Chapter 33: Hadarac Desert
They reached the desert by the eve of their second week. Brom spent the days tense and nervous. Uru'baen was far too close by for his comfort and he worried their proximity would tempt the black king out of his city to capture or kill them. Thus, it was a relief when the sparse woodlands and intermittent streams gradually gave way to dead brush and parched grass, which in turn became rocky sand.
The sound of horses trotting slowed as Murtagh pulled on Tornac's reins. "You mean to cross the Hadarac Desert?"
"Aye," Brom nodded. "It's the only place guaranteed safety besides crossing the ocean or seeking refuge with the other races."
"How are we to carry the water necessary?" he challenged. "Saphira may not drink often but when she does, it nearly empties the stream. Our mounts all drink more than they could carry across the desert. Unless you have a way to magic us water, we will be forced to skirt the desert or only cross the smallest portions."
Brom rubbed his brow and called for a halt. "I suppose it's inevitable, and Galbatorix will know anyway. Eragon and I are magicians."
Murtagh merely lifted an eyebrow. "Even one without magic such as myself knows you cannot create something from nothing. The toll to carry enough water would be lethal as well. Where do you hope to get it?"
The old man nearly answered when Eragon exclaimed triumphantly, "The ground! Like a well, if you dig deep enough, there's always water. It may take too much power to carry the water, but not to lift it to the surface for a drink and then let it recede."
"Good answer, Eragon," Brom complimented. "The boy has the right of it, Murtagh. Groundwater is a near global phenomenon. Deep enough down, all soil or sand rests on solid rock. Whatever sparse rains the Hadarac desert receives, it all accumulates below ground where it is cool enough to stop evaporation. In the desert, we may have to reach down dozens of paces, but it will be there."
"And you are sure the two of you have the strength to lift it for us all? For it will mean our lives were you wrong." Murtagh queried doubtfully.
"Eragon himself could manage it. With myself to aid, he will have no troubles," Brom promised. "Let us tarry no longer. We have an Empire to outrun."
As the sand covered rocks turned to a true dune sea, Harry was uncomfortably reminded of why he named his mount Stupid. The archaic method of travel that was horseback riding was a blight upon humanity. Murtagh often shot him disbelieving glances as if to say 'How in the world can anyone be that bad at riding?' but Harry imperiously ignored him. The softer terrain of the burning sand mercifully reduced the agony of riding a bit, but it remained an uncomfortable task.
"There are so many better methods of travel," Harry bemoaned. "How I wish Saphira was big enough to carry us all. Or that there was a nice road for carriages. Or a stream for boats. Or a-"
"Shut up," Eragon snapped irritably. He tried to ignore Harry's whinging but found it nigh impossible to ignore. Their horses kicked up sand which inevitably made its way either into his mouth, eyes, or clothes, and Eragon had a hard time deciding which was worse. The wizard was clearly not from Alagaesia because the creature comforts he demanded were nigh unheard of in this age. If Eragon was honest, he too had grown accustomed to daily showers and indoor plumbing. At least he was used to taking shits in nature and going long weeks without cleaning himself. If only he could do something about the damned sand… Eragon grinned wolfishly. Harry could do naught but beg unless he wished to reveal himself as a wizard, meanwhile Eragon would lavish himself with magical comforts. "Guard me from sand, heat, and wind."
The relief was palpable. It felt like Eragon had just stood in front of an opening 'freezer' and relished the cool wave of air chasing away the burning heat. Out of pettiness, he extended his protection to Murtagh and Brom, both of whom visibly sagged in ecstasy.
"Eragon," Harry warned. "The time will come again when you rely on me for luxury, and I will remember this." Reluctantly, Eragon amended his spell to include the wizard. "Thanks."
They rode in silence for a while. Much of Harry's travel entertainment relied on magic, either to illustrate stories he told, to conjure game boards, targets, and such, or just to mess with the arcane energy for fun. His nature being hidden from Murtagh, the ride was dull and boring.
"Brom I have just realized something. You spoke of wizard's duels; how one must break into the other's mind if either have a hope of surviving, else their spells will surely kill one another, yes?" Harry suddenly spoke up.
Brom crossed his arms sourly, a sure sign he did not want to discuss the question Harry posed. The old man looked pointedly at Murtagh then back at him. Harry waved it off. "This question must be common knowledge, else there would be no point in learning to break into someone's mind. I am sure Galbatorix already knows of this."
"Fine. Yes, I am familiar with the technique I taught you myself," Brom retorted. "What is it you wish to ask?"
"Well, it occurs to me that a magician need not engage an enemy before casting their lethal spell. If I was briefed on a specific target whose guard was down, surely I could cast a lethal spell and immediately run while the effect kills them? How do people avoid magical assassination here?"
He stroked his beard in thought. "What you speak of is a branch of magic termed 'wards.' They are lasting spells you place about your person, spells which are often oriented defensively, like 'stop enemies from casting spells on me.' They do not all have to be as such, in fact Eragon is maintaining one now. He said 'guard me from sand, heat, and wind, and we were thus protected. It is a complex and dangerous branch for errors often mean the caster's life."
"Are you willing to teach it while we ride?"
Brom regarded Murtagh mistrustfully, but reluctantly nodded. "Aye, now's as good a time as ever."
Rather than wait to make camp as Brom did so often before teaching magic or swordplay, he instead taught from horseback, reluctantly answering Murtagh's questions along with his other pupils. "Wards are dangerous because of their nature. Magic affecting your body, should it fail, often does so lethally. Wards are like automatic spells which means they must be carefully reasoned before casting so you may ensure there is no conceivable scenario where the spells react in a way that will result in your death, either from their effect or the toll they take on your energy. For example, a ward like 'stop anything moving too fast from hitting me' would stop arrows from piercing you, but such loose wording could easily slay you. How fast is too fast? If you trip and fall, does the ground coming to meet you count? Will you die trying to shove the entire planet away from yourself? If you strike a mountain with your fist, will the spell try to move the mountain and kill you? Perhaps you voice a spell like 'filter the air in front of me of harmful gasses and liquids' and the spell decides to asphyxiate you by removing the air, or attempts to filter every bit of air a mile in front of you."
Brom paused to let them ponder his point. "Wards are perilous and require careful and well thought out wording to decrease your chances of an unnatural death rather than increase them."
Harry pondered that. "But surely with careful enough wording and enough time and power, you could make yourself invincible?"
He laughed roughly. "Nay, it is impossible. No matter how many wards you layer yourself with, there will always be that which you miss. And beside that, the cardinal rule still applies: once you run out of strength, you die. Be it to the next lethal sword blade which your wards fail to stop, or the magic drawing on your empty stores and killing you."
"But a ward which stops lethal damage, it wouldn't matter if your wards killed you, you'd die either way," Harry argued.
"Perhaps," Brom allowed. "But even lethal wounds can be healed if treated quick enough. Overuse of magic is certain death, an affliction which no healer can treat. Better to take the chance than to certainly die."
"How does one prevent their wards from sapping the last bit of their strength?" Eragon interrupted. "If your ward says "let no arrow strike me,' and you are out of energy, the spell is permanent and will not end to spare your life."
"You stumble upon an important lesson; never use absolutes. Never is a strong word for there are often spells one could cast with impunity. 'Stone, rise,' is one of them. Typically, though, we word our spells so that even though they cannot be directly ended, the spell itself has an endpoint. Amending your wards to end with 'until I run out of energy,' was common practice before more elegant solutions were devised–by riders or elves years ago. Truthfully, wards are an advanced subject which novices rarely get involved in, but since you ask and are in danger of needing them, I see no reason to deny you the knowledge."
