CHAPTER TEN

Rescue

The journey to Gil'ead stretched through the day, taking us over the rugged peaks of the Spine and the open plains that sprawled beneath the azure sky. As the airship hummed steadily through the heavens, the tension of what lay ahead was palpable. The rescue mission for Arya, the elf held captive by the Empire, was about to begin. Each passing hour brought us closer to the fortress city, and I used the time to ensure everyone was prepared—not just for the mission, but for the new lives we were carving out together.

Elain was comfortably settled, the accommodations carefully arranged so that the journey did not strain her health. I checked on her regularly, earning her gentle smiles that reminded me of the importance of keeping this group safe. Horst had taken it upon himself to transform one of the lower rooms into a makeshift forge. Together with his sons, Albriech and Baldor, he had already begun crafting tools for what would one day become a thriving community. The rhythmic clang of hammers against metal was a reassuring sound, a reminder of the resilience of the human spirit.

Roran and Garrow, on the other hand, struggled to find ways to contribute. Farming skills were of little use aboard an airship, and the unfamiliar environment left them adrift. Garrow, ever resourceful, began assisting Gertrude in the makeshift healing room, while Roran gravitated toward me. He spent hours on the deck, his restless energy evident in every step. One evening, he approached me in the control room, his expression determined.

"I want to come with you to rescue the elf woman," he said, his voice steady but his eyes betraying the storm of emotions beneath.

I shook my head firmly. "It's too dangerous, Roran. This mission isn't just about bravery—it's about skill and experience. You're not ready for something like this."

He clenched his fists, frustration radiating from him. "Damn it Mark, I'm not asking to fight the blasted king. I just—I need something to do. Sitting here feels like I'm wasting time."

I softened my tone. "I understand. But your time will come. Right now, staying safe means, you'll be there for the future we're all building."

He didn't argue further, though I could tell he was far from satisfied. I suspected his eagerness stemmed from his recent altercation with Sloan over Katrina. The butcher had been furious when Roran asked for Katrina's hand without consulting him. Sloan's threats had been loud and ugly, though most believed he wouldn't follow through. I, however, knew better and had discreetly asked Horst to keep an eye on him.

Jeod and his sailors were adapting well to life aboard the ship. I had them assigned to various tasks, including maintaining the enchanted weapons—a redundant chore given my spells, but one that kept them busy and gave them a sense of purpose. Jeod and Brom spent hours poring over maps and plans, strategizing for our approach to the Varden. Jeod suspected a spy within their ranks, though I refrained from confirming it was the twins. That revelation would have to wait.

Meanwhile, Brom continued training Eragon and Saphira. Their progress was remarkable; Eragon's grasp of the ancient language had improved, and Saphira's grace in the air was unmatched. Brom, ever the taskmaster, pushed them hard, though not unkindly.

I also found time to spar with Eragon. Before we began, Saphira pinned me to the ground, her massive talons pressing just enough to make her point.

Her voice echoed in my mind. "I am not your messenger bird to send orders to the ship pilot."

I chuckled nervously. "Point taken, mighty Saphira. I apologize."

She huffed and released me, her sapphire eyes glinting with satisfaction. Eragon tried to apologize on her behalf, but I waved him off. "It's fine. I should have seen that one coming."

During our sparring session, I noted how much Eragon had improved. While his speed and strength couldn't match mine, his skill had grown exponentially. "A born prodigy," I muttered under my breath, both impressed and slightly unnerved.

We talked as we traded blows, our conversation turning to Angela the herbalist. After some coaxing, Eragon revealed the details of the fortune she had cast for him. It was unsettlingly similar to the one I remembered from the books. Though I reassured him, the mention of death lingered in my mind. I resolved to ensure Brom's survival, knowing that in the original story, his death had been a turning point. This time, things would be different—or so I hoped.

As Gil'ead loomed on the horizon, Brom called a meeting in the control room. Everyone involved—Eragon, Jeod, Roran, Baldor, Horst, and myself—gathered around the central table as Brom laid out the plan.

"We'll drop off near the barracks," Brom began. "Eragon, Mark and I will infiltrate the cells, free Arya, and extract her. If we're discovered, we eliminate any resistance. Quietly, if possible."

