Chapter 36: Invasion
Eragon squirmed in his new armor. Hrothgar had seen fit to gift it to him, along with a full set of dragon armor. It was beautifully decorated, and he knew he had to wear it to avoid offending, but Eragon knew he'd rather wear a set of armor from Harry. Not only would it be nearly invincible, the wizard would probably weave all sorts of spells for comfort into it. He had to admit the armor was cumbersome.
Saphira, on the other hand, looked glorious. The dragon armor was colossal and though it was slightly big for her in some places, the raiment was designed to fit a variety of sizes, likely to remain of use for an ever-growing dragon. Adorned with gold filigree and engravings, the steel was an inch thick in some places. Eragon had worried for a moment that she would be unable to fly.
"No pathetic metal shell will ground me," Saphira announced contemptuously. "Though I would rather it be weightless." Eragon nodded.
"Harry does good work," he agreed. He pulled his new sword from its sheathe. "Though I have yet to see him make steel as good as Zar'roc." Saphira sent him a noncommittal expression, neither agreeing nor disagreeing.
Murtagh had finally agreed to wield his father's sword Zar'roc. Ajihad sprung him from his comfy study-like cell and offered him a chance to fight in the invasion. The young man was dreadfully bored and accepted the opportunity eagerly. Currently, he was down in the training fields sparring to hone his skills before the battle, growing accustomed to wielding a rider blade.
Saphira and Eragon stood perched over the opening to the dragonhold above Isidar Mithrim. A dizzying distance below, women and children scurried about with packs and luggage, the dull roar of the crowd filling even the colossal hall below. Eragon heard the tromp of dwarven boots and looked up.
"Eragon. I brought food." Orik approached with an enormous platter of food and a sled which held a pile of raw meat. "For Saphira as well." The dwarf regarded Saphira in her armor with awe and a bit of fear. The dragon preened under the attention.
Eragon accepted the food gratefully. Saphira's neck snaked out to snap up her own meal, then returned to resting next to Eragon. "Orik, how did you get all the way up here from the kitchens?"
Orik smiled. "The challenge of crossing the great height to the dragonhold has long been solved through a variety of means. A staircase winds all the way up around the buttresses, but it takes an age to reach the top. Most people use the pulley system to reach the top. Though, in cases of emergencies, there is a polished trough which runs adjacent to the stairs all the way from the top-" A sound of outrage emanated from the mouth of the stairs.
"Why was I not told of this!? I would have been down it a dozen times by now already!" Harry glared with crossed arms at Orik.
"I suspect it is for that exact reason you were not told," Arya retorted in amusement.
"Vol Turin was not designed for human riders," Orik warned. "It is not so deep or wide that there is no risk of being thrown out and being dashed against the pillars or worse, into empty air."
"Pish posh," Harry dismissed. "I can just stop my fall with magic, and I'll wear my magic armor in case of the pillars."
"Armor?" Eragon examined the wizard closely. Harry wore no armor that he could see, not even a breastplate or helm.
"Yup," Harry looked proud. He held out an arm and showed off a silver bracelet on his right wrist.
"I assume it protects more than your wrist?"
Harry traced the bracelet with his index finger. It glowed green and slid up his arm, engorging impossibly to encompass his torso. When it reached past his shoulder, the circle spread into a gleaming chestplate with a green diamond set in the sternum. "It's enchanted to protect my whole body, but only cover my torso. That way, I don't lose any range of motion." He patted his greatsword over his shoulder where it hung next to his new bow. Eragon spotted an unfamiliar hilt.
"New sword?" Harry grinned and pulled it out. Eragon was very impressed indeed. Made of matte white steel and stretching nearly six feet from tip to pommel, it was a magnificent weapon. The hilt and guard resembled Hedwig in flight, clutching a diamond which glowed with white fire.
"That's not all it can do," he cackled. Without prompting, brilliant white flames raced along the blade, casting Harry's face in an unearthly light. "I wanted to call it Islingr or Light Bringer, but Arya said the name was already claimed." Eragon gazed at the flaming sword in a daze.
"I told you," Arya sighed. "You can't just use the name Vrael himself used for his sword. I don't even know most of the others, you could just as easily name it one of those."
Harry snickered. "It's not like your sword's name is a paragon of creativity. Bane of Shadows two." She leveled a glare at him.
