CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Battle Under Tronjheim

The ship glided steadily over the vast expanse of the Hadarac Desert, the sun casting its relentless heat over the golden sands. The hum of the engines melded with the occasional gusts of wind that stirred the arid landscape below. Inside, the atmosphere was far more welcoming than the barren desert outside. I had introduced Nadara and Kargvek to Angela, Saphira, and Baldor. The introductions were a delicate matter, especially with their appearances—Nadara's striking half-Urgal features and Kargvek's imposing yet youthful Urgal frame.

Baldor had been visibly startled at first. His wide eyes darted between Nadara and Kargvek, his lips twitching as though grappling with the right words. Ultimately, he accepted their presence, though he cast a few cautious glances their way. Saphira, on the other hand, had been nothing but gracious. She observed them with her piercing sapphire eyes, her mental voice brushing against my thoughts.

"They carry the spirit of warriors," she said to me, her tone contemplative. "There is strength in their hearts, and perhaps, something more."

Angela, ever curious and enigmatic, seemed to take an instant liking to Nadara. The two were soon chatting animatedly, with Nadara addressing her as Uluthrek, a title that made Angela beam with delight. Roran, meanwhile, stayed close to Katrina, the two lovers frequently seen embracing or quietly talking on the deck, finding solace in each other after everything they had endured. Sloan, now awake but subdued, remained confined to a makeshift cell. Despite his weakened state, there was still a defiance in his posture, though escape was an impossible notion aboard the ship.

As we approached Tronjheim, I busied myself in my ship workshop, finalizing a prosthetic arm and leg for Kargvek. The limbs were intricate creations, powered by gems brimming with energy—one embedded in each prosthetic. The enchantments I had etched into the metal ensured that they would match Kargvek's natural strength and speed, seamlessly integrating with his body. After hours of painstaking adjustments, I presented them to him.

Kargvek's reaction was a mix of awe and disbelief. He tested the prosthetics cautiously at first, flexing his new fingers and taking tentative steps. Gradually, his movements grew more confident, until he strode across the deck with ease, the loss of his limbs now a forgotten memory. He turned to me, his voice thick with emotion and his guttural accent adding weight to his words.

"I thank you, human. None of your kind has ever shown such kindness to us."

I nodded solemnly. "My name is Mark, Kargvek. And while many of my kind may not see past their prejudices, know that you have an ally in me."

He inclined his head, his gratitude evident, before retreating to the top deck to test his new limbs further. Nadara found me shortly after in the control room. Her steps were quieter now, her movements more assured. The clothes I had given her—a tunic, leggings, and sturdy shoes—fit snugly, accentuating her athletic build and the graceful strength in her form. She had braided her long, dark hair, which framed her small, curved horns, now polished and unobscured. She looked like a warrior ready to reclaim her place in the world.

Her golden eyes met mine, her tone softer than I had ever heard. "Thank you for keeping your word," she said simply.

I waved off her thanks with a small smile. "You're welcome. So, how did you end up in the Ra'zac lair, what is your story?"

Her expression grew somber, and after a moment's hesitation, she sighed and began her story. "I was born to an Urgal dam, my mother had fallen for a human man, but he died soon after, fighting pirates. My mother soon find out she was with child. I was born soon after, and as you can see, I look different from a normal Urgal. The other Urgals were not happy that I was part human, and burnt my mother on a stake, calling her a witch. I was six winters old when this happened, and I ran from my tribe. I wondered alone for some days, until I stumbled on a burning Urgal village. All the dams and children had been slaughtered, all, save one, a child. After I found Kargvek as a child, we lived off the land in the Spine for years. It wasn't easy, but we managed. We hunted for food and lived away from Humans and Urgals, we had a few run-ins with the humans, especially bandits, we leant to hide from them as we were not that old yet. Then, when I was thirteen winters old, we encountered a group of Kull from my tribe. They recognized me and took us back to my uncle, Nar Garzhvog."

Her voice wavered slightly, but she pressed on. "He was overjoyed to see me—he loved my mother dearly. But not everyone shared his sentiment. Many in the tribe despised me for what I was... a half breed. They were the same people who had burned my mother for loving a human and bringing me into the world."

The pain in her voice was palpable, and I clenched my fists at the injustice of it. Nadara continued, her tone growing colder. "To make things 'right,' my uncle decided to marry me off to an Urgal warrior, Khagrak. He didn't care for me, only for the favor marrying me would bring him. I refused, and that night, Kargvek and I ran away."

She described their harrowing journey across the central plains, their eventual arrival at the village of Yazuac, and the tentative welcome they received there. "At first, the villagers were wary of us, some openly showing their displeasure at having us there, but over time, they began to see us as their own. Kargvek even made friends among the other youths. For the first time, we had a home, the villagers kept our existence a secret from the other settlements."

Her voice cracked as she recounted the attack. "But good things never last. Khagrak's band of Urgals found us after three winters. The village leader tried to negotiate, he tried to give me and Kargvek up to the band, the coward, but his headless body was returned to us on horseback. The villagers refused to give us up. They fought for us, even knowing it was hopeless."

She paused, her eyes glistening. "A woman named Gerdur, who had always treated me kindly, told us to run. She refused to leave her husband, who was fighting, even when I begged her to bring her children. The last thing I heard as we fled was the sound of their screams. We fled, running as fast as our feet could carry us, we ran for hours, the other Urgals close behind us."