Harry helped set up their encampment for the night. They rested on a flat bit of sandstone at the peak of a sand hill and lit a small smokeless fire. Eragon and Brom worked together to draw up gallons upon gallons of water with which they all drank deeply, refilled their waterskins, and then left the remainder to their mounts. The strain began to show on their faces as each horse in turn sucked up loads. Saphira waited until the horses were done and drank all the remainder in one gulp. Gratefully, Brom and Eragon let the water recede.
Harry approached Murtagh and Eragon who were chatting quietly. "Right. Now that you've all been introduced, I plan on splitting off tonight. I can get to the Varden faster alone than in a group and I can carry enough water for myself to not need magic. We're pretty close to the south border of the Hadarac, so you need not worry about me. Eragon," he addressed, "I'd appreciate it if you chose not to inform Brom of my decision before daybreak."
The young man nodded in agreement. "The Varden has need of you more than we do at the moment. Go and be safe, Harry."
Murtagh shook his hand solemnly. "You have my thanks for introducing me to family I did not know I had, and for saving my life. Though I will not join the Varden, should you have need of my sword, you will have it."
"Thanks," Harry said awkwardly. "Um, you too." Murtagh grinned at his awkwardness.
"I have the strange feeling we will be seeing each other sooner rather than later."
Harry nodded. "Yes, I get that feeling, too. Goodbye, Eragon and Murtagh."
Escaping quietly took little effort. Harry rode Stupid off to the side until they were beyond the crest of a sand dune, then pitched the tent. He let his horse graze in the grove of trees and left with his broom in hand, collapsing the tent as he went. Harry flung his invisibility cloak over himself and kicked off. Using a recently invented speedometer charm, he carefully monitored his speed and kept it below 600mph until he was sure he was beyond earshot of the camp.
Then, he pushed the broom to its limits. The newest generation he used was designed to draw power to its flight enchantments directly from the gem in the handle. Usually the gems he put in his works powered native enchantments. His own brand of magic rarely if ever required energy to sustain, instead sapping a paltry amount on casting and lasting for long enough that Harry had never actually noticed a piece of magic fail over time.
Feeding enchantments which did not draw power from a near limitless supply was like filling a water balloon with a firehose. Several broomsticks had violently exploded as a result of his tinkering before Harry managed to make the flight enchantments robust enough to handle the flood of power. If he counted generations by failures as well as successes, he would be riding Mk. 500 or so.
With an elated whoop, Harry flattened himself along the handle, reveling in the thrum of power beneath his fingers. The stream of power rushing to and fro, pushing every enchantment beyond its max like a nitro boost. Everything was ramped up, from the speed and lift to the comfort and turning charms. Harry watched in awed fascination as the sonic vortex formed behind his tail. The air shimmered and bent into a cone just beyond the stirrups, tearing viciously at the unbreakable tail bristles.
Being in front of the vortex, Harry could not hear his own sonic boom any more than a ship captain could crash on his own wake. What he could do was see the effects the shockwave had on the desert below. Sand billowed up along the dunes just past, a rippling wave in the dunes indicating where the shockwave started. Twice he spotted sand men with head wrappings drop to their knees and pray. Oops, he thought. Might have just started a new religion.
Even without feeling the voracious wind tearing at his skin like a thousand greedy fingers, Harry felt a thrill like none other at his supersonic broom. If he unfocused his eyes and looked down, the ground blurred like it was sucked out from beneath him as if on a supercharged treadmill. Even the strange mountains beneath the white sky passed with noticeable speed. Harry whooped in elation. There was nothing quite like the feeling of flying.
All too soon it was over. Harry had pushed a thousand miles an hour on the trip, making the entire crossing in under an hour. He made a lazy looping turn towards the Beors. Harry reveled in the g-forces threatening to fling him from his broom as he curved. When he reached the apex of the turn, he straightened out and shot forth like a bullet, driving his broom at a cool cruising speed of 800mph. Enough to scare the shit out of any hapless farmers or wildlife below with the shockwave, not enough to paste him against some mountain if he was careless.
As he entered the valley Arya described to him, Harry craned his head in awe. The whites of the mountaintops he initially thought was a strange atmospheric phenomenon were in fact the mountaintops, so high that even on his broom he had to crane his neck to see. Not a single mountain terminated below the height of mount Everest. Indeed, most were several times its height, and steeper to boot.
Everest was like an enormous mountain range with another smaller mountain range in the middle, cumulatively reaching the highest peak in the world. The Beors were a size unto themselves, stretching impossibly high at gravity-defying slopes usually forty-five degrees or greater. Capped with snow which he accidentally dislodged with his shockwave, Harry observed dens and wildlife even greater in size than the Spine's beasts lodged in the mountains' crags and cliffs.
At his height and with the wind ward shielding him, Harry could hear nothing but eerie silence. Should the dwarves notice him, he would hear no horn blast or gong crash or whatever other sound they use to signal intruders.
A river led Harry along the deep valley, further into the mountain range. He knew he would have to dismount and walk before he was noticed if he wanted to keep the brooms secret, so he reluctantly touched down near the Beartooth river.
The mud and undergrowth clung to Harry's sneakers, hindering every step. He dearly hoped it would take no more than a few hours to reach the Varden. How pathetic that I cross the entire Hadarac Desert in under an hour and now I'm stuck trudging through mud for hours on the last leg. Sighing, Harry transfigured his shoes to boots and trudged on.
The terrain sloped downwards ever so slightly, just enough to guide the river along. The area surrounding the Beartooth was a dense forest. Not so much as to form a proper canopy, but enough that riding a horse through would be a chore and a half. The thought made Harry happy; Brom and Eragon would share in his suffering.
Nearly an hour later, Harry threw up his arms in frustration. Judging his position by the surrounding mountains, Harry estimated he had not made it even a tenth of the journey. He refused to walk like a filthy peasant all the way down the stupid valley and began making a crude raft.
Treecapitator sliced through several trees like butter and twenty minutes later Harry had lashed the logs together with conjured rope. A bit of transfiguration formed a barge pole of a stick, and a dozen planks and nails formed a comfortable surface to sit atop. Harry heaved the heavy square of wood onto the river. It moved relatively slowly compared to the Anora, Woadark, Ninor, and Ramr rivers, but that was good for Harry.
He planted the end of the pole in the ground like a pole vaulter and leapt onto the raft. His feet struck the planks harshly, causing the whole thing to dip and bob perilously, but Harry managed to counterbalance it with his body weight by leaning. Nice job, Harry, he congratulated himself. Now to steer.
Planting the pole in the riverbed, Harry pushed off tentatively. The maneuver did very little. He tried again with much more force. The pole was off-center and forced the raft to spin nauseatingly, bobbing on the river surface. It took several more false starts before Harry gained the proficiency he needed to pole the barge downstream.
Once set on its course, Harry withdrew the pole and laid it across the barge before lying down himself. He lay spreadeagled on the light pine boards, luxuriating in the fine mist which the raft churned up. The cool water felt heavenly on his nearly fevered body. Earlier in the day Harry had been in the arid and blazing heat of the Hadarac Desert, then the hot and humid mugginess of Beartooth valley. He did not grow cold–the sun warmed him enough that he did not mind getting wet. Harry took the time to relax. The party rarely swam in the tent, even with the two separate pools and hot tubs, something he just went along with. The grime of two weeks' traveling made him feel dirty, something the mist was helping ameliorate.
Harry heaved himself over the edge of the barge and stroked along beside it. The river was shallow enough towards the banks that he could walk, but he was not worried regardless. Magic could easily save him from drowning in countless ways. He could float himself to the raft, apparate, or… "Ebublio!" Harry dove beneath the surface, observing the flora and fauna beneath the surface. Kelp and moss coated many of the stones on the riverbed, but even more was stripped by the current, showing smoothened dark stones. A school of fish zipped ahead downstream. Near the banks with the slower current, tiny tadpoles drifted about.
