A\N: Those who read this story should pay attention to the introductory paragraphs of some chapters written in italics. The hermit and the woman mentioned there will play a role in the subsequent development of the story. You can make guesses who is the couple. I won't reveal more.
The Elf Woman
The night enveloped the plateau, spreading its serene silence all around. The fallen log of an ancient tree trunk, weathered by years of relentless sunlight, winter frosts, and the pounding fury of storms, served as a seat for the man. From this spot, on nights when sleep eluded him, he could gaze at the stars above and the Milky Way that stretched across the heavens.
Among the myriad twinkling lights, he had chosen the brightest one, the most solitary and distant from the others—just as he had chosen to live alone in the world. He would follow this star with his gaze until it vanished on the dawn horizon, which turned white in the east. He stayed awake until the scent of morning dew filled the air and his lungs breathed in the invigorating, dry wind of the high plateau, carried from the distant forests of the elves.
After her brief visit, the woman had left again, leaving him alone.
"Soon the wind of change will blow again," she had assured him. "The time is approaching when your presence will be necessary. Prepare yourself!"
.*.*.*.
The two companions traveled swiftly, covering vast distances in a short period. The effort they exerted, especially that of the wounded dragon rider, left them exhausted. Their bodies were worn from constant galloping in the saddles, and their eyes were heavy from lack of sleep.
In less than four days—a feat that even Galbatorix's fastest messenger could not achieve without regularly changing to fresh horses—they had traversed the wastelands, passing Helgrind on its eastern side, while keeping a safe distance from the mountain and its dangerous inhabitants. Then they raced straight north, pausing only to bypass the sources of the Ramr River, avoiding the bridges that were surely guarded. They crossed the plains and the deserted fields west of Urû'baen, then followed the flow of the river up to the hills north of the capital.
As the hours faded behind them with the distance they covered, as pale sunrises followed crimson sunsets and the stars of the vast firmament gave way to cloud-covered skies, their determination steeled their efforts. It was not merely the rush of youth driving them toward a mad adventure with uncertain outcomes and results; it was the sense that they were doing what was right according to their every moral code.
Eragon felt obligated to save the important—important to him?—woman, while Murtagh believed he had to support his dragon rider companion at any cost. Both had unwavering faith in their mission, without realizing they were merely two enthusiastic young men, unreservedly participating in a risky venture, driven by the innate need to resist the tyrannical forces of someone who had been ruling and oppressing an Empire for over a century, imposing his law for his own personal benefit.
In their frenzied journey, they took care to avoid every village and settlement, every isolated farmer's homestead they could spot in the distance, and every carriage road where they might encounter traveling merchants or soldiers. They only stopped for brief breaks each day, solely to feed and water their horses, allowing these brave companions the minimal rest they needed to avoid collapsing.
On second thought, the dragon rider decided not to sell his chestnut horse. Concluding that they would need it as an auxiliary for their journey, they loaded all the additional burdens onto it, relieving the other two horses.
During these brief pauses, while Murtagh tended to the animals, Eragon busied himself using magic on his own body, attempting to heal his wounds. The constant jarring of the gallop would have surely worsened the condition of his cracked ribs, causing a disastrous displacement, if not for his magic. Initially alone, and later with the mental support of the dragon, he frequently whispered healing spells, touching his body at the points where the horse's gallop made the pain more intense, nearly unbearable. Before collapsing, exhausted, onto the frozen ground, he would always check his wounds beneath the bandages to confirm with relief that at least the bruising was rapidly subsiding. He hoped that by the time they reached their destination, even if he still felt too weak to engage in a hand-to-hand fight with his sword, he would at least be able to draw the bowstring and launch arrows from a distance.
Seeing him lean exhausted, Murtagh hurried to offer him food, to ease his discomfort by folding a garment under his head as a pillow, and to wrap his frozen and rigid body with a warm blanket. At the same time, he felt a growing admiration for this boy, for his will and determination to save the unknown woman of his dreams, which led him to such paths of self-sacrifice.
The dragon rider not only risked his own life and that of his dragon by intending to face Galbatorix's heavily armed guards. He also overlooked countless additional dangers, such as the potential for complete exhaustion, capture, and the loss of his freedom at the hands of the Empire. The likelihood of an unfavorable outcome was high, and Murtagh would have preferred to take the safe route to the Varden. However, he understood him. Wouldn't he do everything in his power to save Nasuada from any danger too?
On the other hand, as Eragon enjoyed the additional care, he looked at his unexpected ally with gratitude. He couldn't help but acknowledge the boundless faith Murtagh showed in him, nor could he fail to appreciate the selfless friendship he offered. Then his eyes would lose focus, his gaze would blur, and his mind would seek to connect with that of his chosen one, who, despite the distance separating them, was always flying above them, overseeing their journey and guarding them.
As soon as the horses were rested, they would quickly take to the road again, with the dragon rider exhausted, sleeping in his saddle, and Murtagh leading as fast as he could so they could switch shifts later.