"You were the one who told me the sword was basically the same, just 'white and occasionally on fire'"
He surrendered that point. "Whatever. Just think about how embarrassing it's going to be when someone else winds up killing Durza." Before Arya could construct a retort, Harry hopped into a granite trough, and the only thing that could be heard of him was a trailing whoop of glee.
Orik gazed at the top of Vol Turin with an exasperated expression and shook his head. "Ajihad has ordered the men to assemble in Farthen Dur. You'll be just as important for morale as combat prowess down there." Orik relayed the instructions he was given. Eragon just sighed and clambered into Saphira's saddle.
He lurched in his seat as Saphira stood up. With a wolfish grin, she allowed herself to tip over the edge of the dragonhold.
Eragon grinned at the thrill of weightlessness, the feel of the wind rushing past. With a mighty beat of her wings, Saphira traded downward motion for speed and rocketed past the awed Varden civilians, rushing down the grand tunnels towards Farthen Dur.
A roar announced Saphira's arrival in the cavernous room. Eragon swept his eyes over the fortifications Harry had emplaced for the Varden. He had been with Ajihad when their functions were explained, and he had to admit they were impressive. Eragon spotted his father down by a line of soldiers and pointed him out to Saphira, who banked towards him.
"Is everyone ready?"
Brom tugged off his helmet and grunted. "Just about. They should be upon us within hours." Eragon dismounted and stood next to him.
"Have you done this before?"
"A few times. Doru Areba, a couple of sieges before the Fall, and once before the Varden moved in here."
"Do you have advice?" Brom frowned and twisted Aren thoughtfully on his finger.
"Be incredibly careful. Even the greatest warrior can be felled by foul luck or underhanded tricks. The old elven king Evandar was nearly slain by a simple Urgal after he lost his footing in battle. Do not push too far into the enemy or you will be surrounded, a certain death sentence. Also, conserve your energy. At the outset, you will be tempted to let loose and deny them any ground, but that will merely exhaust you and let them further in when you are forced to pause to recover. Usually it's recommended that you carefully ration your arrows for high value targets, but Harry has eliminated that problem. Be very careful when you take flight. Saphira, you will be the biggest and most obvious target–expect to take the brunt of their archers when you fly."
"I thought you warded her wings against arrows?" Eragon asked.
"Aye, but they will fail if they turn enough of them."
Harry paced in front of the amphitheater filled with the Varden's magicians. "All right. Carn is going to stay back to help coordinate, so it'll just be the twenty of us. Today will be different than the usual sieges, assuming there are none of Galbatorix's own men with the Urgals. I haven't got the time to beat the prejudice out of you all, but know this: those Urgals are not attacking of their own free will. They are under the thrall of Durza the shade. I concede that you will likely be forced to kill some of their magicians, but if you have the opportunity, disable only." He swept his eyes across the nervous men and women.
"After Durza is killed, the Urgals will be thrown into chaos. Enemy tribes are being forced to fight side by side, and will likely turn on one another once they are no longer being forced against us. Do not kill them. This invasion could very easily be a blessing. Galbatorix has sent us legions of the best fighters in Alagaesia right along with enough resentment towards him that they're already our own troops in all but name."
Arya stepped into the tent and found a breastplate with an emerald gem on it, a sticky note stuck on the front. It read "Wear me." Smiling, she strapped the armor on and watched it shrink into a silver bracelet.
Brom glanced at his son and rubbed the hilt of his enchanted steel sword. Harry provided it to him at his request. It was a superior weapon, but he couldn't help missing Undbitr, his first weapon. It was a gift from Rhunon, and he had lost it decades past in a battle with the Forsworn, back when riders fought beside him to end Galbatorix's tyranny.
He did not want to see his son killed in this battle. Selena would murder him again once he saw her after this life. Brom had poured as much strength as he dared from Aren into Eragon's wards. He knew Harry would replenish its stores if he only asked. At half full, the ring would still allow him to strike a devastating blow against Durza should they cross paths.
Angela threaded together her huthvir, cheerfully ignoring the dirty looks she got from nearby dwarves. The poison capsule in the center was filled with the Draught of Living Death. In future battles, Harry had given her a tiny vial of basilisk venom, but he'd advised against using it for this battle. The time for killing would come during sieges and battles against Galbatorix's own men, rather than the thralls they would be fighting today.