Drawing a deep breath, Harry ended the bubblehead charm. Water rushed in and instantly wet his hair and face. He scrubbed at his hair with his fingers for a moment, trying to wash away the grime. Without shampoo, it was a hopeless endeavor. He surfaced on the raft with a gasp, enjoying the coolness of the water evaporating in the warm sun.
Harry fixed his pack on the raft and opened the top, rummaging through it with his arm up to his elbow. Somewhere, there–no not there…There! He pulled out a bottle of brewed shampoo triumphantly. Who knew his family owned Sleakeazy, a famous haircare brand in Wizarding Britain? He found the recipe in his grandfather's journal and found it both easy to brew and extremely effective.
A couple of pumps yielded a handful of the viscous liquid which Harry quickly smeared in his wet hair. He gave it a good scrubbing, multicolored foam and strangely shaped bubbles pouring down his shoulders and onto the raft. When the shampoo magically indicated cleanliness by flashing rapidly through its colors, Harry dove back into the river and let the current strip the dirty soap suds from his scalp.
The product felt like a thorough scalp massage, a feeling so great he moaned at it. Two weeks was far too long to go without washing. Stroking back to the raft, Harry hopped back on and stowed the shampoo, summoning a bar of soap. He transfigured his attire into swimming trunks and dove back beneath, scrubbing away dust and grime from the road. Once he emerged once more, Harry tossed the bar of soap back into his bag and returned to the water.
A bit of mental pressure modified the bubblehead charm to form only over his nose and mouth, allowing his face and hair to feel the cool water. Rather than swimming, Harry loosely gripped the rear of the raft and let it pull him along, enjoying the stretching feeling in his arm as it pulled.
After an hour, Harry's fingers began to wrinkle and he conceded it was time to emerge from the water. He heaved himself over the back, dripping water all over the pine boards. Upon cancelling the bubblehead charm, Harry found the smell of river water and forest life in the mountains a scent unlike anything he'd smelled before. He toyed with his wand and wondered how he might store the scent for later. A pensieve would do it, Harry mused. Too bad I don't have one. I could try making one, but I haven't the faintest idea where to start.
Harry conjured sunglasses and a towel and laid on his back, facing the sun. He closed his eyes and simply enjoyed the sun on his pale skin. It took serious abuse for a wizard's robust constitution to be overcome and as such, they rarely got sunburn. For the few who were susceptible, Sleekeazy also had a skincare line which included a variety of sunscreens. He didn't think he'd need the stuff and instead tanned in the late morning sun.
The soporific effect of freshly drying in the warm sun sent Harry into a light nap which he enjoyed for a couple hours before he chose to wake from his elvish sleeping trance. He conjured a poolside lounge chair, one which reclined and composed of wide rubbery white bands. Folding his hands over his chest, Harry opened his mind and connected with Blinky, his passenger in the packed tent affixed to the pack next to him on the raft.
They went over some mental combat lessons, both offensive and defensive. Eventually that too began to bore Harry. He stuck just his head in the river to wake up and withdrew it again, donning his sunglasses. Harry rolled the long sheathe of his greatsword to and fro with his bare feet. When that became uninteresting, he scooted the lounge chair forwards and let his legs fall into the river, enjoying the swirling current rush past.
Noon came and went, unremarked upon except for a brief meal Harry pulled from his pack. Blinky sent him her enjoyment of a rat she'd caught escaping from the breeding pens down in the pastures. The flanking peaks drifted by carelessly and it was late afternoon when the end of the river came in sight.
He'd heard it before he saw it. A semicircle of mountains surrounded a lake which was half covered by an overhanging mountain. The entire valley was hemmed in, the only escape to retreat the way he came. And gushing down the overhang was a great waterfall, some great mountain streams hurling themselves over the cliff face and crashing violently into the lake, frothing up the waters and sending curtains of mist shimmering with rainbows around the rocky shore.
Harry conjured a spare set of clothes to change into once he reached the Varden and strapped his greatsword and pack to his bare back, standing on bare feet and picking up the barge pole once more. The Beartooth's current grew rapid just before entering the lake, forcing Harry to fight a bit for control over his raft. Rather than dismount, he used his pole to usher the watercraft around the edge of the lake. The force of the waterfall caused outward ripples which kept his raft pushed against the shore. It would take a deliberate effort to be crushed by the falling water.
Poling over to the side beneath the overhang, Harry allowed himself to relax. He'd made it. The Varden's entrance was right ahead. Gingerly, he stepped from the barge onto the jagged rocks, placing his bare feet carefully on flat portions. The wizard stabbed his pole into the shallows and tied off the raft to the makeshift anchor where it drifted aimlessly in a semicircle against the rope and pole. Casting about himself, Harry scanned for a fist sized rock and hefted it before giving it a good firm swing against the stone wall.
The crack of rock on rock echoed under the cavernous overhang and off the lake surface. "I am a friend of the Varden's!" Harry announced loudly in his mother tongue. He cast about with his mind and found dozens of presences hidden behind the stone. He approached the densest cluster of people and bashed the rock against the wall again, repeating himself louder.
By observing the moving locations of the people inside, Harry was able to puzzle out the situation within. A short presence moved towards two nearly identical ones who stood unmoving close to the surface. There was arguing and more gathered, but the two did not move, obstructing the wall behind them. Harry guessed that was where the entrance was and so approached it until he was separated from the two oily and uncomfortable minds by only a thin layer of stone. "Open."
The hidden door slid aside and Harry beamed at the people inside. "Hello, I'm Harry Potter!"
Brom woke up and glanced around. Murtagh hadn't attempted to slit their throats in the night, that was good. Eragon slept in a bedroll near him. The campfire was naught but embers, but then they hardly needed more heat in this accursed desert. Their packs were all accounted for–wait. Harry's gone and left. Brom cursed loud enough to wake his son and stepson. Eragon groaned pitifully and groped blindly with his hand for his waterskin but did not find it. "Kausta." The container zipped over to his hand and Eragon drank deeply.
His son passed the skin to Murtagh who also quenched his thirst, carefully rubbing both sand and sleep out of his eyes. "We're missing someone," Brom remarked idly.
His children glanced at each other guiltily. "Harry'sgonetothevardenaheadofus!" Eragon blurted out breathlessly. Murtagh looked amused, but did not contradict or correct him.
"Come again, son? I could have sworn you said that Harry deserted us in the middle of the Hadarac to go to the Varden before us. But surely, that couldn't be the case, since my son would have undoubtedly advised against this foolishness and failing that, warned me of his imminent departure." Eragon shuffled and looked down.
"He said the Varden needed supplies more than we needed a sherpa. What's a sherpa?"
"I can guess," Brom grumbled. "Very well. There is nothing for it. I cannot say I will miss his whining and nagging on this trip, though."
Murtagh grimaced. "Yes, I cannot say I was thrilled, either. Is he always like that?"
Eragon tilted his head and made a 'so-so' gesture. "Not as such. Usually he finds ways to entertain himself, ways which often entertain us. It will be a duller journey without him."
"Whatever," Brom said dismissively. "We have a long journey ahead. Let us break camp."
It took about five minutes to gather everything up and saddle the horses, but they set off soon after. Brom noticed that Harry had left them Glenwing, which he was privately grateful for. They would clear more distance if their horses were lightly burdened. Eragon again cast his sand ward to abrogate the worst of the misery from traveling the Hadarac desert.
In no time, they were cresting dune after dune of sand, eating up the leagues between him and the Varden. Once the flow of travel was established, Brom began the conversation.
"Murtagh, what do you plan to do once we reach the Varden? I doubt Ajihad will welcome you with open arms and to be honest, I'm not sure I'd vouch for you either." Eragon glared hotly at Brom, but he ignored the look with practiced ease.
"I'm not sure. I'd like to split off and head to Surda if terrain allows. I have no intention of going anywhere near the Varden. I may hate the king, but the Empire on the whole is not a broken system. I do not support tearing down the peasants and farmers on the way to a regime change."