In the brief conversations that constant movement and fatigue allowed, Eragon insisted that while the use of magic exhausted him, and sleep and makeshift meals in the saddle helped minimally, everything had to be done this way. Only in this manner would he be in better physical condition when they encountered the carriage and the guards of the prisoner—if they encountered them at all.
Murtagh was more optimistic about his predictions. He firmly believed in the accuracy of his calculations and that they would manage to position themselves at the right spot well before the carriage approached Urû'baen. Additionally, he stated they would have enough time for a brief rest.
Many times, Murtagh urged the dragon rider to stop, not to push himself to the limits of his strength, but Eragon had steadfastly refused. As for the magic he used—the same magic he had used to tend to the wounds of his fallen companion—Murtagh could only hope inwardly that this time, his efforts would have better results, offering quicker healing.
Murtagh was preoccupied with practical concerns, such as how many riders would accompany the carriage. He also wondered if they would have enough time with their bows and arrows to neutralize a sufficient number of soldiers from a distance. Once Galbatorix's men launched their counterattack, he wasn't sure if he alone could prevail, as he understood that the wounded dragon rider could offer little help with his sword. However, he had no right to complain. They had a powerful ally in the dragon.
Nature in the depths of winter made their passage through the desolate landscapes more difficult, though they should be grateful it was still the middle of winter. Otherwise, the fields around them would be filled with farmers, and the roads scattered with caravans of merchants and pilgrims traveling to and from Dras-Leona.
Since the moment they passed its geographical location, at a great distance from the city, the last layer of snow that had fallen in the previous days began to melt around them. The ground gradually turned into a continuous mudflat, interrupted only by occasional frozen white patches and crystals dripping from twisted shrubs. A cold drizzle constantly fell upon them, seeping through their overcoats, penetrating leather jackets and woolen clothes, chilling them to the bone. They felt so frozen that even the faintest memory of the flames of a campfire seemed like a distant dream in the depths of their minds.
The horses were in no better condition than their riders. Their coats were dirty, caked with mud, and the foam dried on their muzzles, forming streams of liquid mucus. As their hooves sank into the mire, splashing muddy water around, their nostrils flared, and a glassy layer of sweat clung to their skin.
The only consolation for the two companions was that the soldiers accompanying the carriage would face similar weather conditions. Moreover, since they were even further north, they might have an even harder time.
Despite all the adversities, they pressed on with determination and, shortly after dusk on the fourth day, they reached the spot Murtagh had chosen to set their ambush for the carriage.
.*.*.*.
Galbatorix did not like to travel. The reason was not so much that he would miss the comforts of his palace, nor because he would be deprived of the myriad protections with which he had fortified the chambers of Urû'baen's castle. It had been nearly ten years since he last left the safety of his city's walls to visit one of the Empire's provinces himself. In this case, however, the king recognized that the journey to Dras-Leona on his dragon's saddle was necessary, though this admission did not mean that leaving his fortified stronghold pleased him.
Perhaps if it were a different time of year, the idea of a journey wouldn't dampen his spirits so much, but the winter raging around him worsened his mood. It wasn't because of the cold, the freezing wind, and the rain that he felt so melancholic. Like all the winter journeys he had had to make in his life, this one reminded him of that journey, long ago, over the northern ices...
...his last journey with her...
They unexpectedly reminded him of all that he once had, and just as unexpectedly and horrifically, had lost forever. However, making a virtue of necessity, the king summoned Shruikan to serve him.
As always, the dragon submitted, accepting the dragon saddle and the king on his back, destined for Dras-Leona. Even if he did not wish it, the dragon would never be able to refuse. There was powerful magic binding him to Galbatorix, and this was not the pure, primordial magic that bound a dragon to their...
... No! Never, ever would he utter that word again...
Shruikan refused even to remember him, in order—not to live—but to survive.
Thus, one evening, they both left the dragonhold of Urû'baen's tower, flying over the bare fields and deserted meadows southwest of the capital, heading towards the great lake whose vast surface reflected the light of the stars.
While the wind raged around them and cold waves of rain showered them, the dragon lazily flapped his wings, allowing the cold rivulets of water to run over his obsidian-colored scales, soothing the fiery world of his soul. Although he was bound to the forced companionship of Galbatorix, he would at least make sure to enjoy his flight over hills and valleys.
Annoyed by the dragon's behavior, the king used his magic to warm himself and avoid the bits of icy water that struck him in the face. "Can't you flap your wings faster?" he snapped.
"I enjoy traveling with you, Galbatorix! It happens so rarely," the dragon mocked. Above them, the leaden clouds clashed, and lightning flashed across the firmament. Shruikan mimicked their roar, spewing liquid fire towards the heavens. Would he let the elements challenge him?
"I, on the other hand, do not enjoy it at all!" Galbatorix protested irritably. If time constraints had not forced him, he would not have decided to travel sitting on the dragon's saddle. He would have preferred the comfort of his royal carriage and the security of his armed guards. However, he needed Shruikan to be close by, in case he needed to use him to subdue the young dragoness. At the speed they were traveling, they would not save any time. "We must reach Dras-Leona as soon as possible. We have serious matters to attend to there."