I nodded. "The ship will stay cloaked. Baldor will keep it positioned above the barracks. If things go south, he'll open fire on my command."

Brom's expression darkened. "There's one more thing. The shade, From the description in the letter, if he's here. Avoid him at all costs."

I met Brom's gaze, my expression unreadable. "Understood," I said, though I had no intention of following that order. Durza's death was key to saving Tronjheim from an Urgal onslaught.

Saphira growled in frustration. "And what of me? Am I to sit idle while you risk everything?"

I placed a hand on her flank. "If it comes to that, you'll have free rein to join the fight. But only if things go bad."

She snorted, reluctantly accepting the compromise.

When the time came, we descended to the barracks cloaked in invisibility. I handed Eragon a power vest, ensuring it synced with his abilities. Brom's power vest had been enhanced using the energy from the golden heart, preparing him for the battle ahead.

Inside the barracks, we moved swiftly, avoiding detection as we made our way to the commander's office. It was empty save for exotic weapons that Brom identified as Arya's. "We'll retrieve them on our way out," he said.

Deeper into the stronghold, we reached the cells—and there he was. Durza. The shade's pale skin and crimson hair glowed under the torchlight; his blood-red eyes fixed on Arya's near unconscious form. A dark cape billowed behind him as he turned, sensing our presence.

The captain of the guard stepped forward. "We have intruders!" he barked. "Sound the alarm!"

Durza raised a hand, his voice smooth as silk. "Stand down, captain, let me deal with them."

The captain scoffed. "I take orders from the king, not from a shade."

With a flick of his wrist, Durza seized the captain by the throat and snapped his neck effortlessly. The other guards recoiled in terror, their loyalty faltering.

Durza's gaze landed on us, a cruel smile curling his lips. "Ah, the troublemakers from Carvahall. Brom, the meddler himself. And you…" His eyes lingered on me. "The bane of the Ra'zac. You know, Galbatorix was so annoyed by your little rebellion. You three are powerful indeed, you will make excellent servants when I bind you to my will."

I stepped forward, flanking Brom as Eragon mirrored my movements. "You'll never get the chance, shade," I said, my voice steady and cold. "You'll be too dead to control us."

With that, we charged, our power armors amplifying our speed and strength. The battle for Arya's freedom had begun.

The clash of swords echoed in the dimly lit corridor as chaos erupted. Brom was a blur of motion, his voice commanding and sharp as he intoned the words of the ancient language. Three soldiers fell to his magic in an instant, their bodies crumpling like discarded dolls. But more poured in, and he was forced to engage them with his sword. His blade moved with precision, every swing calculated, every parry deliberate. His expression was one of grim determination, his years of experience shining through.

Eragon was in his element, though outnumbered by four opponents. With Zar'roc in his hands and the power vest enhancing his strength and speed, he became a whirlwind of deadly grace. The sword sang as it cut through the air, finding its mark time and again. Eragon's movements were fluid and instinctive, his raw talent honed by Brom's training. He dispatched his foes with a calm focus, his every step purposeful. Despite the odds, there was no doubt he would emerge victorious.

As the last soldier fell, the three of us turned our focus to Durza. The shade stood waiting, a sinister smile curling his lips. His crimson eyes glowed with malevolence, and his pale skin seemed almost translucent in the dim light. His sword was drawn, its edge gleaming with a dark aura.

Durza's stance was confident, his teeth bared in a feral grin. "You cannot defeat me, humans," he hissed, his voice smooth and mocking.

We didn't waste time with words. Brom, Eragon, and I charged simultaneously. Durza met us with a roar, his blade clashing against ours in a cacophony of steel.

The battle was ferocious. Durza's strength and speed were monstrous, matching even Eragon's power vest enhanced abilities. Their swords clashed with a violence that reverberated through the corridor, each blow a contest of power and precision. Durza's brutal efficiency contrasted with Eragon's natural flair, the young rider showing an artistry that bordered on mesmerizing.

I focused my energy on attacking Durza's mind. His consciousness was a storm of chaos, a pack of feral wolves snapping at me from all directions. The assault was relentless, and it took all my focus to keep him from breaking through my defenses. Meanwhile, Brom joined me, his mind a battering ram against Durza's mental walls. Together, we pushed, our combined willpower an unyielding force.