"Acceptable stance," Brom allowed. "Very well."
"I have a question for you, stepfather. Why do you hate me so?"
"Yes, Brom, what an excellent question," Eragon shot forth.
"How well do you know the stories about your father, Murtagh?" Brom asked.
"A little," he admitted. "Stories like those were rarely spoken of in Galbatorix's courts and when they were, it was in hushed tones far away from me where I might prove like my father and take offense in some brutal way. I know most about him from growing up with the man. He was a violent drunk, prone to fits of rage and barbarity. I did not mourn him and I will not begrudge you for killing him. I view any world without Morzan as a better place."
Brom ignored Murtagh's hateful answer. "Then I shall enlighten you. Are you aware I used to be a rider?" He nodded slowly. "I shall tell you both more of my history than nearly any alive know. I was born in Kuasta, a coastal village separated from the Empire–which was the Broddring Kingdom back then–by the Spine. I used to be a superstitious child born from my father, Holcomb, and my mother, Nelda. We were illuminators by trade. When anyone turned sixteen they could take a pilgrimage to an outpost on the shore near Vroengard. Each summer solstice the riders of old would bring out hundreds of eggs and prospective riders both human and elven would walk along the row, touching each egg in turn. Were one to hatch, the lucky one would be trained as a rider. The outpost was not so far from Kuasta that we could not make the journey."
The old man got a far away look. "My parents were so proud when Saphira hatched for me. She was a bit greener than this Saphira, more aquamarine than sapphire blue." He gazed up at Saphira where she coasted on the air currents lazily, a nostalgic sparkle in his eye.
Brom shook himself. "I said my goodbyes to my parents and Vrael himself with his mighty steed Umaroth bore myself and several other new riders across the western ocean to Vroengard. It was an honor unlike any other, to ride on Umaroth's back. He was white like Bid'Daum, the very first rider's dragon. Umaroth was enormous and on that day wore a special saddle with room enough for several hatchlings and riders to be brought to Doru Areba. Along with myself was an elven girl, two human women, and Morzan."
Murtagh and Eragon shared a look of surprise. "He was three years older than me, highborn, and already rather haughty and arrogant. He viewed his dragon as his birthright, rather than a gift. When we reached the ancestral seat of the riders, we were presented to the assembled elders whom would pick who they wished to train. Rather uncommonly, both Moran and I were chosen by the same rider and dragon; Oromis and his dragon Glaedr."
The old man withdrew his pipe and lit it casually with magic. Puffing a few doughnuts, he resumed his tale. "I was young and stupid and I was infatuated with the man. To a younger me, he was capable, strong, proud, and skilled. In return, Morzan treated me poorly, made fun of me for superstitions I grew up with, laughed at my failings, yet never went far enough to fully sever the bonds of adoration I held for him. I behaved shamefully and the memories still turn my blood when I remember them." Brom sighed. "Oromis and Glaedr saw this and tried to curb Morzan's behavior, but it simply drove his actions to subtlety. He graduated from the riders a year ahead of the norm and rode out into the world. It was during the time where I was Oromis's sole student that I began to have doubts as to my old friend's character."
The rhythmic rise and fall of their horses' backs provided a certain pace to the story as they trudged through the arid heat, bearable only for Eragon's ward. Brom continued. "But all too soon, I was leaving Oromis myself to enter the world. Those were the good old days," he sighed nostalgically. "Saphira and I would help repel Urgal raids, slay roaming brigands, and keep the peace, but we were not only fighters. I went to Aberon and studied under the now Surdan philosophers, plied my family craft illuminating books in the elven city of Ellesmera, and traveled Alagaesia having adventures and doing my duty to the people.
"One day many years into my riderhood, my parents passed. I passed off my duties for a time to return to Kuasta and mourn them. When I returned, the riders were embroiled in a war." Brom's audience listened enraptured, impatiently waiting for the old man to finish wetting his throat with his waterskin. "I need not rehash the Fall for you both, for I am certain you all remember the tales. It was Morzan who slew my Saphira. I had parted last from the man if not on good terms, certainly without ill will. When I finished my family leave, Saphira and I rode into Vroengard and Doru Areba to ask an assignment of the elders. We arrived to a pitched battle. The Forsworn were there to pillage and raid. I remember it well even now. Smoke from dragonfire hung heady in the air and the very air seemed to burn in places. Bellowing roars, the clash of steel on steel, freshly spilled blood and the corpses of my friends littered the ground." His eyes took on a haunted cast.
"We heard a scream from the great library and hurried to aid whoever was within. The buildings were grand enough for dragons and so Saphira had no trouble following me in. I had nearly made it to the central room when Morzan came sprinting out, bleeding from several wounds. I remember clearly, I frantically demanded to know what was going on. But your father was as clever as he was cruel. Since I did not immediately draw my sword on him, Morzan guessed that I did not know he was an enemy. He told me he was running from an attacker in the library who was fighting in a room with a smaller doorway Saphira would not be able to fit through. Foolishly, I trusted him.
"Saphira agreed to guard the entrance against reinforcements and Morzan promised to help her. Too confused were we to question where his dragon was. I ran to the annex and dashed inside with my sword drawn, only to have the horrifying realization that I had been betrayed. Inside was the elf woman whose egg hatched the same day as ours, gruesomely tortured yet left alive, albeit mortally wounded. I shouted to Saphira to watch her back, but it was too late. Morzan had crept up behind her and stabbed his sword Zar'roc through my partner's neck." Brom looked devastated, but composed himself by dragging deeply on his pipe and taking a mouthful of wine from his wineskin. He coughed a bit and blinked away tears.
"I remember well the rage I felt at Morzan's betrayal. When I emerged from the library I already had the magic flowing in my veins and a lethal spell on my tongue. It was my intent to forgo the mental battle of a wizard's duel and instead suicidally cast my spell instantly. After all, why should I care about my life? I would follow my Saphira into the void immediately after having my vengeance anyways. But when I emerged from the annex, prepared to drag him with me unto death, I found Morzan was no longer alone. Standing at his side and looking triumphant, Galbatorix himself was there. Before I could release my spell, the mad king contemptuously broke into my mind and forced me to abandon the magic. They held me while Morzan taunted me, vile imprecations and despicable things which fanned the flames of rage in me like nothing before. I have no doubt that Galbatorix was preparing to slay me where I stood when Vrael burst into the library and drove them off. As a final insult, Morzan cast a spell as he fled; a specifically designed one to defile the body of a dragon in a devastating way, part of which was to utterly destroy its heart." Brom regarded Morzan haughtily. "That, is why I hate your father."
Brom flicked his reins and rode ahead without so much as a glance behind him.
Harry stood barefoot and wearing only swimming trunks, gear slung over his back, in front of an open secret doorway with two men staring hatefully out. They were both bald and their presences felt oily and hostile, a slimy sort of almost evil that reminded Harry of a cross between Voldemort and Snape–he shuddered at the thought. "I come to speak to Ajihad."
Something like surprise flitted across the twins' faces but was quickly masked by disdain. "What makes you think a-" he deliberately raked his eyes up and down Harry's rather short frame. "-boy like you merits a meeting with the illustrious Ajihad?" Sneering, the man turned to his twin, attempting to ignore and dismiss him at once.
Behind them arrayed in a half circle was a group of dwarves, mercifully, nothing like the ones Lockhart had hired for Valentines all those years ago. They were short but burly, not one lacking a thick beard. Each one carried several weapons which usually ranged from warhammers, axes, and swords, the weapons decorated with a distinctly nordic aesthetic. One of them interjected, "Egraz Carn, he spoke the password and knocked in exactly the right place. By what merit do you deny him entry?"