The dragon continued to fly, indifferent to the annoyance his pace had caused the king. The financial and other matters of Dras-Leona were of no significance to him. He saw no reason to hurry, as he was perfectly satisfied with the speed of their journey. The cold, invigorating wind blew against them, slowing his flight. Why should he tire his wings by increasing speed? If Galbatorix wanted to arrive faster, he should fly on his own without Shruikan's help.
The black dragon would have continued at the same pace, enjoying the cold raindrops and ice crystals that settled on his scales, adding an extra sheen to them. He would have even been amused by Galbatorix's irritation, had he not momentarily caught a glimpse of the king's thoughts. That thought stirred in him an intense anger, infuriating him. Furious and out of control, he began to roar, challenging the very clouds, and spewing his fire against the wind and the storm. The reason the magic-bound rider was visiting Dras-Leona was not the misconduct of its round-ears-two-legs ruler, but the pair of the young dragoness and her chosen one. Shruikan had decided that he would never tolerate them living anywhere near him.
Upon arriving in Dras-Leona, the king sent his angry dragon off to hunt but gave strict instructions not to stray too far. Shruikan dashed into the Spine's forests, where there would surely be plenty of four-legged prey to snap their necks, tear their flesh, taste their warm blood, and revel in their dying agony. Was it not always the death of others, especially the lower and weaker ones, that calmed his rage? Meanwhile, Galbatorix settled into the most luxurious mansion in the city, the one that the lord of Dras-Leona had provided, to attend to his own affairs.
The first thing the king asked his slaves to bring was a basin filled with water. They placed it in the middle of the table in front of him, and after a sharp nod from him, they hurriedly left, leaving him alone. Chanting the spell that allowed him to scry whatever he wanted, Galbatorix set about observing the movements of his servants upon the water's surface.
Throughout his stay there, Galbatorix saw, with great joy and satisfaction, that where the Ra'zac had utterly failed, Murtagh had succeeded. Not only had he protected the dragon and rider from the insidious schemes of the Ra'zac—and to be honest, he intended to have a word or two with those disobedient servants once the matter he was concerned with reached a successful conclusion—but he had also made himself absolutely indispensable to the new pair.
But it was only natural that the son of Morzan would intervene in the matter. As ambitious as he was, Galbatorix considered it more than certain that Murtagh would take personal charge of the new pair, dragon and rider. From what the king could scry through his magic, the young dragon rider seemed to follow without hesitation whatever Murtagh proposed. However, despite his orders, Morzan's boy did not head towards Dras-Leona, where he was expected, but rather towards the north.
Galbatorix was puzzled. What exactly was he planning to do? However, as he observed Murtagh leading the small group, Galbatorix smiled in satisfaction. "Clever child! He's bringing the pair directly to the capital."
Morzan's son was excessively ambitious and opportunistic, just like his father. The king had acted correctly in sending him with the order to gain the other boy's trust. Murtagh was the most suitable person for the task, even though he had bypassed Dras-Leona. In the future, however, someone needed to teach him how to obey orders. Galbatorix had countless ways to achieve this and was more than willing to try.
At the same time, the Shade had already begun his journey from Gil'ead to Urû'baen. The king was very eager to examine the elf woman himself, having heard so much about the daring actions she had undertaken. He hurried to close his other matters in Dras-Leona, hastening his return to the capital.
.*.*.*.
"There they are! It must be them. They are coming!" The timing could not have been more perfect. The sun would soon rise behind the hills, blinding the riders' entourage with its first light. The two companions had chosen the perfect spot for the attack the night before, with the sunrise at their backs.
Murtagh's words made Eragon spring upright from the hollow in the hillside where he had sought and found a small, tolerable space for rest. They both hid among the boulders at the summit, observing the entourage that had appeared from the distant bend in the road, coming towards them in the morning twilight.
The carriage, although still at a distance, appeared iron-clad—just like the one from the dream—with two sturdy horses pulling the weight shared among four wheels. A mounted group of uniformed riders, fully armed and clad in steel, was arranged around the carriage, while their leader rode ahead on his jet-black stallion.
"Those are definitely them," Murtagh repeated, satisfied, gripping his bow tightly in his hand. "Exactly on time as I calculated." A triumphant smile lit up his lips. While Lord Barst was a great tactician, Murtagh himself had proven to be an excellent student, and the lessons alongside him had yielded rich results in a short period.
Eragon counted seven riders along with their leading captain, plus another armed archer sitting beside the driver, making a total of nine men. Nine armed guards of Galbatorix, skilled in the use of swords and spears and always ready for battle. While not a large number, they were not few either. Eragon and Murtagh had to rely on their marksmanship skills and the aid of a dragon.
The dragon rider instinctively pressed his hand against his broken ribs, as had become his habit lately. His chest was still bound with Murtagh's makeshift bandage, but he was pleased to find that the pain was manageable. The magic he had used in the previous days had worked. "Saphira, they're getting closer!"
"I know, little one. I'm ready!"