Twirling her weapon experimentally, Angela nodded decisively and slung it over her shoulders, patting herself down. She felt around for the eight enchanted daggers on her person, the grenades on her belt, and her personal favorite; Albitr. The Urgal weapon was one of their finest works, a crystalline blade which would instantly cut through anything. Including wards. Out of respect for Rhunon, Angela had never tested its effectiveness against rider blades, but Zar'roc was such a tempting target…
The wait was agonizing. Every man on the battlefield felt the tension in the air. They regarded the dark tunnels with nervous gazes. Everyone's blood was up, adrenaline surging through their veins, yet there was no one to fight, no enemy to hack at.
Harry thought he heard the Urgals, but it was just a handful of men shuffling around. The six blocks of troops were arrayed in a semicircle facing outwards, the tunnel to Tronjheim behind them. Hrothgar's three legions on the right, Ajihad's on the left. He rubbed his fingers over the number on the bow's handle. 231. He had killed 231 living, breathing, thinking Urgals. Why he chose to fight at range, Harry did not know. Perhaps it was to put some distance between himself and the crimes he was about to commit, sending the Urgals to the great beyond. He knew with certainty that he could not avoid killing with his bow. It was made to be a lethal weapon. Yet he did not shrink from the battle. Revolutions are paid for in blood.
He reached into his pack and withdrew a loaf of bread and cheese, tearing off chunks and eating them before passing them along the line of archers. It was unsanitary, but Harry couldn't bring himself to care. He spotted a woman halfway down the line, dark skinned and bearing a striking resemblance to Ajihad. So that's Nasuada, he mused. He hoped she was a good shot with the recurve bow he spotted in her hands.
While they waited, Harry enchanted buckets filled with endless arrows and levitated them down to the lower levels. Hopefully it would prevent the men from running dry on ammo before the end of the fight.
Then, a horn sounded. Harry picked out rhythmic tromping emanating from far, far below. With a fearsome cry, the first rows of Urgals sprinted out of the tunnels, shields held out in front of them and wielding spears jutting towards the Varden.
Derrivan twisted a valve and mist began emanating from the perforated tubing. Every Urgal which passed underneath it slumped instantly. Harry heard Urgals shouting, but could not pick out what from his distance.
The next group held their shields above their heads and charged beneath. It worked for a few moments, but they still wound up rushing past the curtain and getting the hanging droplets on their skin. The momentum of the charge carried a few lines past before one clever Urgal managed to slash the tube. The mist spurted out in a spray, but the line deadened beyond the broken segment. They saw what happened and moved towards the source and cut it carefully. The Draught began drizzling from the open hole, forcing the Urgals to edge away from it for fear of getting splashed.
All along the six tunnels, Harry spied similar things happening. Surprisingly, the tunnel guarded by one of Hrothgar's generals was up the longest. The mounds of unconscious Urgals made it difficult to emerge. Troops further behind began shoving their fellows roughly out of the way and tromped out. When a sizable squad of them had emerged, Harry shot red sparks towards Derrivan, who received the signal and tipped the remaining cauldrons.
Black fluid drenched the attackers below, causing a sort of silent collapse. Urgals slumped soundlessly, forming an enormous knot of downed rams. When the troops tried to drag them away, they came in contact with the Draught of Living Death and fell unconscious themselves. Harry had to stifle a laugh at how effective the tactic was. He had no clue the exact numbers, but the Urgals had to have felt the losses of that many troops right out of the gate.
The Urgals advanced towards the field of spikes. Harry nearly threw up when his cruel fortifications kicked in. The polished granite floor was greased. When Durza's thralls stepped forwards, they lost their footing and impaled themselves on the angled steel spikes.
Durza must not have allowed them much individual thought, Harry realized. The Urgals were not trying to think their way around the fortifications, instead brute forcing them by overwhelming numbers. Garzhvog did say there were nearly too many of them for the Spine to support.
Harry tried very hard to ignore the deep screams as the grisly field of death that was the spikes claimed many scores more Urgals, sometimes two of them on the same spike when one tripped and forced the previous victim further down. Dark Urgal blood began to mix and swirl in with the grease, forming a reddened film over the granite.
All the while, archers hailed arrows down on them. Harry selected his targets carefully, since his bow was a one shot one kill weapon. Though he kept a sharp eye out for the standard of the Bolvek tribe which Garzhvog led, he did not spare any other warchiefs, sending invisible arrows blasting through their chests or knocking their heads clean off in a spray of red mist.