The twins folded their arms, putting each hand in the other's sleeves and looking down their noses at the outspoken dwarf disdainfully. "He will be tested." They blatantly ignored his question, instead seizing Harry by the shoulder and thrusting him inside.
The interior was beautiful. Frescoes, carvings, and other such artistry adorned long and tall corridors which–for being built by a dwarf–were positively enormous. Teardrop-shaped lanterns hung on brackets in evenly spaced intervals, emanating warm light which illuminated the halls. When the door shut behind him, Harry noticed the light level diminish quite a bit. Already, he felt rather claustrophobic.
Apparently the slimy twins could not bring themselves to sully their hands manhandling Harry themselves and passed the chore off to the dwarves, who guided him without touching or even putting their hands on their weapons, seemingly out of spite. Soon they reached an antechamber which he was ushered into.
It was circular and just as magnificent as the rest of the tunnels. Large enough to easily fit Saphira, it seemed the magnificence of the entry hall was not simply to wow visitors but rather a staple of dwarven architecture. A high domed ceiling arched over the polished granite floor, again adorned by bas-relief scenery and iconography.
His escorts–read: captors–filed out of the room with a cacophony of tromping boots, gruff voices, and clanking weapons. The twins left last, giving a feral smile and heavily slamming the stone door shut, sealing the enormous room.
Harry pondered if they were petty enough to make him wait just as a powerplay and immediately decided that yes, they were that petty. He wasn't overly worried. His pack had fresh food pre-cooked and one of its hidden reservoirs was filled with pure water. He spent the time on his feet tracing the intricate carvings in the walls and ceilings, marveling at the craftsmanship. He could achieve something similar with his magic, but his senses told him the artwork was all handcrafted.
He waited several hours, amusing himself by extending his mental senses outwards, observing the minds around him. There were four dwarves around the antechamber, arrayed near the entryway. Beyond them, more were intermittently spaced far down the grand hallway which, strangely enough, led for miles. Harry's senses grew fainter and more strained that far away, but he could still make out a churning mass of minds, human and dwarven, milling about. The twins had strode with purpose away from the antechamber much earlier and were now returning. Harry took the time they approached to straighten himself out. He changed from swimming trunks back into his customary jeans and t-shirt, pulled on his socks and sneakers, and composed himself.
The door crashed open violently–no doubt the twins trying to catch him flinching or cowering–but Harry was made of sterner stuff and stared unblinkingly at them. One of the dwarves shouted a protest at the abuse but was summarily ignored. "Ajihad will…speak with you." One of them spoke with a distasteful expression.
"But," the other interjected smoothly, "not before…inspection." The manner in which he said 'inspection' made Harry feel like he actually said something like 'colonoscopy' or 'septic tank snorkeling.'
"And what does this, inspection," Harry imitated mockingly, "consist of?"
"Your mind," they snarled and launched a powerful mental attack.
Harry's lessons with Blinky paid off in spades. Strategies she gave to avoid and evade common tricks of Legilimens worked to great effect. To them, his mind was like a handful of water, unable to be grasped lest he slip through their fingers. He watched their growing frustration with amusement. These two were the bullies on the block; too strong to defy and too important to be thrown out.
Mischievously, Harry pushed back a bit. Harder and harder, he kept applying pressure in the hopes that they would abandon their attack to defend. So blinded were they by their lust to break his mind, neither twin noticed when he breached their defenses.
The instant he did, Harry was disgusted. Their minds were cesspits, strangely linked as if they shared an identity, like a perverted parody of the rider bond. The twins were sadistic, manipulative, and also: traitors. He seized the thread of thought which was their betrayal and followed it to its end. Images and memories flitted past; magical communication techniques passed on to Durza who in turn would send it to the king, sabotage, shipping manifests, troop numbers and strengths, secret passages and infiltration spots, these two were the Pettigrews of the Varden. Their betrayal was devastating and complete.
One last thread, hidden as well as they could, was linked to betrayal. Harry grabbed it.
Invasion. Dozens of Urgal clans, including the Bolvek tribe. Images of a dwarven holding called Orthiad. Troop numbers, supply lines, weapon distributions. Timetables. One month.
Harry gasped and tore himself from their minds. They both looked beyond furious. One lifted a hand menacingly and started marshalling his spell. "Deyj-"
"Avada Kedavra." A flash of green light smote one who instantly collapsed, dead. The other screamed in agony. Harry itched to kill the traitor, fingers shuffling along the length of his wand–which he didn't even recognize was the Elder wand–but he restrained himself. Proof, he reminded himself. This man has proof. "Stupefy." The red light robbed him of consciousness.
Dwarves rushed in, weapons raised, shouting. Harry raised his hands non-threateningly. "I mean you no harm! They attacked my mind unprovoked and were traitors besides!" He shouted.
One of them paused. "Etzil Nithgech! Stop!" The other dwarves paused. "Hrothgar and Ajihad may decide what to do with him."
"On your head be it, Orik," one grunted. He did not stow his weapons. "Give us your weapons or we fight here and now, magician." Harry complied easily. "One thing's for certain; you're definitely not getting in the Varden without inspection now."
Harry glared at the dwarf. "My mind is my sanctuary. You cannot go violating every shred of every person's privacy in the false name of security, security which has already failed!" he exclaimed, pointing at the downed twins. "One of them is still alive. You can search his mind for the truth."
Orik glanced at him sympathetically. "'Tis not our choice, human. It is Aijhad's policy that newcomers' minds are examined. The only exceptions were those who joined before the rule was implemented."
He glared sourly but reluctantly understood. "Fine," he growled. "Angela may examine my mind. The herbalist."
The dwarf nodded. "Aye, that would be acceptable." Harry sat back down heavily and crossed his arms.
"I guess I'll wait until you fetch her." Orik seemed to agree, for he gestured at a dwarf who ran over. Orik spoke rapidly in the dwarven tongue, then waved him off. The dwarf took off at a sprint out the door. I guess they are in a hurry.
It was still nearly an hour later that new people came to greet him. During this time, the guards kept their weapons ready and stayed inside the room, watching both Harry and the still breathing twin carefully for any hint of hostility. The dwarf who took his weapons simply paused right outside the room and then returned, so Harry assumed they were right outside the door. Two familiar minds approached the doorway.
"Arya! Angela! How are you?" Harry exclaimed happily. Arya shot him a look.
"It's been two days."
"Ah, but one of them was filled with sand and misery, so that one counts twice."
Angela bobbed her head. "Aye, the Hadarac desert is a miserable place. Why, I almost regret trading you that sand sage, even if the huthvir was mighty fine!" The dwarves exploded into complaints and protestations, but Angela happily ignored them. "Now, what's this I hear about a traitor," she said with a dangerous glint in her eyes.
Harry pointed at the twins behind him. "They decided to do a surprise inspection of my mind, and I took offense. I pushed back and found they were passing all sorts of spicy information to Durza for years now. That one," he gestured at the corpse, "had a word of death on his tongue when I killed him. The other one collapsed when his twin died, so I stunned him to be safe. Methinks the dwarves don't like them all that much since they've barely complained since I did it."
The herbalist grinned. "What an excellent way to handle them!" she exclaimed. "Why, I almost fondly remember the time they tried to, ahem, inspect me."
Harry cackled. "Apparently these short kings have decided that murder is bad and unfortunately an exception cannot be made for inspecting me, so I volunteered you."
Her eyes sparkled. "Very well then. I have a feeling this will be the most interesting inspection I have done, consentual or not." Harry laughed outright.
"Shall we begin?"
Angela slipped into his mind so discretely that were he not looking, Harry might have missed her presence. Her probe felt unlike anyone he had mentally touched. Brom, Eragon, and Murtagh all had powerful, driven minds filled with ambitions, passion, and resolve. Arya's mind had strange musical undertones, alluring and dangerous on the horizon of her mindscape. Saphira's mind was vast and cunning. Vain, but with the strength to back it up.