The Ra'zac had been waiting for them near the Spine, she explained, their capture a bitter twist of fate. "They kept us alive because of my connection to Nar Garzhvorg, the Ra'zac wanted to gift me to the king, to earn his favor, a niece of the great Urgal warlord, a means to ensure total control of the Urgals. They took us to Helgrind, and they had…things done to me, I lost track of time in that wretched place, until you and your friends found us."

By the time she finished, her voice was steady but laced with a quiet fury. I nodded, my own anger simmering beneath the surface. "You're safe now," I said firmly. "And I swear, Nadara, you won't have to face that alone again."

She looked at me, a glimmer of gratitude softening her hardened features. "Thank you, Mark. For everything."

With that, she left, her silhouette disappearing into the dim corridors of the ship as I turned back to the controls, my mind already racing with thoughts of what lay ahead in Trojnheim.

In the dim, early hours of the morning, our cloaked ship glided down into the immense crater surrounding Trojnheim, the underground city nestled at its heart. The air was heavy with the scent of damp earth and stone, and the faint glow of dwarven lanterns cast flickering shadows along the towering walls of the crater. As the ship touched down with a muted hum, I sent a quick message to Brom, alerting him to our arrival. By the time the cargo bay doors groaned open, Ajihad and Brom were already waiting for us, flanked by a contingent of guards. Their stern faces reflected both curiosity and caution.

The first steps onto the stone ground were met with a palpable tension that hung thick in the cool air. Nadara and Kargvek followed close behind me, their presence immediately drawing sharp, startled gasps from the guards. The sight of Kargvek's imposing Urgal form sent hands to sword hilts, and a flurry of insults broke out among the ranks.

"Barzul! Who let this monster in?" one dwarf spat, his axe gleaming in the lantern light. "What foul trick is this?"

Before the chaos could escalate, Ajihad raised a single hand, the gesture silencing the uproar as though he had snuffed out a flame. His piercing gaze shifted to me, calm yet questioning. "Mark," he began, his deep voice resonating with restrained authority, "what is the meaning of this? Why have you brought these Urgals here, knowing the climate of Trojnheim?"

I stepped forward, unflinching. "They were prisoners of the Ra'zac," I explained, my tone steady but firm. "They are my allies now. I've searched their minds thoroughly. They can be trusted."

Brom remained silent, his sharp eyes scanning the two figures behind me. Ajihad, however, frowned and replied, "Your assurances are noted, but I will require the Twins to verify this claim. They will—"

"No." My voice cut through the air like the crack of a whip, surprising even myself. I stepped protectively in front of Nadara and Kargvek, my glare fixed on Ajihad. "Not the Twins. If you need someone to check their minds, ask Arya, Elda, or Brom. But I swear, if those snakes come anywhere near them, I'll kill them myself."

A collective gasp rippled through the gathered Varden and dwarves, their expressions a mix of shock and outrage. The Twins, standing at the edge of the group, visibly flinched, their arrogance momentarily replaced with unease. Ajihad narrowed his eyes at me, studying my resolve in silence before finally nodding.

"Very well," he said, his voice carrying a weight of finality. He turned to Brom. "My friend, would you do the honor?"

Brom inclined his head and approached Nadara and Kargvek with measured steps. He introduced himself briefly before closing his eyes, delving into their minds. The air grew tense, the crowd holding their breath as if afraid to disturb the process. After what felt like an eternity, Brom opened his eyes and spoke.

"Mark is correct, they are trustworthy," he confirmed, his voice calm yet certain.

Ajihad nodded, but the tension among the troops, particularly the dwarves, remained thick. Whispers of discontent buzzed like angry bees, their distrust for the Urgals evident.

Ajihad addressed the issue with a tone of pragmatic finality. "For the sake of peace, it is best they remain outside the city. The dwarves will not tolerate Urgals within Tronjheim, not even a half breed."

Nadara and Kargvek remained quiet behind me, their shoulders heavy with a familiar resignation. They had endured such treatment countless times before, and the sting of rejection was etched into their expressions.

"Well, if they're not welcome in the city," I declared, stepping forward again, "then I will stay with them outside in my ship."

The murmurs grew louder, but I stood firm. Nadara looked up at me, her golden eyes wide with disbelief. "Mark, it is fine, you do not have to do that," she whispered, her voice laced with a mix of gratitude and astonishment.

"I do, actually, I gave you my word that you are my ally. What would that say about me if I did not stand for you," I replied simply.

Angela arched an eyebrow at my decision, her enigmatic smile betraying no opinion. Brom, however, shot me a sharp, warning glare. "Mark..." he began, his tone carrying a weight of caution.

I cut him off. "If you need me, Elda, you'll find me on the airship," I said, turning to leave. But before I could take another step, Ajihad stopped me.

"Your attack on the Urgal warband yesterday bought us time," he said gravely. "But the Urgal army will be here in two days. They've found an alternate route through the tunnels beneath us and will soon arrive at Tronjheim."

I nodded, absorbing the grim news. Eragon and Saphira, who had been deep in mental conversation, looked toward Brom with evident concern. "How are we going to fight them?" Eragon asked, his voice steady despite the weight of the question.

Ajihad and Brom exchanged a knowing look before calling us to gather around a large map spread across a stone table. The map depicted the southern half of Alagaësia, its details illuminated by a lantern's soft glow. Ajihad's finger moved to a spot near the edge of the Beor Mountains.

"This," he said, "is where the dwarves claim the Urgals are coming from."

"Orthíad!" exclaimed Orik, stepping closer. At Eragon's puzzled expression, the dwarf explained, "It's one of our ancient dwellings, abandoned when Tronjheim was completed. In its time, it was the greatest of our cities, but no one has lived there in centuries."