Someone must have wizened up down there because the Urgals positioned their shields to block the arrows and split their formations into separate lines which they used to wind through the spikes between the columns of metal. Harry's arrows punched straight through the shields he fired at, but he was the only one. The rest of the Varden had to switch to massed fire rather than individual targets. It was immediately obvious how much less effective the new tactic was–only a handful of Urgals fell per volley.
The horrifying tide of black horns and steel reached the moat, where the Urgals didn't even bother trying to bridge. They simply filled the channel with bodies and continued pushing forwards. When the pikemen and spearmen at the inner banks engaged, they managed to force the Urgals back for a time, but they were clearly struggling.
"Harry! Trianna has located several enemy magicians. Lend her your strength." Carn's voice sounded in his head. Harry extended his senses forwards and found the magicians with difficulty. The throng of consciousnesses around him pressed on his mind with crushing weight, giving him a monstrous headache.
Nevertheless, he located the first magician and Du Vrangr Gata brought their collective mental weight upon the shaman. His mental barriers crumbled nearly instantly from the attacks. Harry rifled through his memories for both the troops whose wards he held, and the manner of wards protecting himself.
With a firm grasp to prevent retaliation, Harry cast a spell which would circumnavigate his protections and render him unconscious. Swallowing bile, he mentally targeted the selected troops and cast a simple "cut."
A full battalion slumped dead. If autopsies were common in Alagaesia, a coroner would find each one's spinal cords severed just below the brain stem. Harry could not contain his sick, barely conjuring a bucket in time. While the Varden and dwarves below cheered raucously, the woman, Nasuada, Harry corrected himself, glanced at him in concern. He waved her off.
The battle continued like that for nearly an hour; scanning for the guarded minds indicative of either a commander or magician, breaking them, and killing everyone connected to them. After the first shaman and his battalion fell, Harry tried to spare the next group of enemies. He used the word pressure to hold closed the carotid arteries of the troops until they passed out, but the effort cost him far too much power. He was too far from the Urgals to use wide scale magic like that and sustain the effort until the massive kull collapsed from hypoxia.
Harry's bow had reached and surpassed five hundred kills when he angrily slung it over his back and leapt from the lofty bulwarks, propelling himself with magic towards Saphira.
She was fighting, flanked by Eragon and his father. They carved a bloody swath through the enemy ranks. Sapira bit and clawed and tore at the enemy relentlessly, snapping bones through armor contemptuously. Brom and Eragon whirled about in twin glints of grey steel, slashing and stabbing in a blur.
"Head towards Hrothgar, not Eragon!" Carn exclaimed. "His line is struggling."
At a word, Harry's trajectory curved. He tucked his arms in and reduced his profile as much as possible to speed towards them. Beside him, Hedwig soared along, singing a song of bravery and strength which emboldened all the troops she passed over. Blinky was wound along his chest, head sticking out over his shoulder. Harry had designed a sort of cone like dogs wore to prevent scratching so her deadly gaze would be exposed only to the enemy. Blinky had complained long and hard about the indignity of wearing a 'cone of shame,' but reluctantly agreed when it was explained that she couldn't use her eyes otherwise–they were too dangerous for both sides to risk it.
Sparse troops randomly placed collapsed in death when they glanced up at Harry as he flew through the air towards Hrothgar. He landed right next to the knurlan lightly, inside even his bodyguards' ranks. The battlefield was completely different up close. A haze of metal banging, screaming, the smell of blood and waste, and a general miasma of death hung like a haze about them. Harry found he much preferred the bulwarks above the field.
"Thank you for your assistance, Ascudaruna," Hrothgar grunted, smashing through an Urgal with Volund in his hand. His guards made to attack him, but the dwarf king waved them off. Reluctantly, Harry admitted that Hrothgar was an impressive sight. He wore gleaming bejeweled and gilded armor, wielding Volund like a switch. No Urgals within arm's reach lived long. He pulled off skillful attacks, then retreated before the enemy could punish him for his aggression. Harry was unsure if Hrothgar wielded a hammer before becoming the dwarf king, but if he hadn't, then his skill was doubly impressive for learning it from scratch once he earned his throne.
Withdrawing his greatsword, Harry set about slaying any Urgal who strayed within his reach. Together, he and Hrothgar turned the dense knot of attackers aside and helped their fellows hold the line. When the Urgals behind clumped up in preparation for a charge, Harry unclipped a ball from his belt and yanked out a pin, tossing the ball into the dense knot. "Hold your footing!" He bellowed at Hrothgar, who set his feet in preparation.