Through their bond, the dragon rider saw the landscape from above. He could make out the entourage among the morning mists rising from the riverbed. Through her eyes, the image was clearer. He felt the dragoness's surge of energy, her readiness to strike, and her rage. "Not yet, beloved. We'll coordinate once they get closer. The more we take down with arrows, the fewer will be left for a frontal assault. I wish we could neutralize them all without you having to reveal yourself."
The dragoness growled angrily in his mind. "Woe to anyone who dares to harm you. I will tear them apart with tooth and claw. None of them will survive to boast that they saw me."
The previous night, just as they had reached the small range of hills northwest of Urû'baen and before the bend in the public road, Murtagh had taken care to hide the horses at the foot of the hill among the dense vegetation of a grove of trees. After feeding them abundantly, watering them, and covering their backs with blankets, he left them to rest as much as they wanted. If all went well and their plan succeeded, they would need the horses as rested and capable as possible for a mad dash to escape surviving soldiers or other pursuers.
Afterward, Murtagh insisted that Eragon should sleep, taking the final watch himself. The time when the carriage would arrive—Murtagh swore there was no way it could have already passed—was entirely unknown to both of them. However, the young man stated that it was more than certain that Galbatorix's men would camp for the night. They would have stopped the carriage somewhere by the roadside and, with the first light of dawn, before the sun even rose, the entourage would continue their journey.
The day that had just faded on the western horizon was certainly not the last one of the soldiers' journey to the capital, so they couldn't skip their customary rest. They needed at least one more night before reaching the river bridges leading to Urû'baen. Both comrades could indeed rest until dawn, but Murtagh swore to Eragon that he would stay awake for the sake of the mission. Exhausted, Eragon was convinced by Murtagh's words and settled into the hollow on the hillside.
Sometime during the night, Saphira descended from above, perching on the flat area at the hilltop, among the boulders Murtagh had chosen as their lookout. Nudging him on the shoulder with her snout, she let him know that he could sleep for a few hours too. She would watch over them and immediately alert them if the carriage appeared during the night. However, the adrenaline coursing through the young man's veins, despite his exhaustion, wouldn't let him rest.
The thought of the red egg, ever since they had come so close to the capital, had never left his mind, fueling his desire. The existence of the coveted treasure within the antechamber of the royal apartment stirred him up. There were times when he had the impression that the scarlet egg was calling out to him. The realization that he was so close to Urû'baen ignited his mind, heart, and longing. Thus, he refused the dragoness's suggestion, sending her to rest in the hollow on the hillside, beside the dragon rider.
No one could predict the outcomes of the daring endeavor, Murtagh had insisted. They might need her rested wings for a desperate final escape route. The dragoness agreed with his words and rested by her chosen one for the next few hours. But before the morning star appeared in the sky, she flew back into the heavens again.
"Those are them," Eragon repeated, satisfied. The night he spent nestled in the hollow on the hillside, protected by Saphira's wing spread over him, the mysterious woman reappeared in his dream. Her eyes were closed, and her breath came with difficulty from her chest. Eragon understood that she was struggling to stay alive. But he knew deep down that the woman was clinging to the hope that his assurances had given her. Now, he felt sure that the woman of his dreams was so close to him, inside the carriage that was steadily approaching through the morning mists.
Murtagh grabbed his quiver of arrows and handed the dragon rider his own. The fortified position he had chosen earlier seemed ideal for ambushing the soldiers from a distance. "Riders are usually not skilled archers, as their hands tremble from holding the reins. The one beside the driver is holding a bow, which he will definitely use against us. We need to take him down immediately! While his arrows may find it difficult to harm us from where we are, they will be a hindrance when we want to get closer. The others carry swords and spears or perhaps a mace. No matter how skillfully they wield them, they can't reach us from this distance. Try to aim for their necks beneath their helmets. Also, the area between the breastplate and the armpit joint has thinner skin, making it a vulnerable spot." The mounted men seemed numerous to him. The more they could take down with arrows from a distance, surprising them, the less work they would have to do up close with swords in the ensuing battle.
Eragon nodded in agreement, puzzled by his companion's knowledge. How did Murtagh know these details about the soldiers' weapons and armor? Unless he had served in the Empire's army himself. He seemed too young for that, and of course, now was not the right time to discuss such curiosities. He resolved to ask any questions that troubled him later.
The carriage steadily approached at a constant speed, as the dawn light gradually cleared the night's fog. Soon, the first rays of the sun would fall upon the men, offering them a perfect target from the fortified position where they were entrenched.
Murtagh strung an arrow onto his bow and, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Eragon doing the same. His hawk-like gaze fixed on the leading captain and the two riders flanking him slightly behind. The carriage followed—its course needing to be halted immediately—with two more riders on either side, the rest trailing behind. "First, you take the driver, I'll take the archer," he said to Eragon. "Then the captain and the rest of his escort."
Murtagh measured his target, selecting the right spot to shoot. He would have liked to knock the captain off his horse first, but he said nothing to the dragon rider. Usually, seeing their leader fall, soldiers would become hesitant, left leaderless. Lord Barst was adamant about it. It was a rule for the soldiers' psychology. Whoever managed to take out the leader with the first shot could already consider the battle half-won. However, the targets were still somewhat far away, so he would have to wait for the procession to get closer.