Ajihad continued, "The tunnels leading to Orthíad are old—some have collapsed over time. We suspect the Urgals have been using these forgotten passages to gather in secret. It's likely they now call it Ithrö Zhâda."

The weight of the situation pressed down on us all as we leaned over the map, our minds racing to form a strategy against the impending siege.

We stood huddled around the sprawling map, its surface illuminated by the flickering torchlight casting long shadows across the stone walls of the meeting chamber. The scent of damp earth mingled with the faint metallic tang of steel, reminding everyone of the looming threat outside. The tension in the room was palpable, reflected in the taut expressions of the Varden and dwarves who surrounded Ajihad.

Ajihad's deep, commanding voice filled the room as he pointed at the intricate map before them. His finger hovered over a section of the Beor Mountains where sharp lines marked tunnels, valleys, and craters. "From Ithrö Zhâda," he began, his tone grave, "the Urgals can travel anywhere within the Beor Mountains. If they secure this stronghold, they will gain the power to destroy not just the Varden but the dwarves as well."

The gravity of his words hung heavily in the air, sending a ripple of unease through those assembled. Nadara and Kargvek, standing quietly behind me, shifted uncomfortably. Their presence at the meeting, already a source of discontent among the Varden and dwarves, had drawn many disapproving glances. I could feel the weight of their stares, but I remained resolute, standing as a barrier between the two Urgals and the judgmental eyes around them.

As Ajihad continued outlining the plan, Roran, Baldor, and Katrina passed behind us, carefully leading the frail and blinded Sloan toward Tronjheim's inner sanctum. Their somber procession drew only passing notice; everyone's attention was riveted on the map and Ajihad's grim words.

Leaning over the map, I studied it intently. The labyrinthine tunnels and ancient pathways etched into the parchment painted a clear picture of the strategic nightmare ahead. "When we encountered the Urgals in the mountains," I began, my voice steady but laced with unease, "their numbers were formidable. We thinned their ranks, but many were protected by powerful magi. There's a high chance Durza, the Shade, is commanding them."

Ajihad's expression darkened. His broad shoulders tensed as he ran a hand across his coal-black brow. "If Durza truly leads their army," he said gravely, "then we are in for the fight of our lives. Galbatorix may have bolstered their ranks with his own forces, but openly siding with Urgals would cost him support. We may yet have a chance, slim though it may be." His voice softened slightly as he added, "I've sent runners to Orrin and the elves to warn them. We can't count on reinforcements, but at least they won't be caught unawares if we fall."

The room grew quieter as Ajihad took a moment to collect his thoughts. "Hrothgar and I have devised a strategy," he continued. "We'll funnel the Urgals into three large tunnels leading directly to Farthen Dûr. This way, we can control their movements and prevent them from swarming Tronjheim. I need all of you—Eragon, Brom, Mark, and Arya—to assist the dwarves in collapsing the extraneous tunnels. The task is beyond normal means, which is why we'll rely on your unique abilities."

Orik, standing beside me, crossed his arms and nodded in agreement. "Two groups of dwarves are already at work," he added. "One outside Tronjheim, the other beneath it. Eragon and Arya will assist the outer group. Mark and Brom, you'll join the underground team. I'll guide you."

Eragon frowned thoughtfully. "Why not collapse all the tunnels and block their access entirely?"

Orik shook his head. "If we do that, the Urgals will dig through the rubble and possibly find paths we can't predict. Worse, weakening too many tunnels could destabilize Tronjheim itself. This city sits on a dense web of tunnels. If too many collapse, entire sections of Tronjheim could sink."

Ajihad nodded solemnly. "It's a calculated risk," he said. "We must ensure the Urgals are forced into Farthen Dûr. It's the only place we can face them on even ground. Inside the city, our forces would be overwhelmed, and the battle would turn into a massacre."

Jörmundur, his face lined with worry, stepped forward. "And what of our families?" he asked, his voice taut with emotion. "I won't see my wife and son slaughtered by Urgals."

Ajihad's expression softened, though the strain on his features remained. "The women and children are being evacuated to the valleys," he reassured. "If we fall, guides will lead them to Surda. It's all we can do."

Jörmundur's shoulders relaxed slightly, though his eyes were still heavy with concern. "And Nasuada?"

"She's not happy about it, but she's going too," Ajihad said firmly.

As Ajihad squared his shoulders, his voice rose with resolve. "The Urgals will arrive within hours. Their numbers are vast, but we must hold Farthen Dûr. Failure is not an option. If we lose, the Varden and the dwarves will fall, and Galbatorix's shadow will cover all of Alagaësia. This is a battle we must win. Now, go. Complete your tasks. Jörmundur, prepare the troops."

With a collective nod, the group began to disperse. Nadara and Kargvek lingered near me, their expressions troubled. Nadara glanced at the map; her brow furrowed. "A Shade is leading the Urgals," she murmured, her voice trembling. "That explains so much." She looked troubled by the news, and was about to say something else.

Before she could continue, I raised a hand to stop her. "Listen, Nadara," I said, offering her a reassuring smile. "You and Kargvek do not need to fight this fight. I wouldn't ask you to fight your own tribesmen, no matter what they've done to you. Stay safe. The last thing I want is for you to bear that burden."

Her eyes softened with gratitude, and she inclined her head. "Thank you," she whispered. Kargvek echoed her sentiments with a solemn nod.

As they excused themselves to return to the airship, I watched them leave, their figures retreating into the shadows. The weight of the coming battle pressed heavily on my shoulders, but there was no time for hesitation. Turning back to the map, I steeled myself for the task ahead.