Suddenly, gravity shifted. The ground tilted dizzyingly towards the Urgals. Blinky wrapped tightly around his neck and arms to keep from being skewed in. Simultaneously, the group of kull were sucked screaming into a tiny black dot which seemed to warp the light around itself. Before Hawking radiation could force the singularity to explode and annihilate the mountain range, a triggered vanishing spell deleted the black hole. Gravity abruptly returned to normal, causing several fighters on both sides to fall on their arses.
Harry lunged forwards, swinging his sword in scything motions and killing several Urgals per stroke. White flames trailed behind the blade. Hrothgar understood what he was doing and also leapt into frenzied motion, killing as many Urgals as possible while they were disoriented by the singularity grenade's gravity fluctuations. The jarring thrum of the water cannons disbursing enemy formations punctuated the fighting, and occasionally the watery starburst was close enough to Harry that he could feel mist settle in on his skin.
Once they managed to prevent the struggling formation from breaking under the Urgal tide, Harry thrust himself into the air and used magic to propel himself towards the wall behind the tunnels. He needed proximity to effectively use magic against entire legions, especially if he wanted to go the non-lethal route. Hidden behind a stone shelf, Harry joined forces with Trianna and Du Vrangr Gata, searching and destroying the enemy magicians. If he was able to locate the shamans physically before they broke their minds, Harry would simply shoot them. Only once had an enemy's wards stopped his recurve bow from blasting straight through their armor, and his second shot did the job the first did not.
Urgal archers noticed him and sent a hail of arrows, but they were all stopped either by his wards or his armor.
The effectiveness of his and Trianna's strategy actually stemmed the tide of Urgals for a time, suffocating battalion after battalion of enemies with efficient use of magic. Harry spied Angela down in the fighting, twirling around with her huthvir. Every glint of steel meant another Urgal collapsing unconscious from a tiny cut. Or not-so-tiny cut, depending on how irritated Angela got before she overcame her opponents. He noted idly that Solembum had met up with her again, the werecat from Teirm likely having traveled the slow way to the Beors.
The battle dragged on. Harry did not feel the bite of fatigue since he kept replenishing himself with a shrunken diamond on a ring, but the mental fatigue of breaking mind after mind and then accurately targeting hundreds of specific enemies from someone else's memories to down with magic was accumulating. The headache from thousands of minds around him did not help matters.
He spotted the white fire of Arya's own blade and sent himself flying towards her. Harry noticed her sending him intense looks of a certain nature throughout the fight, ones which he did not think were appropriate for a battlefield. Nevertheless, the pair of them used their phoenix flame weapons to great effect, cutting down countless Urgals.
"Harry! Dwarves have reported tunneling from beneath Tronjheim! You must go and stop them from getting a foothold." Harry glanced at Arya in concern. She heard the message, too.
"Grab my arm!" The elf sprinted towards him in incredibly long lunging strides, diving towards him with outstretched arms. The instant she came in contact with him, Harry hugged her tightly and spun on his heel.
The abrupt cessation of battle jarred him. Tronjhiem was eerily silent compared to Farthen Dur, the only noise their heavy breathing. Flapping echoed from the tunnel as Saphira winged her way towards them from the grand corridors.
Neither of them looked good. Eragon was bleeding from several cuts, including one on his forehead which dripped blood into his eyes and stuck his bangs within his field of view, obstructing his vision. He limped, favoring his right leg. Below him, Saphira's breastplate was caved in by an axe which was still stuck in her armor. It must have been digging into her chest painfully.
"Reparo." Harry shot the charm at Saphira's armor, wincing at the cracks and ringing of dents smoothing out. The axe stuck in the breastplate was flung outwards. "Can you guys tend to your own wounds? Go up to the dragonhold. Arya and I can handle the vanguard until you return."
Saphira flapped hard and took off. "I've been rather conservative with my more destructive magic. Arya, do you think Tronjheim would survive the obliteration of all the tunnels beneath us?" She shook her head, gripping Du Sundavar Freohr tightly.
Abruptly, the silence was shattered as a slab of granite floor blasted upwards. Urgals poured out, encircling the pair without aggression. Harry lit his sword, but did not move yet. He did not know why they were not attacking.
The curtain of dust generated from the explosion gently drifted down, revealing a figure in black armor with blood red hair, staring hatefully at the pair of them. Durza had arrived. "Do not attack!" he barked to his troops in urgalish. "The elf and the wizard, all alone. How convenient for me." He made a show of glancing about as if searching. "Where is the old guy and the rider? I suppose you'll have to make do!"