The herbalist's mind was nothing like them. Her mind had all the cunning of a dragon, the passion of a human, and the danger of an elf. She felt like insatiable curiosity, fascination, and the desire to be in the thick of things, at the center of major events. Out of respect for her privacy, he did nothing more than 'taste' the feel of her mind. Angela sent him a wash of gratitude as she searched carefully through his mind.
The experience was nothing like anyone who'd invaded his mind had felt like. Voldemort was all malice and hate, sadistic and reveling in the pain he caused. He had some measure of subtlety, but he relied heavily on overwhelming force. Snape was more crafty, but he too used force, the only difference being that his probes were sharp and penetrating. He had a distasteful avarice for the thoughts of others. Most of his Alagaesian companions had only ever been forceful in their attacks, after all they were trying to break in, something which featherlight touches were rather poor at.
Angela raced through his memories like a breeze, curling around significant and traumatic events, mostly summarizing his life. She started from the beginning, watching his mother after his birth, a happy first year of his life, then Voldemort's attack. Harry felt her sympathy when she glanced at the event which shaped so much of his life. Like an arrow, she raced past his childhood at the Dursleys, only touching on certain details. The only bits she lingered on were surprisingly enough, his elementary schooling. She paid special attention to the impressive feats of the modern world like skyscrapers, airplanes, automobiles, trains, and such. Guns earned a heavy pause from her, but she flitted past that too.
Hogwarts elicited deeper observation. He felt her surprise at the trials he'd overcome. When she summarized the basilisk fight, she commented "A perfectly valid reason to banish the names of toads." Harry laughed at the thought and pushed memories of Blinky saving his life from the great wolves, The poisoned spear which killed Durza temporarily, and her teaching him the mental arts.
Angela continued on past nearly all the time after classes ended, instead paying heavy attention to all his lessons, including History of Magic, oddly enough. She actually critiqued his child-self's lazy homework. "You know, many a magician would kill for the education you wasted," she remarked. Harry felt shame at her observation. It was entirely too true. He was thrust into a world of wonder and whimsy and spent most of it lazing around playing chess. Magic back home was just more…magical than it was in Alagaesia. It felt like a cheat code or administrator access, just a tool added to one's arsenal. In Hogwarts, everything lived and breathed magic.
Startled, Harry gazed back on his own use of magic in Alagaesia. He realized he had fallen into the trap of using it for utility. What had he really done besides build himself a boring home and abuse it to churn out supplies for the Varden?
He was whisked from his thoughts when Angela began to approach the end of his time on that Earth. He felt sorrow and sympathy from her when she watched Sirius sail through the Veil of Death, Anger and hatred when she heard Dumbledore explain horcruxes to him, and sympathy again when he died. Seventh year passed in a blur, only pausing when Angela noted an event of significance like Hermione's torture at Malfoy Manor or the Gringotts break-in.
Finally, she reached the terrible dip in the pensieve after Snape's death. When she watched and realized what it meant, Harry shrank from the maelstrom of emotions she projected. Rage, sorrow, pity, anger, disgust, resignation, hate. "They should never have asked that of you," she said to him. "It's disgusting to make a child fight your wars."
They watched together as Harry walked to his death. He was so tired of reliving that event. With Arya, Garzhvog, and now Angela, he hated seeing himself at his lowest. The herbalist was a comforting presence though. She projected to him pride and awe at his strength of character, complimented him on his cunning in offering his mother's protection to Hogwarts.
Angela watched unflinching as the green death curse pierced the air, heading straight for his heart.
"What!?" The herbalist scrutinized his interaction with God from every angle, examining both her and the in-between sort of lobby the interaction took place in. "I suppose I shall be forced to reevaluate some long held beliefs," she remarked. "You're an honorable man, Harry Potter."
His time in Alagaesia she barely bothered skimming, it seemed more perfunctory than anything. When Angela reached the point where she joined him in travel, she outright skipped through any interaction regarding herself. Finally, they reached the present. Angela carefully extricated herself from his mind and leaned back in relief.
"He is an ally." she said without preamble. Reaching for a waterskin, Angela drank half and passed it to Harry who did the same. Then, she withdrew a wineskin and drained half of that, too. When offered a drink, Harry took it. He discretely cast a refilling charm on the thing when there was little left and tossed it to Angela who winked at him.
The dwarves had long since left, leaving only Orik and Arya waiting. They both sat on chairs which Harry had not seen. He stretched his back and felt it pop in many places. "You done?" Orik asked gruffly. "About time. It's been many hours."
Harry sighed heavily and laid back on the floor. "I hope you don't need this room in the next twelve hours, 'cause I'm sleeping here right now." Yawning widely, Harry reached into his bag and conjured a sleeping bag and pillow with his hand, withdrew them, and tossed them to the ground before crawling in. "G'night," he mumbled. "Darkness." The lanterns went out and Harry began to snore.
Traveling in the Hadarac, Eragon decided irritably, is miserable. Even with the ward against sand and heat, he often found bits of the stuff worming their way into his clothes. Laying down on his bedroll was practically inviting the stuff down the back of his tunic. Water didn't have to be carefully rationed when it was available everywhere thanks to magic, but he still felt parched for no reason, even immediately after drinking. He somewhat resented Harry for ditching them but understood the reasons. If he had a good excuse to get away from here, he'd do it too. Eragon mentally cursed Murtagh for forcing them to travel the mundane way.
Cadoc's hooves sank deeply into the sand with each step, occasionally requiring him to dig the thing out. Their pace was ponderous, and it made Eragon long for the days when they spent each night freshly clean in a warm or cool bed under the stars.
At least Brom and Murtagh were suffering with him. Misery loves company, he smiled wryly.
"A shame that you hate the desert so, little one. I have never felt more alive! The cold does not bother me, but the heat feeds my inner flame."
Saphira looked to be the only one enjoying the trip. In contrast to Murtagh and Brom's quiet miserableness, she flew overhead in a dazzling refractive display of sapphire scales. Sand polished each gem-like scale to a brilliant finish, making her all the more beautiful.
While they traveled, Brom spoke of draconic habitats and the ancestral dragon perch that was Du Fell Nangoroth, the blasted falls. Though they skirted well around the center of the desert, Brom pointed out and gave directions to the old dragon manse, a place of rest for the wild dragons before the rider pact.
Each night, they would continue training in both magic and swordplay. Brom would match Eragon against Murtagh, himself against Eragon, and Murtagh against himself, often even switching to two-on-one combat. They found that each respective man had neared the skill cap their natural strength let them wield. Brom was stronger and faster in the short term, but lacked the endurance of the younger generations. Eragon followed behind him, chased closely by Murtagh.
If being the physically weakest among the trio bothered Murtagh, he did not let it show. Eragon was surprised at his first spar to be very nearly defeated. They had sallied forth, neither giving an inch, leveraging every minute advantage they could find to break the deadlock in their fight. After thirty minutes of frantic slashing, stabbing, and blocking, they were both forced to concede they were tied for skill. They were so evenly matched they even tired at the same rate, becoming too exhausted to continue simultaneously.
As the days and nights passed, Eragon found himself worrying for Harry and Arya and to a lesser extent, Angela. What were they doing in the Varden? Did they all make it safely? Were they accomplishing their goals? The questions whirled through his mind, lingering in particular on what Arya might be doing. His cheeks burned uncomfortably. He harshly reminded himself that she was not interested in him. Blasted prophecy! Eragon wished he had heeded Harry's warning about tempting fate. He, like the fool he was, had tempted fate in the most blatant way possible, actually asking for it to interfere with him.
He didn't want to be betrayed by his family, he didn't want to experience great loss, he didn't want to fall in love with someone who did not feel the same, and he didn't want to leave Alagaesia forever. It was his home. Eragon fondly remembered the farm outside Carvahall. How many summers had he and Roran spent nurturing their crops and harvesting them each year? He cast his mind back on youthful play and the villagers he knew so well.