For two relentless days, Brom and I toiled without rest, sealing the myriad tunnels that twisted and turned beneath Tronjheim like veins of stone. Using magic, we sought out weak points in the rocky labyrinth, collapsing sections with precision and care. It was arduous, draining work, each spell chipping away at both the mountain and our reserves of energy. Sweat slicked my brow, and my arms ached from the constant exertion, but we pressed on, knowing what was at stake.

The first evening offered a brief respite, allowing me to sit with my adopted family. Elain, her pregnancy progressing smoothly, radiated a quiet warmth that brought a sense of normalcy amidst the chaos. Her cheeks glowed, and her hands often strayed protectively to her growing belly as she reassured us that all was well. Horst, ever the steadfast blacksmith, spoke of his work for the Varden. His booming laughter mixed with the clinking of his tools as he shared how Baldor and Albriech had become invaluable in helping him fulfill the constant orders for weapons and armor.

Elain's departure with the other women and children was a somber topic that hung in the air. She would leave for the surrounding valleys, while Horst, Baldor, and Albriech would join the fight alongside the Varden and Roran. The weight of their choices pressed on us all as we shared a simple meal, savoring the fleeting moment of unity.

Talk soon turned to Sloan's upcoming trial, a matter that seemed far removed from the immediate threat of battle. Then Elain, with a curious tilt of her head, asked about Nadara and Kargvek. Her question sparked a conversation in which I explained Nadara's unique heritage as a half-human, half-Urgal woman a year older than me, and Kargvek's role as her adopted brother, a young Kull of only fourteen winters.

Baldor's eyes widened in disbelief. "The huge Urgal is just fourteen?" he exclaimed.

I nodded, correcting him gently. "Technically, he's a Kull, but yes, he's that young."

Baldor let out a low whistle. "I wonder how much bigger he'll get when he grows up."

A quiet chuckle escaped me as I shrugged. "Time will tell."

His expression grew contemplative. "You know, traders always described the Urgals as bloodthirsty, savage beasts. But Nadara and Kargvek… they're nothing like that."

Our conversation drifted into the night before we each sought rest aboard the airship. The following days were a blur of preparation, the weight of the approaching battle a constant shadow over us all.

On the morning of the third day, I awoke early, performing my daily rituals with meticulous care. After bathing and brushing my teeth, I turned to the armor I had been crafting since our exodus from Carvahall. Each piece reflected countless hours of effort and thought, designed with both form and function in mind.

I donned the cuirass first, a layered masterpiece of steel and bronze reinforced with leather, its surface engraved with subtle patterns that caught the light. Beneath it, I wore comfortable wool leggings and thick leather chausses. The traditional red pteruges draped from my waist, their bold hue complementing the dark metal of my armor. A single shoulder pad formed a pauldron on my dominant side, seamlessly joined to my steel bracers. My legs were shielded by full-leg greaves, which flowed into reinforced black boots modeled after the sneakers I had worn when I first arrived in this world.

The cuirass bore the enchanted gems from my old power vest, their faint glow a testament to the magic imbued within. Finally, I placed my black, Greek-styled helmet atop my head, its red plume trailing down the back like a banner of defiance. The entire ensemble, in shades of black and red, gave a menacing appearance.

I secured my black round shield, emblazoned with the Navy SEALs logo in memory of my late biological father, to my back. My enchanted steel sword rested at my waist, its weight a familiar comfort, and I carried a spear in my hand, its balance perfected for both close combat and long throws.

As I moved to leave the airship, Nadara intercepted me. Her striking features, framed by her flowing dark hair, bore a hint of surprise as her eyes roved over my armor. She was dressed simply in another of my tunics and leggings, her figure graceful even in the modest attire. I made a mental note to myself, get these two clothes designed for them after the fighting.

"Are you certain you don't mind us staying away from the battle?" she asked softly, her voice tinged with hesitation.

I met her gaze, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder. "I don't mind," I said firmly. "The others might complain, call you a coward, or try to force you to fight. But I won't let you face your kin, no matter the grievances between you. You deserve better than that."

Her lips curved into a small smile, her tiny lower fangs peeking out as she nodded. "Thank you, Mark." she said quietly, her gratitude evident in her eyes.

We talked briefly, the connection between us deepening with each word. But time pressed on, and I finally left the airship. As I stepped into the bustling encampment, Murtagh approached, clad in his own gleaming armor, his hand-and-a-half sword resting at his side. His expression was grim, his jaw set with determination.

"You're ready," he remarked, eyeing my armor with approval. "Good. It's almost time."

Together, we strode away from the airship and toward the heart of the gathering forces. The armies of the Varden and the dwarves spread out before us, their armor glinting in the light that filtered down into Farthen Dûr. The air thrummed with tension, a palpable sense of anticipation as warriors prepared for the impending clash. This would be a battle to determine the fate of us all.

We found Eragon, Brom, Arya, and Saphira standing together, a stark group of defiance amidst the gathering storm. Saphira now wore a magnificent suit of dragon armor, a gleaming, intricate set that accentuated her majesty and power. I couldn't help but stare, marveling at how fierce and imposing she appeared.

Eragon noticed my gaze and said with a proud grin, "The king gifted it to her."

I chuckled, letting a genuine smile tug at my lips. "It suits her. She looks even more formidable now."

Saphira exhaled a plume of smoke, the edges of her scales catching the light like polished gemstones. In my mind, her rich, melodious voice came through: "Thank you for the compliment, Mark."

Brom, always the tactician, broke the moment with his gravelly voice. "The fighting with the Urgals is going to be brutal, we are the strongest warriors in the army, makes no sense for us all to bunch up in one location. We should fight in pairs. It will strengthen the Varden and Dwarves' defenses."