Durza screamed the last word, lunging at them abruptly. His pale steel sword swung blindingly fast towards them, the deep scratch down its spine catching the dim light eerily. Simultaneously, he launched a devastating mental attack at them both. If not for Arya supporting him, Harry would have succumbed quickly. At his peak, he might have held off the assault for a while, but he was tired and feeling the effects of a migraine. As it was, Harry knew the only way to survive was to counterattack decisively enough that they broke Durza's mind before he did theirs.
The two of them were both boosted by elvish strength and accomplished with their respective weapons, but Durza was on an entirely different level. He was head and shoulders above the last time they fought, jarring Harry's bones with every strike and forcing him to defend for Arya so she could attack. The surrounding Urgals did not interfere, standing stock still as they watched.
Harry leapt and dodged, swinging and slashing with all the grace and power he could manage. He thrust towards Durza's right side, but the shade punished the attack with a slash that would have taken off his wrist were it not for his armor. As it was, the cursed blade Durza wielded carved a deep and bloody scratch which quickly began worming between his grip.
After such an injury, he began to play the fight more hesitantly, tagging in and out with Arya as they harried him from both sides. Red cape whirling, Durza spun back and forth between them with malevolent grace, dealing uncounted superficial injuries. His sword could penetrate the invisible armor, but he seemed unable to cut all the way through, and so everyone managed to keep all their limbs.
He feinted towards Durza's right shoulder. The shade took the bait, leveling his own blade rather awkwardly to block the shoulder of the arm he wielded his weapon in. Quick as a flash, Harry leapt forwards with his hilt, shoving the long blade against Durza's neck.
It connected. Durza managed to turn enough that it did not decapitate him, but the strike bit deep into the left side of his collarbone, drawing out a scream of pain and fury.
Enraged, Durza stopped playing with his food.
The attacks came so fast and powerful, Harry could not spare a second thought, could hardly glance at anything other than the relentless swing of Durza's sword. Out of the corner of his eyes, he thought he recognized a shape-
He screamed out. Durza had used his fleeting distraction to stab his sword straight through his supposedly unbreakable armor, straight across his back. With a sickening slurp, his bloodied sword slid out, tugging at Harry and sending unbearable agony through him. It felt like he was being tortured. Harry got flashbacks to Voldemort, pale wand held high over him as he struggled against the tombstone. "Crucio. Bow, Harry. Bow to death. We are not playing hide and seek." Tom Riddle's taunts floated through his consciousness. Vaguely, he was aware of Durza gloating, pushing Arya harder and harder, surely she would be overwhelmed any second now…
"Jierda. Do you like the enchantment Galbatorix was so kind as to add to my sword?" Durza's magic shattered Harry's right arm, splintering the bones so that even the slightest movement shot unbearable agony through his arm, tangible even through the Cruciatus-like pain he was experiencing.
"He is ever so curious about your magic, Harry Potter. Did you know that?" Durza taunted. "I'm not going to kill you. I'm going to drag your body straight to Uru'baen where the king and I will have great fun dragging those exciting secrets from your screaming throat. Jierda." Another limb shattered, this time his left arm. Arya growled ferally and attacked, slashing from his collarbone to his hip, but the shade blocked it contemptuously.
"He was very surprised you managed to hold me off in Teirm, you know. Jierda." Durza said conversationally. "Shades get more powerful every time we are killed without dying. Galbatorix did not wish to risk his most useful servant dying, so he chose to strengthen me. Since we last met, I have died a hundred times, and I will take from you payment in pain and blood. Jierda! Galbatorix wants you and the dragon, but your companions are fair game." Harry was out of limbs to shatter, and he did not want to find out what Durza would do next.
"This little elf, for example." He whirled his blade around and delivered an incredibly powerful stroke to Arya's sword. She shouted out as the force shattered her forearms. Durza gripped her by the neck and held her off the ground.
"Arya, is it? When you were the egg bearer, your life was worth something. You may know where the elvish cities lie in Du Weldenvarden, you may have valuable words locked away in your mind, you may have valuable information to be taken. But-" Harry watched helplessly as Durza drew back his sword. "-You're worth most to me as emotional torture." He plunged his blade directly into Arya's navel, where it extended out the other side. The scream she made tore at Harry's ears and heart. He knew intimately what the feeling was like; a thousand white hot knives piercing every inch of your skin, your blood turning to acid in your veins, and you would do anything to make it-
"Stop!" Harry choked. Durza laughed coldly and wiggled his sword playfully in her belly, drawing ever more pitched screams from Arya. Harry could do nothing, he could not reach the shade without him noticing, they were going to die and there was nothing he could do about it. His wand was in his sleeve which might as well be a mile away when all his muscles could do was shred themselves against the splinters of bone in his limbs.