But, strangely enough... The man leading was neither an officer nor a soldier. He did not bear Galbatorix's insignia on his chest, and his hair flowed freely in the morning breeze without a helmet. Murtagh rubbed his eyes to clear his vision. Yes! Now, as the target came closer, he was certain. The rider of the black stallion was a civilian. Could he be a magician, perhaps? In that case, he should shoot him immediately.
The man's hair was long and fell loosely on his shoulders. His tall, lean body was covered by a dark cloak, the same color as the horse. The deep red hue of his hair sent warning signals to Murtagh's mind. This man was not unfamiliar to him. He had seen him, albeit from a distance, wandering the corridors and courtyards of the castle in Urû'baen. He recoiled in shock, his eyes wide open, and leaned back against the boulder, trying to quell the horror within him. What had they gotten themselves into?
"What's happening?" Eragon asked, looking with a puzzled expression, glancing from the road and the approaching carriage to his companion, suspicious of the abrupt change in his behavior.
"The rider leading is not a human," Murtagh declared. "He is a Shade."
"A... what?" Eragon's puzzled gaze wandered over the black-clad rider for a moment. The strange color of his hair was striking, but the name "Shade," which his companion had used to identify him, meant nothing to him.
"He is possessed by spirits," Murtagh explained, short of breath. "Malevolent and infernal spirits. No human has ever managed to overcome a Shade, only elves and dragon riders, who..."
"And how do you know what he is?" Suspicion filled Eragon's eyes once again, and his voice sounded aggressive. The carriage was approaching within firing range, and there was no time.
"I know because I have read about it," Murtagh replied sharply. The hostility he detected in Eragon's tone did not please him at all.
"Well, Shade or not, Saphira and I are determined to attack that carriage." The dragon rider's voice grew serious. His gaze locked onto the other's eyes. "Whether you offer your help, Murtagh, or not."
Murtagh took a deep breath and nodded, frowning. "If that's the case, you must learn what is written in old manuscripts. A Shade cannot be killed unless someone targets his heart directly. I assume he himself knows this flaw, so he will surely have taken the necessary precautions."
"I'm usually accurate," Eragon commented, stroking the arrow's feathers with his finger. The previous night, before sleeping, he had tested drawing the bowstring and was pleased to find that his broken ribs didn't cause as much pain as he feared. He would manage.
"The same goes for me," Murtagh muttered as he took cover behind the boulder once again, fully prepared.
The first arrow flew from Murtagh's bowstring, hitting the Shade straight in the shoulder and piercing through. Eragon's arrow ricocheted off the heart he aimed for, disappearing among the horse's hooves. Before the group even realized what was happening, the experienced archer, the carriage's co-driver, was pinned dead in his seat before he could even draw his bow. The carriage driver abruptly pulled the reins in fear, trying to halt the horses. The rider to his left fell dead on the road, pierced straight through the neck, and another was thrown from his horse, wounded, crawling behind the safety of the carriage.
A commotion arose among his companions, who drew their swords from their scabbards, shouting and trying to discern the ambush in the blinding first light of the sun. The more composed ones also led their horses behind the carriage, dismounting and quickly seeking cover behind its bulk, while the driver fell, pierced by arrows.
Taken by surprise, the Shade raised his good hand, summoning the spirits, ready to unleash their destructive magic.
Eragon wasted another arrow aiming for his heart, but to no avail. "I don't understand, how..."
"Aim for the necks!" Murtagh shouted as he stood up, abandoning the cover of the boulders. "Tell Saphira to get ready!" This time, more accurate, he unleashed the arrow with all his strength, hitting the Shade straight in the forehead between the eyes, preventing his destructive intervention.
The cloak and clothes the Shade wore fell empty over the horse's rump, while the body that housed the spirits vanished into smoke. The horse, distressed by the dark magic it had unexpectedly experienced on its back, reared up on its hind legs, neighing in fright and striking the ground with its hooves. It then bolted across the field, disappearing at a gallop. Two more horses from the escort followed, swept along in the frenzied course.
Galbatorix's soldiers panicked, seeing the Shade vanish into smoke right before their eyes. Amid the ensuing commotion, one of the five remaining alive abandoned the safety of his cover, foolishly hurling his spear toward the hillside without any specific target. The others regrouped in an orderly manner, ready to face the attackers.
Murtagh, with his sword in hand, ran down the dirt slope of the hill. "Eragon, send Saphira now!" he shouted to his companion. The bows and arrows had done all they could, and time had been lost trying to neutralize the Shade. The soldiers were huddled behind the carriage. It was time to attack them with their swords before any of them decided to take the reins and try to escape. If Murtagh had calculated correctly, only five opponents were left capable of fighting him.
Eragon followed his companion down the hillside as fast as he could run. In his hand, he wielded Zar'roc, though he wasn't entirely sure he could handle a hand-to-hand fight, given his recent wounds.