I nodded thoughtfully. "That makes sense, but how will the pairs be decided?"

Brom's expression hardened, but before he could answer, Arya stepped forward, her elven grace like a blade unsheathed. "I will fight beside Eragon and Saphira," she declared, her tone resolute. "It is my duty to protect the Rider and his dragon. And," she glanced at me briefly, "I owe a debt to both of you."

Brom bristled, his jaw tightening. "It's my duty as well," he countered. "I am Eragon's father and his teacher. No one knows how to safeguard him better than I do."

I sighed, feeling the tension mount. Their words carried weight, but time was too short for debate. "Why don't all three of you fight together with Saphira?" I suggested. "It makes the most sense. You'll complement one another's strengths Murtagh and I will support the other flank."

They exchanged reluctant looks, and finally, Brom gave a curt nod. "Very well, Mark, good luck out there boy, be careful."

Satisfied, I turned to Murtagh. "Looks like you're stuck with me," I said with a faint smirk.

He chuckled dryly. "Could be worse, I could be fighting with the twins."

As we made our way to the other side of the battlefield, I leaned closer to Murtagh. "The Urgals fight ferociously, but they're not invincible. Try to fight them on horseback, to negate their height advantage. If you're overwhelmed, don't hesitate to retreat and regroup."

Murtagh listened intently, his face set in determination. "Thanks for the advice. I'll keep it in mind."

"I'll be by your side," I assured him. "You'll be safer than most."

I had given similar advice to Roran earlier; after reclaiming the power vest I had lent him. Roran had promised to pass the tips along to the men of Carvahall.

Ahead, Ajihad stood conversing with Eragon, Brom, Arya, and Saphira, his presence a pillar of authority amidst the rising tension. Meanwhile, Murtagh and I waited, our weapons at the ready, watching the dark tunnels that loomed before us. I gripped my spear and shield tightly, the weight of them grounding me. My nerves simmered under the surface, knowing this would be my first battle on such a grand scale. The Battle for Carvahall had been intense, but it was nothing compared to the storm about to break here in Farthen Dûr.

The knowledge of the Twins' impending betrayal gnawed at me like a festering wound. I clenched my jaw, forcing the anger to the back of my mind. I couldn't afford distractions now. Taking a deep breath, I exhaled slowly, calming my racing thoughts.

The sudden sound of frantic footsteps shattered the quiet. A scout burst from the tunnel, his voice shrill with alarm. "The Urgals are coming!" he cried.

Every head turned toward the tunnel. The dark mouth gaped like a predator's maw, a suffocating silence descending over the gathered forces. A minute crawled by, then another. The air was thick with anticipation, so heavy it seemed to choke the light.

From somewhere within the lines, a strained voice broke the tension. "I hear them!"

The warriors around us stiffened, hands tightening on weapons. An uneasy stillness settled, broken only by the restless nicker of a horse. Then came the harsh, guttural shouts of the Urgals, echoing up from the abyss.

At a shouted command, cauldrons of scalding pitch were tipped, the boiling liquid cascading down the tunnel like the wrath of the gods. The Urgals' agonized screams rent the air as they flailed in the searing torrent. A torch followed, igniting the pitch into a hellish inferno. Flames roared upward, turning the tunnel's entrance into a blazing furnace.

But the Urgals pressed on, their sheer numbers overcoming the fiery barrier. They surged forward, trampling their burning comrades underfoot. A solid wall of monstrous bodies emerged, their shields locking into an impenetrable phalanx. The Varden and dwarves answered with a deadly hail of arrows. Shafts rained down, cutting through the Urgal ranks like reaping scythes. For a moment, their line faltered, but then they steadied, shields raised against the onslaught.

I glanced at Murtagh, mounted beside me, his face pale but resolute. He gripped the reins tightly, his sword glinting in the dim light. I shifted my focus back to the advancing horde, gripping my spear and shield until my knuckles turned white.

The Urgals' war horns blared, their mournful notes reverberating through the cavern. With a guttural roar, the horde charged. They slammed against the sharpened stakes, impaling themselves in their frenzy. Blood slicked the ground as bodies piled up, yet more poured forth, driven by a savage, unrelenting fury.

Arrows rained down again, this time joined by bolts of fire and ice hurled by mages. I ducked behind my shield as a volley of black-feathered arrows descended like a deadly storm. Murtagh mirrored my movement, crouching low on his horse.

The battle had begun, and the cacophony of war swallowed us whole.

The chaos of the battlefield unfolded like a macabre symphony as the Urgal horde, momentarily disoriented by the stakes, reassembled with guttural cries of rage. The Varden's shield wall was tight, their faces set with grim determination as they braced for the next wave of the enemy's assault. Moments later, the Urgals surged forward again, their war cries tearing through the smoky air. The ground trembled beneath their advance, the earth quaking as if echoing the violence to come.

The stakes held for only a fleeting moment before the Urgals broke through, their brute strength overwhelming the first line of pikemen. Spears thrust wildly, but the monstrous tide pressed relentlessly forward, crashing into the Varden's main line like a living battering ram. Screams of fury and pain erupted as swords clashed and shields splintered.

"Here we go!" I roared, plunging into the fray. My heart raced with adrenaline as I darted through the chaotic melee, seeking the largest and most dangerous foes. My power-augmented armor hummed with energy as I channeled its strength, each movement precise and devastating. My spear became an extension of my will, piercing through Urgal and Kull alike with calculated precision. Each strike carried the weight of my resolve, and each kill was a step closer to preserving the Varden's fragile line.