Eragon kept the shade occupied physically, his every strike a diversion to aid us. The three of us worked in perfect synchronization, each of us playing our part. I could feel Durza's defenses weakening, the cracks in his mental armor beginning to show.

"Now, Eragon!" Brom shouted, his voice ringing with authority.

Eragon saw the opening and raised Zar'roc for the killing blow. But just as he brought the blade down, an arrow whistled through the air, piercing Durza's eye. The shade screamed, his body disintegrating into a cloud of grey mist. The mist swirled for a moment before dissipating, leaving behind an unnatural silence.

Eragon's sword struck nothing but air. "Damn it!" I cursed, frustration burning through me. "So close."

Turning to the source of the arrow, I froze. Standing there, bow in hand, was a figure I recognized instantly. His black hair framed a handsome face both familiar and defiant. Brom tensed beside me, his hand tightening on his sword.

"Murtagh?" I asked, my voice a mix of shock and suspicion. "How the hell are you here?"

The newcomer's expression hardened. "How the blazes do you know my name?" he demanded, his tone sharp and guarded.

Before I could answer, Brom stepped forward, his posture commanding. "There's no time for this. We'll talk on the ship."

The alarms bells rang suddenly, the sound piercing and urgent. Footsteps thundered in the distance as reinforcements approached. Brom moved swiftly to the cell door, unlocking it with a muttered incantation.

Eragon rushed inside, his gaze falling on Arya. She was barely conscious, her body battered and weak. Her eyes fluttered open briefly as he knelt beside her, but she fainted before she could say a word. Eragon caught her, cradling her gently, his expression a mix of awe and worry.

"Eragon, we have to move," I said sharply, waving a hand in front of his face. His eyes lingered on Arya for a moment longer before he nodded, determination hardening his features.

We made our way back to the captain's office, where Brom quickly grabbed Arya's bow and sword. "Elven make," he murmured, admiration flickering in his voice. "We'll need these."

When we reached the entrance, the soldiers of Gil'ead were waiting. Rows of them stood in formation, their weapons gleaming under the dim light. Their faces were set with resolve, though some showed a flicker of fear.

Before they could charge, a deafening roar shook the air. Saphira's roar was primal and fierce, sending a wave of terror through the ranks. The men hesitated, their nerves faltering.

Eragon's voice cut through the moment. "The ship's under attack, Saphira is fighting soldiers!" he said, his bond with Saphira conveying her distress.

But I saw an opportunity. While the soldiers were distracted, I uttered a spell in the ancient language. Stones from the walls and floor began to spin in a deadly vortex, slicing through the ranks. The spell left behind a grisly scene; the soldiers reduced to a mangled heap.

The exertion drained me, and without my armor to bolster my magic reserves, I knew I had to conserve my strength. "Let's move!" I barked, leading the way to where the ship waited.

We climbed aboard, and I shouted to Baldor, "Take off now!"

As the ship ascended and cloaked itself again, I followed Brom into the healing room. Arya lay unconscious, her face pale but peaceful. Horst approached me, his expression grim.

"Something terrible has happened," he said, his voice low and heavy with foreboding.

My heart sank as I braced myself for the news.

The heavy atmosphere in Gertrude's small healing chamber weighed on us as we entrusted Arya to her care. She promised to find us if Arya's condition worsened or if she woke up. Brom, grim and silent, led the way as Eragon, Murtagh, and I followed him through the winding corridors of the ship. The air was tense, filled with unspoken questions.

The walk to the cargo area was short but suffocating. When we reached the massive room near the entrance ramp, the sight before us froze me in place. The space was packed with the villagers of Carvahall, their faces stricken with a mix of grief and anger. The murmur of voices swirled like a low storm, punctuated by gasps and muffled sobs.

Brom pushed forward, and we squeezed through the throng, our shoulders brushing against pale, somber villagers. When we finally reached the front, the scene hit me like a physical blow. Roran knelt in a pool of blood; his shoulders hunched as though the weight of the world had settled upon them. In his trembling hands, he clutched the limp body of Garrow, his bloodied neck adorned with the handle of a butcher's knife.