Seeing that the enemies who had halted their progress and ended their companions' lives were only two, the soldiers grew bolder and emerged from behind the carriage's cover with their weapons in hand, ready to punish them. However, the sapphire creature that plummeted onto them from the sky caused them to scatter frantically in all directions, forgetting revenge and each seeking to protect their own life. Men and horses were crushed under Saphira's claws and jaws, while Murtagh, along with her rider, finished the bloody work the dragoness had begun.
"Ma'mor*!"
The iron locks of the carriage opened, obeying the dragon rider's magic. The golden rays of the sun rushed into the enclosed, small space, illuminating the dark floor. There, on the hard, dirty surface, lay the slender body of the woman on her back.
Eragon hurried to climb into the interior of the carriage, kneeling by her side, carefully taking her beautiful head into his arms. Sheathing his sword, Murtagh followed behind him with a leap. Saphira poked the tip of her snout into the opening, sniffing. Her tongue hung out of her jaws, tasting the strange scent of the woman.
Eragon placed his palm with the gedwëy ignasia on the captive's forehead, whispering the words of healing, but her eyes remained closed, and her breathing remained shallow.
"What a beautiful woman!" Murtagh admired.
At that moment, the woman's long, black hair slid through Eragon's fingers, revealing the side of her head. One of her ears appeared clearly between the ebony cascade. And... how strange! While the earlobe was normal, the upper edge of the ear protruded pointedly, perhaps two or three times longer than a regular ear.
Murtagh let out a nervous exclamation with his breath. "Gods above and below! An elf!"
.*.*.*.
The two companions, along with their horses—Saphira and the injured elf—had hidden deep within the wooded expanse east of the capital. They had galloped through the wastelands all day, trying to get as far away from the ambush site as possible. The unconscious elf's body was secured on their chestnut horse, as they had been unable to bring her back to consciousness. With the help of the dragoness, who flew high above them keeping watch, they had ensured that the area was completely deserted, with none of their potential pursuers spotting their small group.
The ambush on the road at dawn had likely been discovered by now. Some unit of the army would have passed by and found the corpses of humans and animals scattered around the empty wagon. And if not soldiers, perhaps merchants or simple travelers. Even if the news had not yet reached Urû'baen, the two companions could not risk staying at their refuge for more than a few hours. However, they were exhausted, needed to rest their horses, sleep, and most importantly, tend to the captive's wounds.
They gathered around the small campfire. Eragon began to remove the elf's clothes to examine her wounds, while Murtagh brought some boiled water and clean rags for bandages.
"I will try to heal her wounds using my magic," decided the Dragon Rider. "Make sure you have some food ready in case I am completely exhausted."
With revulsion, the two companions discovered the wounds inflicted upon the woman's body by her torturers. They were deep, numerous, and most had festered. It was no wonder she had not regained consciousness even for a moment. The elf now lay on the brink of death, and their efforts to save her seemed likely to prove futile.
Eragon had never seen an elf. Nor had Murtagh ever encountered any of the hidden inhabitants of the distant forests, although he had heard that occasionally an embassy from the capital of Du Weldenvarden appeared among the Varden. However, during his time in Farthen Dûr, none of its members had traversed the deep stone tunnels to Tronjheim.
Although Morzan's son had never seen an elf, he had discovered many ancient engravings of Dragon Riders in the royal library of Urû'baen. He had also read anatomical manuals that, in their rare illustrations, noted the distinct physical differences between elves and humans. If the Dragon Rider could successfully use his magic, there was a good chance the elf's wounds would be healed.
Murtagh stayed close to Eragon, feeding him with what little food they had, and observing his painful efforts, which lasted for hours. By the end of the endeavor, the bruises and burns, the open cuts left by the whip on her back, might have closed, and only rosy scars might remain marking the skin of the beautiful elf. Yet, despite their efforts, she did not open her eyes.
"What's wrong with her? Why hasn't she woken up yet?" asked Murtagh. "Her wounds appear to be healed."
Eragon wiped the sweat from his forehead, took a generous gulp of water from his flask, and ate a piece of stale bread—the last they had left. "Maybe elves are not like humans," he whispered, exhausted. "My magic might not affect her."
He covered the woman's body with his blanket and lay down beside her, deeply inhaling her scent—a mix of pine needles from a spring forest and wet soil after a storm. Her head was turned towards him, her cat-like eyes closed on her angular face. The sight of her slightly parted lips unsettled his heart.
"I doubt it," Murtagh hesitated. From what he had read, the differences between humans and elves were not so great that healing magic would have no effect on them. "After all, her deep wounds seem to have been healed," he added thoughtfully.
Eragon nodded in agreement. "Maybe she just needs more sleep and rest. Did you see the state of her wounds from the torture? What kind of monsters could do this to a woman?" Despite his exhaustion, his eyes flared with anger, and his gaze darkened. He hated Galbatorix's soldiers with a passion. He had not regretted for a moment that he, along with Saphira and Murtagh, had annihilated them all.
"Probably the Shade…"
"You killed him! Didn't you?" The Dragon Rider sat up and turned abruptly towards Murtagh.