How could fate ask him to leave that all behind? Not ask, Eragon corrected. Demand. Angela's words drifted through his mind. "This will come to pass, no matter what you do to avoid it. It is inevitable." He was more a slave to fate than the girl in the vile market in Dras-Leona. Eragon wanted to see Horst and Elaine, Albreich and Baldor, Katrina, Roran, Morn, Gedric, even Quimby the uptight prude. It had been under a year since he left his home, and already he missed the place he spent his childhood in.
Eragon felt like there was a great axe hanging above his head, hanging by the weakest thread, ready to be snapped at any moment and come crashing down upon his neck. When will the betrayal come? When will I lose someone dear to me? He almost wished he had not commiserated with Harry about his fate; it would surely get out to his friends and he didn't think he could bear their pity. Perhaps he would ask the wizard how he dealt with his own prophecy.
He envied that about Harry; he always seemed so assured of himself. The only hint of struggle he'd ever spotted was when the man began to learn mental battle. Eragon got some insight into the wizard's life before coming to Alagaesia, trials he doubted he could overcome. He had his revenge, thwarting the evil magician who slayed his parents over and over.
"Peace, little one. You are not alone."
Eragon smiled. "You're worth it all, Saphira."
He felt her preen in his mind and smirked at her vanity. But that was Saphira, and he wouldn't have her any other way. He would overcome his trials, slay Galbatorix and the Ra'zac, and spend the rest of eternity with the partner of his heart and mind. He would live up to the choice Saphira made when she hatched for him, to prove to her that he was worthy of that choice.
Harry yawned and stretched, bumping into someone lying next to him. He opened his eyes to darkness, then remembered the day prior. With a thought, Harry ended the spells shuttering the lanterns, flooding the antechamber with a soft yellowed light. It looked like someone had moved the stunned twin during the night, something Harry was grateful for. He certainly shouldn't have fallen asleep next to an enemy, but he trusted Arya with his life.
"Come, wizard. You have a meeting with Ajihad," a gruff voice spoke.
Harry rolled over and spotted the person he bumped into. Arya laid on her own bedroll, raven hair fanned out behind her like a silken halo. She sat up. "Angela left soon after you fell asleep. She was asked to search the traitor's mind and bring the relevant information to Ajihad."
He sighed and stood, stretching and yawning again. Harry spotted Orik standing by the doorway, drumming his fingers on an axe impatiently. "Oei, the spineless one was dragged away last night. Now, get up! Ajihad will have my hide if you show up hours late and looking like you just rolled out of bed."
Rolling up his bedding, Harry stuffed it all in his bag, discretely vanishing the conjured stuff once it passed out of sight. Orik's eyes narrowed at the bag which did not seem to fill, but held his tongue. Arya left her bedroll on the ground. "It was brought here and does not belong to me," she explained. "Someone will be around to retrieve it later."
Orik grumbled and gestured with a calloused hand for them to follow. The party turned out of the thick door and proceeded along the great hallway.
The splendour of the architecture only seemed to increase as they traveled further inwards. Harry occasionally used measuring charms along the way and found himself frankly astonished. The walls did not just feel smooth, they were smooth. The standard of deviation was miniscule. The dimensions of the hall were so great that Saphira could easily fit down the hallway even after centuries of continuous growth. Those orange glass lights marked even intervals, bright enough to flood the whole thing with light.
Harry was offered a horse to make the journey quicker. He carefully observed his party. Arya, Orik, himself, and a pair of unknown dwarves. The larger compliment must have moved out once Angela pronounced him trustworthy. The question was, did he trust these dwarves to keep something from Galbatorix? The Varden had two spies already, what were the chances they had more?
Comfort warred with caution and won. "Orik, I have a much quicker mount. Arya is familiar with it. Would you be willing to ride double with me?"
Orik almost looked nervous. "It's not a dragon," Harry reassured.
"Though you may wish it was," Arya murmured. He shot her a glare.
"Aye. If it will save us time, I can ride double." Orik turned and spoke some orders to his brethren. "Very well, wizard. Let us see these mounts of yours." Harry withdrew two broomsticks from his pack.
"By Guntera's beard," he breathed in awe. "How did you make that bag hold more than its size?" Then his eyes dropped to what Harry was holding. "And how do you expect to travel faster on a cleaning implement than a horse?"
Harry smirked and passed one to Arya who mounted it with practiced ease. "Like this." He swung a leg over the handle and let the broom float slightly off the ground. Orik's eyebrows raised, but apparently floating was less impressive than warping space itself. "Up you get!" The dwarf clambered up in front of Harry, clutching the wood tightly. He seemed to be murmuring dwarvish prayers under his breath.
"Arya, we need to keep under 600 miles per hour. I have no idea what a supersonic boom would do to these tunnels." Orik looked aghast at the speed, but not quite fearful yet. He doubted the wizard who was only a bit taller than him could make good on his word.
The thoughts were torn out of his mouth. Harry bent low over the broomstick, nearly bumping his head into Orik's. The wood leapt forwards, sucking the dwarf's heart into his throat. Orik clung to the wood with a powerful grip, face pale. He chanced a glance behind him at Arya and saw her no less than six feet behind. She wore a squared face and bent low on her own broom, easily keeping pace with the mad wizard.
Orik watched green-faced as the painstakingly quarried hall with its intricate detail work blurred by like so much pouring milk. Dwarves were not meant for the sky, promised himself. Never again if I can avoid it. Surely even dragonback is better than this.
Mercifully, the journey was as brief as it was terrifying. Within minutes, they were slowing. The dwarf glanced at the scrollwork, searching for the glyphs which demarcated their location in relation to Tronjheim. He spotted them quickly. He actually did it, Orik thought in amazement. He did some quick sums in his head. Sure enough, it came to about 600 miles per hour. "By Helzvog's hammer, you actually did it!" Orik exclaimed. "Why have we stopped so far from Farthen Dur?"
"The brooms are a secret. They allow us to outmaneuver and outspeed dragons themselves, sneak over walls, be impossible distances apart. A powerful tool against the king, one which we would not let him know of," Arya answered smoothly. Orik nodded solemnly and clasped his fist over his breast.
"I Orik of Durgrimst Ingeitum do swear to keep your secret, to bring it to eternal rest entombed in stone." Arya nodded deftly and handed her broom over to Harry who stashed it. Before the last bit of the handle went past the mouth, Orik caught sight of something he had been too distracted to notice on his flight. "Are those diamonds?" he breathed in awe. "Where in the world have you mined two of such identical cut and quality?"
"Some other time, perhaps," Harry deferred. "Shall we meet Ajihad first?"
Orik nodded in agreement. "Aye. Follow me."
The dwarf led them through several branching corridors which Harry noted were excavated in a flawless grid pattern, one which never deviated as far as he could tell. Soon they reached a weathered wooden door with tarnished brass bands and hinges. Six pikemen stood at attention outside. Upon seeing their approach, they crossed their weapons. "Who goes there?" One challenged in a booming voice.
"Arya, Orik, and Harry the wizard."
The guards pounded their pikes several times on the ground and waited. It took no longer than a minute for the doors to swing open, pulled by another pair of guards on the inside. "Ajihad will see you now," one of the interior guards announced.
Arya, Orik, and Harry strode in purposefully. The first thing Harry noticed was Angela's presence. She had the living twin in chains and stared hatefully over the slimy bald man. A poniard the color of dusk was gripped in her hand. He glanced around and took in the room. It was a split-level affair with a balcony a dozen feet above their heads. Higher still was the stone ceiling. Cedar bookshelves paneled the walls, every shelf crammed full of literature of some sort. Many lanterns filled the space, brightening the room so that someone could easily read anywhere in the room. A great oval rug sat on the stone floor in front of a walnut desk, the desk at which Ajihad sat.