Roran's face was a mask of fury and despair, his haunted eyes fixed on Eragon as though searching for answers that could never come. Eragon froze for a moment before the reality of the scene struck him.

"Garrow!" Eragon's anguished cry tore through the room as he fell to his knees beside Roran, his voice trembling with disbelief. He grabbed Garrow's lifeless hand, tears streaming down his face as he shook his head. "No… no, this can't be happening! He can't be gone!"

Eragon's sobs filled the room, raw and heart-wrenching, as Roran sat silently beside him, his eyes hollow with shock. I stood frozen, unable to move. The memory of Angela's fortune of Eragon played over and over in my mind. Destiny's cruel hand had struck once more, taking someone, I had fought so hard to save.

Brom's voice cut through the anguish like a blade. "Horst, what happened here?"

Horst stepped forward, his massive frame shuddering as he spoke. His voice was thick with sorrow. "We heard Katrina scream. By the time we got there… we saw Garrow. He was trying to stop Sloan from dragging Katrina out of the ship." Horst's voice cracked. "But Sloan… he lost control. He pulled a knife—this knife—and stabbed Garrow in the neck. Then, as Garrow fell… Sloan tried to flee, but the soldiers and Ra'zac were waiting outside. They captured him… and Katrina."

My stomach twisted. "The Ra'zac?" I demanded, my voice sharper than I intended. "Are you sure it was them?"

Horst nodded grimly. "Aye. Saphira was fighting them, but they managed to drag Katrina and Sloan away. The soldiers at the entrance… Saphira killed them."

Murtagh's face darkened. "The same Ra'zac I've been tracking. They led me here… to that Shade, the one I killed with the arrow." His tone was venomous, his hands clenched into fists.

Brom turned to him sharply. "The Shade isn't dead. You can't kill one so easily. A Shade must be struck through the heart with a blade. Otherwise, it will return."

Murtagh's jaw tightened, but he said nothing. Brom knelt beside Eragon, placing a hand on his shoulder. His voice softened. "I'm sorry, Eragon. Garrow was a good man—a great man. He deserves a burial worthy of a king."

The villagers murmured their agreement, some stepping forward to offer their help in preparing Garrow's body. Eragon remained kneeling, clutching Garrow's hand as though he could somehow pull him back from the abyss. Roran said nothing, his eyes distant and unseeing.

Brom, Murtagh, and I stepped away, leaving Eragon and Roran to their grief. As we made our way back to Arya's room, my thoughts raced. This wasn't fair. I had saved Garrow before, but now he was gone again. Was this destiny correcting itself? Was there no way to change the course of fate? My mind turned dark corners, wondering if Brom might be next. No. I wouldn't let it happen. I would forge my own path, not tread along the one carved out by destiny.

When we reached Arya's cot, she was still unconscious. Gertrude rose from her seat and excused herself to pay her respects to Garrow. Once she was gone, Brom turned sharply to Murtagh, his expression hard as iron.

"I know who you are, boy," Brom said, his voice low and dangerous. "Why should we trust you?"

Murtagh didn't flinch. His gaze met Brom's head-on, his tone steady but edged with defiance. "Because we have a common enemy. The Ra'zac and the Empire. That's why I'm here."

Brom's eyes narrowed, but he said nothing, waiting for an explanation.

Murtagh crossed his arms. "I didn't have to save your lives back there. I could have left you to face Durza alone, but I didn't. I want the Empire destroyed as much as you do."

I watched the exchange in tense silence, the weight of Garrow's death and the brewing storm between Brom and Murtagh pressing down on all of us. The room seemed to grow smaller as the unspoken threats lingered in the air, waiting to erupt.

The room was quiet, heavy with tension as Brom, Murtagh, and I stood in uneasy silence. Murtagh's arms were crossed, his stance defensive, while Brom's sharp gaze never left him. The door creaked open suddenly, breaking the silence. Eragon entered, his face pale but his eyes bloodshot with fury.

"Eragon," Brom began, his voice softer than usual. "You don't need to do this right now. Rest. We can discuss this later."