Murtagh shrugged. "I don't think so." His arrow had struck the Shade squarely in the forehead, not the heart as it should have. He placed a hand on Eragon's shoulder, reassuring him. "You need to sleep. The whole effort to heal the elf has exhausted you."
The Dragon Rider nodded, weary. "You need to sleep too. How long can you keep going?"
"We need to leave this place before dawn," Murtagh decided. "It will be more than dangerous for us if we prolong our stay this close to Urû'baen for much longer. If not by now, then certainly by tomorrow the wagon and the dead will be discovered." Deep inside, he hoped that now the elf was free, the Dragon Rider would decide to follow the path he had suggested towards the Varden. Nothing else kept them in the Empire's lands anymore.
The image of the crimson egg momentarily flashed through his mind, an image he tried to push away once again. Throughout the day, during their frantic galloping, the same image accompanied his thoughts; the same call spoke to his heart.
"By dawn, the elf will have recovered," assured the Dragon Rider. "That is, if the torture has not damaged her mind irreparably."
"If that were the case, she wouldn't have been able to show you how she was being transported and the location," Murtagh observed. "She wouldn't have been able to communicate with you at all." He covered the Dragon Rider's body with his own blanket and wrapped himself as best he could in his cloak on the opposite side of the fire near the horses to share their warmth. "In any case, we will leave before dawn. If she remains unconscious, we will secure her body once again on Cadoc's saddle. Sleep now."
Eragon closed his eyes, feeling the weight of exhaustion settle over him. Despite his weariness, he had the conviction that something in Murtagh's words held the key to solving the elf's unconsciousness. Sleep embraced him, and that night, dreams did not come to disturb his brief rest.
Murtagh was slow to fall asleep. The constant call of Galbatorix's crimson egg echoed deep in his mind and heart. He was so close to Urû'baen, perhaps for the last time in his life... His last chance was slipping away... Perhaps the wagon and its dead had not yet been discovered... Even if they had, he might still have a chance... In secrecy, if he dared to pass through the hidden passages... he might succeed...
No! Those thoughts were filled with danger. The dragon eggs were magically guarded within Galbatorix's personal quarters and constantly under his surveillance. Murtagh had to remain committed to the mission entrusted to him by Ajihad. He needed to deliver the information he had been gathering for months to the Varden. He had to warn them about the great threat posed by the twin magicians. He had to lead dragon and rider to Farthen Dûr. He couldn't allow such perilous thoughts to linger in his mind.
But on the other hand… Wasn't he Morzan's son, the one whom Galbatorix had entrusted with his grand plans for the future? Wasn't he the one chosen by the king to deliver the new dragon and rider pair? What had Galbatorix asked of him? To stay by the boy's side, first gaining his full trust. Then, to lure him to Dras-Leona, where, once in the king's hands, it was more than certain that his dragon would also submit. Hadn't the king promised him the red egg as his reward?
Murtagh tossed and turned for a long time. He didn't have the right to risk Eragon and Saphira's lives and freedom just to secure his own chance to be with the red dragon egg. The young pair had to be safely led to Ajihad for the sake of the Varden. When sleep finally came to end the torment of his doubts, his dreams were filled with red flashes the color of fire, with rivers of marble-white veins running through them.
As dawn approached and Murtagh woke up, the elf woman had not yet recovered. The remnants of the fire still glowed dimly, casting a faint light on their small campsite. He saw Eragon sitting beside her, his palm resting gently on her pale forehead. The Dragon Rider's eyes were wide open, and the whites of his eyes gleamed through the faint mists that shrouded them.
"Eragon!" Murtagh jumped up, startled. However, Saphira lay quietly at the other end of the campsite, watching her rider calmly, showing no sign of concern. Murtagh set about gathering their belongings, placing them back into the pouches hanging from the horses' saddles. The animals appeared rested and well-fed. They had no reason to delay the start of their journey.
Eragon stood up, hastily straightening his clothes and hair with his hands. "I communicated with the elf!" he declared, his voice tinged with evident satisfaction. "She informed me that the Shade poisoned her with Skilna Bragh, which is why she can't regain consciousness. By remaining in a state of unconsciousness, she is delaying her death, which will surely come without the antidote."
Murtagh looked at him, puzzled. "And what is this antidote?"
"The elf mentioned that it's Tunivor's Nectar, derived from the Fricai Andlát mushroom. This rare mushroom grows exclusively in the caves of the elven forest and amidst the rocky tunnels of Farthen Dûr in the Beor Mountains."
Upon hearing these words, Murtagh's eyes sparkled. Given this new development and to save the elf's life, the Dragon Rider would willingly travel to Farthen Dûr. This newfound information and the urgency to save the elf's life meant the Dragon Rider would willingly journey to Farthen Dûr. Murtagh would carefully conceal his knowledge of paths that might delve deep into the elven forests. Entering their enchanted woods could be as perilous for Eragon as leading him down Urû'baen's main road at noon with fanfare proclaiming their arrival. His primary mission remained to guide the dragoness and her rider to Ajihad. The elf's predicament would now persuade Eragon to seek out the Varden. There was no room for delay; they needed to proceed to the rebels immediately.