"Screw you, Carsaib," Harry gasped. "Pathetic little sorcerer couldn't manage a few spirits…" Durza dashed Arya against the ground and stalked over furiously, point level with Harry's head. He went cross eyed trying to keep his gaze focused on the tip.
"Shut up. It's a long way until Uru'baen, a long time I get you to myself-" Harry gave a tortured laugh, eyes wild.
Brom cast his mind back to his son in concern. Eragon held up admirably, though he didn't know that he liked what that meant. Brom remembered his first wide scale battle, repulsing a massed pirate attack on Teirm decades back. He remembered the nausea he felt from the smell of gore and death, the horror of men laying in pieces around him.
Eragon's composure was steely, and he did not shy away from dealing lethal blows to his enemies. Brom knew he had been pushed hard on the road, and seen the uglier side of humanity in Dras-Leona. He just wasn't sure he liked what that made his son.
He caught a thick sword on the hilt of his own and locked blades. The kull who attacked him looked surprised for a moment that the old man he tried to hit actually forced him back. Brom smiled grimly. Still got it.
The battle had gone on long enough that the old rider had sank into a sort of battle meditation. Muscle memory and ingrained habits guided his arm and sword, blocking, slashing, jabbing. It allowed him time to think and plan while in mortal combat. As Brom beheaded another kull with a deft strike which went straight through his sword, he sent a quick prayer that Eragon would not be hurt by Durza. Brom had faith in Arya and Harry–and to a greater extent, Saphira–but he was a father, and it was a father's nature to worry about their children.
Murtagh sidled up to him, taking a place by his side. He wielded his own sword from Harry. Brom suppressed a scowl and greeted Morzan's son dismissively with one hand, the other twisting an enemy axe out of an Urgal's hands. Feeling the bite of fatigue, Brom subtly fortified himself with Aren's energy and pressed on, slashing straight through a shield and removing an arm, quickly followed by its owner's head. These swords feel like cheating, he mused.
Murtagh clearly thought so. Wielding his father's old weapon, he was grinning like a loon, laughing every time a powerful two-handed strike went straight through an Urgal's weapon or armor. Brom shivered at the sound of that laugh. It reminded him eerily of his father. Morzan often let out maddened expressions of mirth in the middle of combat. Brom had chastised himself for missing the blatant madness of his idol many times after Morzan turned on the riders.
Together, the old rider and the child of the man he'd killed carved a path through the never ending tide of grey skin and red eyes. Discretely, Brom palmed the wand Harry had given him in his left hand. He preferred native magic in the ancient language to the wanded brand, but there were certain advantages to the wand. Glisseo. "Thrysta!" A squad of Urgals lost their footing, feet shooting out from underneath them.
Brom would admit it was handy to cast spells without speaking. He knew it was possible–the riders knew many things–but it was a serious taboo to do so in any circumstance not dire enough to warrant it. Plus, he admitted, it's pretty nice how little energy the spells cost.
Murtagh seized the chance the slipped Urgals presented, leaping forwards and plunging his sword through their throats, like he was compacting the earth beneath, rather than executing a dozen living beings. If only Eragon didn't like him so much… Brom lamented. He knew it was wrong, but the old rider really didn't want Murtagh anywhere near him or his family. Alas, Eragon has made his choice. Selena, too. He cast his mind back ruefully on his once-wife. Selena was truly one-in-a-million, ruthless enough to be the Black Hand of Morzan, soft enough to win his heart. Brom bent his arm over his shoulder, deflecting a cowardly strike from behind him contemptuously.
Murtagh had pressed forwards eagerly, his sword dripping with blood. Brom cautiously followed him, keeping the enemy off his back. The boy had nearly gotten himself surrounded without even noticing, so eager to hack and slash at the Urgals. "Murtagh! Fall back!" Morzan's son scarcely listened, rearing back for a powerful underhanded stroke which cleaved his current foe in half. Brom cursed and edged to the right, trying to get within his field of view. He needed to snap Murtagh out of his berserker rage, else he was likely to be killed in some foolish mistake.