Eragon shook his head, his jaw tight. "I'm fine," he said, though his voice cracked slightly. "I checked on Saphira. She's angry that the Ra'zac escaped her, but she's fine. She's watching from above. We should focus on what's next."

Brom exhaled deeply, his brow furrowing, and then turned his attention to Murtagh. His voice hardened. "Why are you truly here, boy? Were you following us?"

Murtagh leaned against the wall, meeting Brom's piercing gaze. "It's coincidence," he said, his tone curt.

Brom's eyes narrowed. "Coincidence? I don't believe in coincidences."

Murtagh sighed, his lips tightening before he finally spoke. "The Ra'zac killed my mentor. He raised me, taught me everything I know. I swore revenge, and I've been hunting them ever since."

Brom's expression didn't soften. "And how do we know you're not working for the king? That this isn't some elaborate ploy?"

Murtagh's eyes flashed with anger, but he kept his tone steady. "I'll take any test you want—anything except letting you read my mind."

"Then swear it," Brom said sharply. "In the ancient language."

Murtagh hesitated for only a moment before nodding. Brom recited the words, his voice echoing with authority, and Murtagh repeated them. The room seemed to hum with the weight of the oath, and the tension eased slightly as Brom nodded in reluctant acceptance.

"And now?" Brom asked, his voice still wary. "What do you want to do?"

"I want the same thing you do," Murtagh said, his tone resolute. "I want the Ra'zac dead. If you're going after them, I'll help you."

I frowned, confused. The Ra'zac hadn't killed Tornac in the Book. Was this another ripple from my interference, another change I couldn't have foreseen? Still, Murtagh's pain was genuine, his thirst for vengeance unmistakable, and he was now with us.

Brom studied him for a moment before speaking again. "I know who you are, Murtagh. You're Morzan's son."

Murtagh's jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing in barely contained rage. "Not by choice," he spat. His voice was low and venomous. "If there's nothing else, I'd like to be alone."

I stepped forward, nodding. "I'll show you to a room you can use." Murtagh gave a stiff nod, and we left the others behind.

We walked in silence, the air between us thick with unspoken words. When we reached the room, I opened the door for him and turned to leave. But something stopped me. I turned back, leaning casually against the doorframe.

"Listen, I get it," I said, my voice soft but firm. "The brooding. The anger when people bring up your heritage. You think if they knew the truth, they'd judge you, define you by who your father was. I get it, man."

Murtagh froze, his body stiffening. Slowly, he turned to face me, his eyes blazing. "You know nothing, boy," he growled. "You've probably known the love of both your parents. Showered by constant attention from the time you could walk. My father beat me whenever it pleased him, to him, I as just a waste of his genes, a tool to control my mother."

He tore off his shirt, turning to reveal a long, jagged scar running across his back. The sight was both horrifying and humbling. "I got this for being too close to him during one of his rages. The sword your beloved Rider carries did this to me."

I sucked in a breath. I'd known about this from thee books, but seeing the scar in person was different. Still, he was wrong about me. I pulled off my own shirt and turned around, letting him see the evidence of my own past. Cigarette burns. Belt marks. Whip scars. Each one a reminder of Steve's cruelty.

Murtagh gasped softly. He stared at me, the anger in his eyes replaced by a mix of shock and understanding. When I turned back to face him, I spoke quietly but firmly. "You're not the only one, Murtagh. You're not the only one who knows what it's like to have an abusive father who made your life hell."

For the first time, his gaze softened. We sat in the room, sharing our stories, our pain, and, for the first time, an unspoken bond. By the end of it, after an hour of talking, I told him about our plan to head to the Varden. He was hesitant, but I reassured him. "We'll protect you. No one will bother you. You have my word."

After a long pause, Murtagh nodded reluctantly. "Fine," he said. "I'll go with you."

When I returned to Brom and Eragon, the conversation had shifted. Eragon was speaking, his voice measured but determined. "While you were healing Arya, I went into her mind. She spoke to me told me how Durza had tried to break her and gain information on the elves, while trying to get her to swear fealty to him. She said she'd been poisoned—Skilna Bragh. And that the antidote is Tunivor's nectar, and the Varden have it."

