proud, a one hand grasping a torch, the other drawn back, as if to throw something. Her pale hair fluttered in the slight breeze like wisps of moonlight.

"I hope she's not going to toss rocks," muttered Albreich.

"Magic! She's going to –" Garrow began, but was cut off as Formora yelled out a word of power and flung her arm out.

A white-hot ball of fire flew from her hands and blew up the wagon to the men's right. The very hot air threw Garrow back, slamming him against the wall. Gasping for breath, he dove aside as Formora raced into Carvahall between the fiery wagons, followed by Kialandi. They laughed madly, fiery blades flashing as they hacked their way through the people around them. Three men fell before Horst and Loring pressed the two madmen back with their pitchforks. Before they could do more, soldiers poured in, adding to the mayhem – and they had to be stopped.

Garrow hit a soldier on the face with his flail, and the soldier crumpled. Other soldiers rushed towards him so Garrow grabbed the fallen man's shield and barely managed to block the first strike. He wasn't as strong as he used to be but a rush of energy surged through him as he backstepped towards Kialandi, parrying a blade. He swung his flail up and smashed the man's chin.

"To me!" he roared. "Defend your homes! Rally to me, Carvahall!" He sidestepped some swords as five men tried to circle him. Albreich and Baldor strode towards him, followed by Loring's sons. Soon many others accompanied them while women and children pelted the invaders with rocks. "Stay together! There are more of us!" Garrow yelled as he stood his ground.

As the scores of villagers thickened, the soldiers halted. As the number swelled to a hundred, Garrow led the advance.

"Attack those sons of a sandworm!" cackled Kialandi, as he dodged Loring's pitchfork with supernatural speed.

An arrow whizzed towards Garrow and he blocked it with his shield. He grinned as the Forsworn drew level with the soldiers, frustrated. Powerful though the milk-drinkers were, the sheer number of the villagers overwhelmed them. One of the Forsworn uttered a word of power, and Garrow felt his body grow heavy and unable to move. Even his thoughts began to grow sluggish as fatigue began to overwhelm him.

Birgit roared from behind, and a rock flew overhead, straight towards Formora. The mad elf dodged with her speed but the distraction worked. Garrow picked up a rock, praying that the surge of strength in his body wouldn't leave. He raised the rock and threw it full-force. It bounced off Kialandi's shield, barely denting it, but the attack did its job too. The final traces of the Forsworn's spell broke. The two elves yelled at each other angrily in their strange language as the villagers surged forward.

"Retreat!" Kialandi roared. The warriors followed the two Riders as they backed out of the village, stabbing anyone who dared come close. They only turned their backs once they were far from Carvahall and the burning wagons.

Body aching, Garrow bowed his head once he realized that Parr and nine other men died. The cries and wails of mothers, wives and daughters broke the sudden silence.

"Everyone! Come!" Baldor yelled.

Garrow followed everyone to the middle of the road, where Kialandi stood with a smile. The elf's brown hair had come loose during the fighting, and there was a scar on his forehead from a gash that he obviously healed with magic. His deep green eyes gleamed with madness. "As brave as your son and nephews, it seems. Only you and your kin would have the gall to resist a Rider."

"What do you need from us?" Garrow growled.

Kialandi laughed. He nodded calmly, the madness in him simmering beneath the surface. "Enduriel is livid but my mate and I? We are simply here for information. Release Garrow and you will simply be sold as slaves. Resist and protect him? The rest of our order are coming with their dragons, who will be more than pleased to devour you. You must be ready with an answer when we return, and make sure that it's the right one."

A kind-of filler, this starts the second act of our story! For those wondering why, just why, the Forsworn aren't using their amazing powers, well, something happened in the Fall that broke their minds in different ways. And their dragons are too crazy to be of much help too. Yep, our heroes will be dealing with the crazies!

And yep, Askanir and Luneria will probably end up with each other too ;) Because dragons end up reflecting the affections of their Riders heehee!

Did you miss our Riders? Well, we'll be catching up to them next chapter, thankfully! I wonder if none of them managed to blow up someone else's pants while Garrow is busy defending Carvahall..?

Askanir is really, really pleased with your reviews and is therefore throwing a big dragon party on Dragon-mas! Keep 'em coming! XD