The man's shaggy hair bounced and whirled from where it poured out beneath his helm, thrust into motion by Murtagh's relentless dodging, twirling, slashing, and stabbing. Brom shouted over the ruckus of battle. "Murtagh! You must fall back! We are surrounded!"
Murtagh did not listen, so Brom shook his shoulder.
It was a mistake.
He spun on his stepfather, flinging a gauntleted hand at Brom. The old rider glimpsed Murtagh's eyes. They were maddened, so intense the world narrowed to only the enemy beneath his blade. Brom recognized that look, knew it all too well. Murtagh's flung out fist struck Brom's backplate. Hardly injurious, but it was enough. Brom was in the middle of a feint. He slashed towards the kull's legs, weight shifted to sell the ruse. At the last second he planned to whip his blade towards the kull's neck, but Murtagh's strike provided just enough impetus to throw off Brom's balance.
Instead of feinting and switching, when Brom heaved his muscles against the momentum of his weapon, his center of balance was just slightly off, and he was forced to strike at the kull's groin. Brom's sword hit its target, but so did the kull, severing the old rider's achilles tendon.
He instantly lost his footing, slipping on the bloodied granite. Quick as a flash, the kull, enraged, heaved his sword up with both hands level with the tips of his horns, then heaved down. The kull never got close. Brom threw his sword like a javelin, sending it straight through the kull's armor, ribs, heart, spine, and out his backplate. The kull staggered back, but his massive urgal sword was too far gone. The weapon's great momentum carried it down, down, and pinned Brom to the ground by his breast.
Durza loomed over Harry and Arya's broken forms, a hateful sneer plastered on his visage. Harry coughed harshly, tasting blood. "You told me yourself you can't kill me." The shade glared at him. If looks could kill, they both would be a smoking crater. Abruptly, he laughed gleefully.
"Look at this!" He forced himself upon Harry's mind and shattered the flimsy barriers keeping him out, projecting an image. As if through a reddened haze, Harry saw through an Urgal's vision as someone thrust a crude metal sword through Brom's breast, felling him. He switched the vision over and over, showing hopeless scenes of the Varden falling. "You've lost!" Durza cackled madly, a crazed spark in his eyes. "Do you know why you were so distracted in our fight, the thing which cost you the elf's life and your freedom? Look."
He seized Harry's head with a clawed grip, forcing his head to look at the Urgal who'd caught his eye. It was Garzhvog. He wore a steel chestplate with the Bolvek tribe standard on it, the familiar shape that niggled at his mind, the shape that cost him the fight. "I know he's your friend, you know. But, he's hardly important enough to keep alive. Why, I could just…" Durza placed the point of his sword at Garzhvog's unmoving neck. The ram stood stock still, he did not resist, even when the point began to draw blood. "No? Maybe later. If you behave…" He trailed off meaningfully. "But first things first." The shade positioned himself just behind Arya's sprawled body, sword in hand. He swung back, like a golfer about to drive a ball, rather than an executioner about to murder someone Harry thought he might be in love with.
Far above, the red rose shattered.
Enormous jagged spikes of ruby red sapphire lanced towards them at the speed of gravity, chased by a roaring dragon, great plumes of blue flames blasting towards them. Durza's head tilted back, mouth in a surprised 'O.' He sneered and raised his hand to cast a lethal spell…
Arya scissored her legs, kicking her blade into the air, then in a show of unparalleled dexterity and accuracy, leapt up and kicked her blazing white blade forwards. Straight through Durza's heart.
AN: Chapters will tend to come further apart now. I've slogged through the intro and the scene is set, now things begin to diverge from canon. Though not overly obvious yet, Ellesmera is where things are going to change. I've been slowing down to read canon again and refresh myself on everything that happens, so I've had less time to just write.
That said, I hope to get at least a chapter out a week. This one wasn't very long because I thought where the chapter ended was a very natural stopping point. The next one is a bit longer, and deals with how our main characters are going to move forwards. I'm thinking of adding another POV split between Trianna and Nasuada about the Varden without any of our main characters. Lots of stuff is happening there, and the original books barely touched on it. Plus, it will show some of the interactions between the disparate Urgal clans and how they felt about the battle of Farthen Dur.
I know that the instant I post this I will think of something else I wanted to put in the author's notes, but I don't care, and you'll have to wait for the next chapter on the off chance that I remember it when I post the next chapter