Across the battlefield, Brom, Eragon, Arya, and Saphira fought like an unstoppable force. Brom's blade was a whirlwind, his years of experience evident in every strike. Eragon's youthful energy was tempered by his skill, his sword glowing faintly with magic as it cut through the enemy ranks. Arya moved like a shadow, her elven grace making her a blur among the chaos, her blade slicing with deadly precision.

Saphira, however, was the storm that broke the Urgal ranks. Her sapphire scales gleamed even in the dull light of Farthen Dûr's cavern, and her dragon armor amplified her ferocity. Her claws raked through lines of Urgals, her teeth snapping with terrifying power. When she roared, it was an earth-shaking sound that made even the bravest Urgals falter.

On my flank, Murtagh rode his horse like a seasoned knight, his blade flashing as he dispatched Urgals with brutal efficiency. His strikes were precise, his movements economical, and his calm demeanor belied the chaos surrounding him.

The enemy quickly recognized me as a threat. A group of Urgals closed in, encircling me in a tightening ring of muscle and rage. "Jierda!" I bellowed, punching the ground with all my strength. The earth trembled violently, and a shockwave rippled outward, flinging the Urgals into the air like ragdolls. The air filled with their guttural cries as they were hurled away, some crashing into their comrades with bone-shattering force.

Drawing more power from my armor, I heightened my reflexes and strength, the world around me slowing to a crawl. My spear was in my hand again, and I moved like water through the ranks of dazed Urgals. Each thrust was deliberate, the spearhead sliding into throats and chests with ease, blood spraying in dark arcs. It was a dance of death, every movement fluid, every strike final.

As the energy from my armor ebbed, time resumed its normal flow. I barely caught sight of a Kull on my blind side before his massive axe swung down, forcing me to drop my spear and spin out of the way. The blade hissed through the air, missing me by inches. Pulling my steel sword from its sheath, I parried his next strike with a loud clang, the force of the blow vibrating up my arm.

I countered, slamming the pommel of my sword into his thick neck, causing him to stagger. His footing faltered as I slashed at his thigh, the blade carving a deep gash that bled profusely. Taking advantage of his stumble, I scooped up my fallen spear using my foot, back into my grip, the motion fluid and instinctive. In one swift motion, I drove the spear through his throat, the tip emerging crimson on the other side.

Two more Urgals charged at me, roaring their fury. I sidestepped, the spear still in the dead Kull's throat, and stabbed at the two Urgals, one after the other, impaling both on its bloody length, their bodies jerking before going limp. With a primal roar, I lifted the spear high, the weight of the three massive corpses making my muscles strain. The gruesome display of domination sent a clear message. Planting the spear into the ground, I let the Urgals' bodies slide down its shaft, leaving it a grim monument to the battle's brutality.

Picking up my shield, I pressed forward with sword and shield in hand, my strikes precise and lethal. I began weaving spells into my attacks, bolts of energy and bursts of flame scorching the Urgals who dared to approach. My armor's energy reserves were dangerously low, but I still had my own strength and magic to draw upon.

The battle raged on, a cacophony of shouts, steel, and the unyielding cries of the Urgals. The air was thick with smoke and the stench of blood, a grim testament to the stakes of the conflict. Yet even amidst the chaos, I felt a strange clarity. This was my moment—to fight, to protect, and to endure.

The battlefield roared with renewed fervor as the Varden and dwarves rallied behind me, their voices rising in a unified chant that pierced through the chaos: "Mark! Mark! Mark!" Each syllable was a hammer striking an anvil, bolstering my resolve. With every blow I landed, their cries grew louder, an anthem of defiance against the relentless Urgal horde.

Despite the sea of fallen comrades, the Urgals kept charging, their bloodlust undeterred by the carnage. My shield absorbed the brunt of their attacks, and I retaliated with my blade in an unbroken rhythm—a dance of death honed to perfection. Each movement was fluid, automatic: thrust, block, parry, duck, swipe, spin, reverse grip, downward slash, thrust, release the blade, regrip, kick, sever the head, move on. My muscles burned, but my mind was focused, each action a link in the unending chain of survival.

The tide of Urgals began to thin, and just as a brief silence settled over the battlefield, one of the Twins' voices reached me through the mental link, sharp and urgent: "There are loud noises beneath the city. The Urgals are tunneling through. We need you, Eragon, and Arya to collapse the tunnels before they break through."

I nodded mentally in acknowledgment, severing the connection as I processed the grim news. My jaw tightened. It was obvious this was a trap. Durza's cunning fingerprints were all over it. But it was also the opportunity we needed—a chance to take him down and rout the Urgals for good. Even with the devastation Brom, Arya, Eragon, Saphira, and I had wrought, the enemy still outnumbered us. If Durza lived, their morale would remain unbroken.

Resolute, I sheathed my sword and slung my shield over my back. The weight of the shield was a stark reminder of the urgency of our mission, but I didn't let it slow me down. An Urgal, massive and snarling, barreled toward me, his curved horns aimed directly at my chest. With a fierce growl, I intercepted him with my bare hands, feeling the raw power of his charge as I stood firm. Gripping his horns, I twisted sharply until they snapped with a sickening crack. The Urgal howled in agony, and I drove the jagged horns into his chest, his cry cutting off abruptly as he crumpled at my feet.

Blood splattered across my armor as I turned to Murtagh, who was catching his breath after slaying another foe. "I have to go," I said, my voice firm despite the roar of battle around us. "The Urgals are tunneling into Tronjheim."