Brom's expression darkened. "Then our path is clear. We have no choice but to head for Tronjheim."

I nodded, my mind already turning toward the journey ahead. "I'll set the course." And with that, I left the room, the weight of destiny pressing heavier on my shoulders than ever before.

The Herald's POV

The chamber was steeped in foreboding, the air heavy with the palpable weight of ancient power and unspoken malice. The faint hum of the scrying mirror filled the silence, its surface rippling with spectral images of distant events. I stood at my master's side, near the imposing throne crafted of obsidian and bone, its dark, intricate carvings depicting conquests of the past. Each curve and crevice told a story of dominion and annihilation. The chill that pervaded the room was not mere cold—it was the embrace of the void, a reminder of our master's dominion over entropy itself.

The master leaned forward, his form an imposing silhouette against the restless shadows cast by the enchanted torches. His crimson eyes, twin pools of malevolent light, pierced the undulating mirror, which displayed the boy and his motley companions. The child of another world, an outlander, Death's champion, flanked by the seasoned former Rider and his son—another Rider, the Rider, destined for greatness or doom—moved with purpose through the chaos of their quest. They sought to save the elf woman, and the urgency in their every step betrayed their desperation.

The boy, wielding his nascent power with reckless determination, caught my attention. His blade, brimming with potential, seemed to mock the unrefined hand that held it. The master's lips curved into a faint, sardonic smile as he observed the boy's movements.

"A pity," the master murmured, his voice a low, resonant tremor that reverberated through the chamber. "The boy is a spark, not yet a flame. He dances on the edge of greatness but has yet to understand what power truly is. Raw. Unformed. Weak."

I kept my face impassive, but inwardly I felt the flicker of amusement. The boy was bold, certainly, but boldness without understanding was nothing but fuel for the master's grand design.

The master's fingers drummed idly on the armrest of his throne, the faint clicks resonating like distant thunder. His gaze remained fixed on the scrying mirror, now showing the boy's ragtag group navigating their way through peril.

"The mad dog Galbatorix," the master continued, his tone laced with contempt, "has made a mockery of my kind. His pursuit of power has brought only chaos to Alagaësia—chaos I welcome, of course, but chaos wielded by a fool."

The mention of Galbatorix stirred something primal within me, a reminder of why I served the master. His disdain for the self-proclaimed king was as potent as his hunger for the chaos that creature unwittingly sowed. My master, the true power behind the veil, thrived on such disorder, growing ever stronger as the world fractured under its weight.

"The boy and his companions," the master mused, his voice deepening, "march to join the Varden. Their misguided rebellion serves only to fuel the madness. And yet... the boy grows too quickly. Soon, he and the young Rider will surpass the fool Galbatorix, and that cannot be allowed—not yet."

His smile widened, sharp as a blade. He leaned back against his throne, the cold stone almost seeming to ripple with the dark energy of his satisfaction. "I will send Galbatorix a gesture of 'cooperation'—my most powerful puppets. They will delay the boy, push him to his limits, and give me the chaos I crave. The boy and his allies will grow stronger, yes, but they will also learn despair."

My master turned to me then, his gaze heavy with command. "And when the boy reaches his peak, my herald, you will be unleashed. You shall be the vanguard of my arrival, the blade that reminds this pitiful world why my army is called the Eater of Worlds."

I dropped to one knee, bowing my head low, the weight of his words settling over me like the cold promise of the void. "Your will shall be done, my lord," I said, my voice steady and resolute.

The master's laughter was a dark melody, echoing in the cavernous chamber. The scrying mirror shifted, its surface darkening as the images faded, but the boy's face lingered in my mind. My supposed rival. My future prey. For now, he would live, as would his companions. They would grow, learn, and fight, becoming the warriors this broken world so desperately needed.

And when the time came, I would face them. I would show them, and all of Alagaësia, why my master's army was feared across worlds. My hands itched for the battle to come, for the glorious chaos that would herald my master's reign.

I stood, returning to my place beside the throne. My gaze swept the chamber, and my thoughts turned to the days ahead. Let the boy and his Riders have their victories. Let them revel in their fleeting moments of hope.

Soon enough, they would know despair.