The man was bald with nearly black skin, black as in color, not race. His head must have been oiled because it shone like it was laminated. When he spoke, it was with a commanding and powerful presence. "Welcome, Harry Potter, to Tronjheim. Please, all of you, take a seat." He gestured at a set of chairs in front of his desk. When they were seated, he stayed silent. Harry was a rather impatient person by nature, but he could manage to avoid looking like a child desperate for the loo for a few minutes. When it became obvious that the silence was a power play of some sort, Harry opened his mouth to speak.
Dark and intelligent eyes caught the moment he opened his mouth and cut him off before he could say a word. "You have the Varden's thanks for revealing a spy within our midst. I admit, I had not foreseen it. We are very careful, as you have no doubt learned, to inspect the mind of every new member for hints of treachery. From what Angela has told me she found in his mind, you have saved us from a gruesome fate at the hands of Urgals."
"You're welcome," Harry said graciously. He had learned that when people wanted to thank you, denying it simply robbed him of a favor. A favor as great as ousting a spy from a powerful organization like the Varden, that would be a great favor indeed. "Though I fear you will have cause to thank me again soon, I heard you were running low on supplies, subsisting only upon the mercy of the dwarves and Surda."
Ajihad nodded solemnly. "They have given us all they can spare, and I cannot ask them to feed us at the cost of their own people. What miracle do you bring before us today, wizard?"
Harry grinned. "I've got enough supplies to solve most of your problems. My method of transport is a secret, though. Would you mind sending away your guard? Orik, Angela, and Arya can all stay."
The man nodded affably. "I warn you though, should you try anything, you will be very surprised by the prowess of the women and dwarves of the Varden." He rolled his eyes at the blatant threat.
"I'd hardly ask for your guards to leave to kill you, Ajihad. I'm perfectly capable of overcoming two men." The pikemen stiffened at his words on their way out. One turned back to Ajihad, who simply waved them along.
"Thank you," he commented. "Now, why will I be forced to thank you again?"
He smiled mysteriously and shrugged off his back, unclipping the rolled tent from the pack. "Eructo." The tent billowed up and settled on its frame. "Come, Ajihad."
Cautiously, the dark skinned man followed Harry through the flap. When he reached the interior, his jaw dropped. Ajihad had seen many things both wonderful and horrifying in his time as leader of the Varden. But this was something else. A beautiful homestead furnished with fine art and furniture, windows that looked out on–was that a mountain range? Ajihad shook his head. Harry led him over to two sets of stairs–he awed at the idea that this tent could hold three separate levels–and went down.
His breath was stolen again at the sight of the cavernous room, many times the size of his own office outside. The wizard waved him over to the left wall where a long array of metal cylinders sat. "All of these contain food."
Ajihad looked surprised. That was a lot of food, but the Varden consumed even more, and food was not something like weapons where one would last for years. "They're bigger on the inside." Oh. My. God. He was eager now.
"By how much?"
"I'm not sure. But it's absolutely massive. There are many thousands of tons of food in each one. They are all individual foods." Harry led him down the row, pointing at each cylinder in turn. "Wheat, barley, turnips, potatoes, celery, apples, eggs, milk," On and on it went. Ajihad felt dizzy. This one man had solved the Varden's biggest problem inside a tent.
"Are you able to get more if they ever run out?" He asked faintly. Harry cackled and tugged him like an eager child would their parents over to a large paneled wall which at his gesture slid upwards. Ajihad's breath caught, a sensation he was becoming increasingly familiar with. Behind the strange portal was a veritable country of farmland, divided up into neat little boxes filled with a murky sort of water. Stacked many rows tall and even more wide, they stretched out so far into the distance that Ajihad could not see the end. "I suppose that's a 'yes.'"
Yellowed lights shone like sunlight on each trough, and if his eyes did not deceive him, Ajihad thought he could see the plants growing so fast they were visibly getting larger as he watched. "I get a harvest more than twice a week," Harry said proudly. "I'd say you couldn't finish it all even if you tried."
Harry led him out and back into the enormous room. He was going to have to rethink his adjectives if every room he was shown ended up bigger than the last. Ajihad was at risk of running out. "You mentioned something about weapons?" he asked hopefully. The wizard nodded and led him to another panel in the opposite corner of the room. Knowing what lay behind them, Ajihad appraised the other sliding doors carefully.
The head of the Varden whistled lowly. Inside of the door were rows upon rows of gleaming steel weapons. Swords numbered the most, but were closely followed by spears, axes, maces, and knives. Every style imaginable arrayed in front of him, a full armory. Sharp eyes picked out a frankly ludicrous amount of arrows, bound in bushels by lengths of rope. Ajihad noted that there were now bows, but he would not look a gift horse in the mouth. "They're all enchanted, you know." Harry said it nonchalantly, like one might mention the weather.
Ajihad sputtered. "What–what enchantments?"
Harry shrugged. "The ones on the left wall are ones I made for myself or friends, they have some crazy stuff on them. On the right are the ones I made for the Varden. They all have enchantments for never dulling, rusting, or breaking. I will say that Durza was able to blast apart something I considered 'unbreakable,' but in testing I found that the swords are functionally unbreakable. I set two edge-on-edge on an anvil and added weight until one of them gave. The anvil got crushed first." He exhaled slowly.
"You made these yourself?"
"Yup," Harry stated proudly. "I slagged most of my first works because they were ugly. The earlier ones go vaguely from right to left, but it hardly matters since they're all unbreakable. I did the test with the worst and best ones I had, so you can be assured of their quality. They are all made of the best known steel possible. No alloys, I'm afraid, but they should serve you well. The eversharp enchantment interacted oddly with the crushing weapons."
"Interacted oddly?" Ajihad was curious, and he could now afford to indulge himself.
"Yeah, I mean, what would you think an enchantment that keeps something razor-sharp would do to a warhammer? In my experience, it keeps the form absolutely perfect." He strode over and grabbed a warhammer. The head was square, but had a diagonal facet on each side before the face became the side. Harry ran his finger along one of the edges and brought it up to show Ajihad. It was bleeding from a small line. "Maces, flails, and other spiked weapons have really sharp spikes, I just thought this was an amusing quirk of the magic."
"Indeed." Ajihad's lips twitched. "No bows?"
"Ah, yes. Suffice to say, I can make them very quickly and very well. If you send me one of your average archers, I can tailor it to him and hopefully that will be good enough for everyone."
"Acceptable," he allowed. "Very well. What will all this aid cost the Varden?"
Harry looked confused. "Cost? Ah. Well, I'll let you know when I find out. I have more gold than anyone could hope to see in a lifetime, I can actually create gems, and my raison d'etre here is to kill Galbatorix."
Ajihad was astonished. This magician swans in, solves all of the Varden's problems in one fell swoop, and asks for nothing in return. If not for Angela vouching for him, Ajihad would certainly have thought him the most blatant spy in existence. "I–I thank you on behalf of the Varden," he said unsteadily.
Harry waved it off. "It's–well, it's not nothing, but I knew what I was getting into starting these projects and they were all interesting challenges. I'm working on medicine right now and if you let me borrow Angela, I'm sure we'll have it all done that much faster."
He could do naught but shake his head in disbelief. "The Varden owes you a great debt, one which we will remember."
AN: Before everyone goes crazy on Harry giving the Varden stuff for free, think about it. What does he realistically need. He has piles of gold. Also, he intended to give away the food and gear from the outset, as soon as Arya told him what the Varden needed in regards to supplies.
Ajihad is honorable enough to remember what Harry provided and pay for what he asks for in the future, meaning miscellaneous ingredients, ore, and other such things he'll just have the Varden buy outright send to Harry.