He nodded, his expression grim but resolute. "Good luck, Mark. Don't let them catch you off guard."

With a final nod, I focused inward, speaking the ancient words of power. The spell left my lips in a soft, commanding whisper, and the last reserves of energy in my armor surged to life. I rose into the air, flying toward the heart of the conflict like a living missile, my body stretched out in the iconic stance of flight. The wind tore past me, and the battlefield below became a blur of chaos as I gained altitude.

Ahead, I spotted Saphira's familiar form, her sapphire scales glinting even in the dim light. But something was wrong—her flight was uneven, her wings laboring against the weight of her armor. I descended quickly, landing beside her with a thud. Arya was already there, her movements swift and efficient as she helped Saphira remove the cumbersome plating.

"Crap," I muttered under my breath, a flicker of recognition sparking in my mind. This was the moment I'd read about—the part I had almost forgotten, Saphira and Arya would not be able to assist us in the fight against Durza, and I was now tired, this was going to be hard. But there was no time for doubt. The battle was far from over, and our enemy was still waiting in the shadows.

I stepped forward, my gaze meeting Eragon's. "Let's finish this," I said, my voice steady. Together, we would face Durza, and together, we would bring an end to his dark reign.

The last of the energy in my armor thrummed faintly, the protective wards woven into it barely holding as the last reserves of energy dwindled. Each pulse was a reminder that I was running on borrowed time. We stood atop Vol Turin, the apex of Tronjheim, with no time to climb down to the city's base. Eragon and I exchanged a look—there was only one option.

Grabbing the worn leather pads meant for emergency descents, we positioned ourselves and threw caution to the wind. The slide was smooth, almost deceptively so, but the speed was harrowing. The air screamed past us, the world a blur of stone and shadow, as we descended with breakneck intensity. For ten agonizing minutes, we hurtled downward, the friction warming the pads beneath us, until the slide spat us out unceremoniously at the bottom.

The great chamber of Tronjheim stretched before us, eerily silent, its vast expanse deserted. The absence of life amplified every sound: the faint hum of distant battle, the sharp intake of my breath, and the whisper of steel as I drew my sword. My stomach churned, but I suppressed the urge to retch, scanning the emptiness for any sign of what was to come. I knew Durza would show himself. It was inevitable.

And then, as if summoned by my thoughts, a rumble echoed through the chamber, and a tunnel opened with an ominous groan. From the darkness emerged Durza, his crimson eyes locking onto us with an unsettling intensity. Flanking him were dozens of Urgals, their brutish forms illuminated by the pale light of the Star Sapphire above.

Durza's lips curled into a triumphant sneer as he surveyed us. "Kaz jtierl trazhid! Otrag bagh," he barked, his command sharp and guttural. The Urgals formed a circle around us, their heavy steps reverberating through the chamber like a drumbeat of doom. Durza stepped forward, his movements unhurried, exuding confidence.

"So, my young friends," he said, his voice silky and laced with malice, "we meet again. It was foolish of you to challenge me in Gil'ead. You revealed your strengths, and now I know how to break you. Soon, you will be mine—mind, body, and soul. A pity the elf couldn't join us. But no matter. Surrender now, and perhaps I'll show mercy."

Eragon's knuckles whitened around the hilt of his sword, his voice a growl. "You'll never capture us alive, scum."

Durza's eyebrow arched, his amusement evident. "Is that so, young Rider?" he taunted, stepping closer. The pale light of the Star Sapphire cast ghastly shadows across his face, giving his skin a ghostly pallor. "I don't see your allies—the old fool or that rogue Murtagh. It's just the two of you now. You cannot hope to stop me. No one can."

I chuckled, the sound cold and defiant. "The last time we fought, we nearly killed you—even before Murtagh arrived."

Durza's smirk vanished, replaced by a scowl. "That was when you had an extra magician aiding you, boy. Now, you're tired, outnumbered, and cornered. Capturing you will be child's play."

Without breaking eye contact, I sent a mental message to Eragon: "Warn Arya and Saphira to come immediately."

His response was swift: "Already done."

Durza remained oblivious to our silent exchange. "Where is your dragon, young Rider?" he asked, his voice dripping with menace.

Eragon glared at him, his defiance unshaken. "I'll never tell you."

Durza chuckled darkly. "Oh, my dear boy, I will force it out of you soon enough."

Without warning, his blade whistled through the air, aimed for Eragon. Acting on instinct, I dove in front of him, my sword meeting Durza's with a resounding clang. The Shade's mental probe slammed into me, but I pushed back, his attack weaker than before—Eragon's mental assault was dividing his focus.

Durza's ferocity was unmatched, his strikes a blur of speed and precision. My movements became a delicate balance of defense and offense, my mind wrestling with his as Eragon and I worked in unison to breach his mental defenses. Durza's scowl deepened, his arrogance giving way to frustration. His mind was a hurricane, violent and unyielding, but I refused to falter, my will an iron fortress.

Our blades clashed in a deadly rhythm, sparks flying with each strike. When Durza aimed a ferocious blow at Eragon, the Rider ducked just in time, leaving the Shade open. Seizing the opportunity, I slashed at Durza's side, my blade cutting deep. His shriek echoed through the chamber, his mental defenses faltering for a brief moment.

It was all I needed. Eragon and I surged into his mind, and a torrent of memories overwhelmed us. I saw fragments of Durza's life before he became a Shade—a broken man consumed by darkness. The flood of emotions and images was staggering, threatening to drown me, but I retreated into the core of my mind, regaining control.

As I steadied myself, Durza recovered, his attention now fully on Eragon. He moved with terrifying speed, closing the distance before I could intervene. Durza ordered the Urgals to hold me down, and they swarmed me, their brute strength pinning me back as I fought desperately to reach them. My heart sank as Durza's blade slashed across Eragon's back, a cry of agony tearing from his lips.

Fury unlike anything I'd ever known erupted within me. The chamber dimmed as raw energy coursed through my veins, a power I couldn't fully understand. Channeling it instinctively, I roared, "Brisingr!"

A spectral star of fire erupted from my restrained palm, its radiant heat searing through the air. The fiery projectile swept through the Urgals, piercing their skulls and dropping them instantly. I surged forward, my gaze locked on Durza, but a brilliant flash of light blinded me.

The chamber shuddered with a deafening crack. As my vision cleared, I saw the Star Sapphire shatter above us, its dagger-like shards raining down in a deadly cascade. In the chaos, Saphira plummeted into the chamber, her jaws agape as a torrent of blue-tinged flame poured forth. On her back, Arya stood like an avenging goddess, her hair whipping wildly, her outstretched palm glowing with green magic.

Durza hesitated, distracted by the spectacle. I seized the moment, shouting mentally to Eragon, "now! Kill the bastard!"

Eragon's fingers tightened around Zar'roc's hilt, his voice ringing out. "Brisingr!"

The blade ignited with heatless flames, casting a crimson glow. With a final, desperate lunge, Eragon drove it into Durza's heart.

Durza's crimson eyes widened in disbelief as he stared down at the blade embedded in his chest. His lips trembled, parted as if to speak, but no words came. Instead, a horrifying, otherworldly wail erupted, echoing through the vast chamber like the cry of a damned soul. His sword fell from his grasp, clanging against the stone floor with a sharp, final sound.

A transformation began. Durza's skin, once pale and taut, turned translucent, revealing not flesh and bone beneath, but a chaotic swirl of shadows—darkness incarnate. The patterns writhed and twisted, alive with malevolence, pulsating as though struggling to break free. The air itself seemed to shiver under the strain. His shrieks climbed in intensity, a crescendo of agony, until his very form could take no more. With a deafening, visceral crack, his body split from crown to heel, releasing the darkness contained within.

The chamber filled with a blinding explosion of energy as the shadows tore free. Three distinct entities formed out of the gloom, their shapes indistinct yet radiating malice. Like banshees, they screamed through the walls of Tronjheim, vanishing into the depths of Farthen Dûr.

Durza was gone.

Eragon's body crumpled to the ground, arms flung wide as if surrendering to the stone. His breathing was faint, his face pale. Above him, Saphira and Arya hurtled toward the floor, their descent perilously fast, their path littered with shards of the shattered Isidar Mithrim. The glittering remnants of the Star Sapphire reflected the flickering torches, casting a fractured light over the scene. It seemed inevitable that they would crash, yet at the last moment, Saphira flared her wings, and they landed with a heavy thud, scattering razor-sharp fragments.

Arya leapt from Saphira's back as if propelled by urgency itself. She reached Eragon in an instant, kneeling at his side. Her hands hovered over him; her emerald eyes filled with worry. "He lives," she announced, her voice steady but tinged with relief.

Saphira let out a deep, resonant rumble—a mixture of exhaustion and gratitude. The air around her shimmered with faint traces of residual magic, a testament to the effort she had expended.

I stumbled to Eragon's side, my legs trembling beneath me, and said, "Durza's attack has left him gravely wounded. We have to get him help, quickly." My voice was hoarse, heavy with the strain of the battle and the sight of my injured friend.

Arya gently turned Eragon onto his side, and her sharp intake of breath was audible. The gash across his back was deep, crimson rivulets staining his tunic and pooling onto the stone floor. Without hesitation, she stood, cradling him as though he weighed nothing, and said, "Follow me. we have to heal him."

As we moved through the tunnels of Tronjheim, the distant clash of steel and guttural cries of battle echoed faintly, a reminder that the fight for Farthen Dûr was not yet over. I reached out mentally, searching for Brom. His presence was weary but alive. "Eragon is injured, but he's alive," I conveyed urgently. "We're heading to the healers' chambers."

Brom's reply came swiftly, laced with concern. "I'll meet you there. Hold on."

When we arrived at the healers' chambers, the smell of herbs and incense greeted us, mingled with the metallic tang of blood. The room was a hive of activity, healers darting from cot to cot, attending to the wounded. Arya laid Eragon gently on an empty table, her movements precise and deliberate. She barked orders to the healers in an authoritative tone, her composure unshaken despite the chaos around her.

I sank into a chair nearby, the adrenaline that had fueled me through the battle now ebbing away, leaving me drained. My arms hung limply at my sides, my body screaming in protest at every movement. A soft voice broke through my haze.

"Mark, you look worse than a dwarf who's gone three days without ale," Angela quipped as she approached. Her sharp eyes studied me, and she pulled a peculiar brown bar from her pouch. "Here, eat this."

I frowned, eyeing the strange object. "What is it?"

Her response was curt but kind. "Food. Now eat."

I obeyed, sinking my teeth into the bar. It was sweet and chewy, reminiscent of granola but with an earthy aftertaste. Almost immediately, a wave of warmth spread through me, soothing my frayed nerves. Angela's voice softened. "Don't fight it, Mark. Rest. You've done enough."

The edges of my vision blurred, sleep descending like a thick fog. The last thing I saw was Arya working tirelessly over Eragon, her hands glowing faintly with magic. Angela's words echoed in my mind as the darkness claimed me, a comforting lullaby in the midst of chaos.