...Was there truly no other way?... What if... perhaps…
"I can lead you to Farthen Dûr," Murtagh declared with determination, trying to banish all other thoughts and doubts. "The antidote must be there." The image of the red egg on its pedestal, blazing with scarlet reflections, returned with greater intensity, filling his mind. His heart yearned eagerly for this call.
…"Go away!... Oh, please… I beg you… do not tempt me with such thoughts… I have my mission… I have Nasuada, who is waiting for me!"…
To banish the intrusive thoughts, he abruptly thrust his hand inside his shirt, feeling the wooden amulet hanging over his chest. Her amulet! It was time to return to her. The urge for the egg faded away, replaced by a heart full of longing for Nasuada. He lifted the elf's light body into his arms and secured it on the saddle of the chestnut horse that had carried her before.
"Really? Do you know the way to lead us to where the balm is?" Eragon stood behind him, his eyes sparkling.
"I know the way! I will lead you there."
As Saphira soared into the air, the two young men mounted their horses. Murtagh grasped the reins of Cadoc, the woman's unconscious body lying loosely on his saddle.
"It might be better if we tied her body onto Saphira's saddle. The height might revive her," Eragon suggested.
"It could finish her off faster."
"Or maybe not!"
"We can try it later."
They set off silently on their journey south, heading in the opposite direction from the frantic gallop they made just two days earlier.
…So close... Gods above and below… how close he was!... What kind of man was he, who let fear drive him away without daring?... Who didn't even try to free the two dragon eggs, even though he had the chance?...
Murtagh abruptly pulled on his horse's reins, bringing it to a halt. The chestnut horse with the elf's body lay quietly beside him, having learned to follow his lead. Deep in his heart, he knew he would regret this decision. He understood well that since he had disobeyed Galbatorix's command, it would be difficult to be accepted back by him, at least not in the same way as before. Not only had he avoided leading the new pair to him, but he had also conspired in the ambush and the death of imperial soldiers... and in freeing the elf. However…
The king might be the most dangerous person living on the land of Alagaësia, but how could he know it was Murtagh who had helped the Dragon Rider snatch the captive from the Shade's claws? How could the king know that Murtagh had met and traveled with Eragon and Saphira? The two Ra'zac had never seen him attacking them, nor had the Shade; and none of the soldiers had survived. No one knew what he had done. Could he not claim that he had attempted the mission assigned to him but failed? However, then... the reward would never come. He wouldn't deserve it. Perhaps, if he could persuade the king that there was still hope if he tried again? There was also the possibility that Galbatorix was still in Dras-Leona, waiting. In that case, he...
It was decided! Murtagh resolved to be bold. He would ensure he adapted to every situation. While the price of his audacity might be great, the reward he stood to gain would be even greater.
Realizing that the others behind him had stopped, Eragon turned back. "What's happening? Why have we stopped?"
Murtagh led the horses to the side of the forest path and dismounted. "Listen to me! I need to talk to you, and you need to try to understand. I took on the task of leading you to Farthen Dûr, and I will do it... if I can. But first, I need to handle a serious matter that can't be postponed. To address it, I will need to travel to Urû'baen."
Stunned by what he was hearing, Eragon also dismounted. "What are you talking about?" In his mind, Saphira roared, alerting him to immediate danger.
Murtagh grasped him by the shoulders, looking deep into his eyes. "A few days ago, you asked me if I was with the rebels… and I denied it. You must understand, I never intended to deceive you. I just didn't know your intentions or the potential alliances you might form. I would never risk revealing my identity." He paused for a moment, trying to discern the boy's deeper thoughts in his eyes. Eragon remained speechless, staring at him in astonishment. "The truth is, I am with the Varden. Their leader sent me to Urû'baen to spy for the rebels."
Hearing these last words, the Dragon Rider seemed to get angry, perhaps even doubting him. "You tell me this now? Didn't it cross your mind all these days that I should know the truth?"
"And what would have changed if you knew?" Murtagh tightened his grip on Eragon's shoulders. "You need to understand, Eragon, there is much at stake, matters of life and death. I am carrying information for the Varden, information that should have already reached the right person. Instead, I delayed to help you escape your enemies and free the elf woman of your dreams. Blame me for hiding the truth if you want, but never doubt my intentions. I swear by all that I hold sacred, I tried to maintain your freedom and want to take pride in achieving it. I helped you as much as I could when you needed me, so now help me by understanding, because I need you." Murtagh saw the Dragon Rider's gaze drift, and he understood that he was conversing with the dragon. Their consultation didn't last long.
"Saphira and I acknowledge everything you've done for us," said Eragon. "We are not ungrateful. We have only been traveling the world for a short time, and we know even less about it. However, as dragon and rider, we have decided to help those who need us. But if we are to do anything that could put our lives in danger, we need to know more about you. You claimed you would lead us to Farthen Dûr, where the antidote for the elf exists. Tell us! Where are you really taking us?"
Murtagh nodded and, lowering his hands, began to undo the straps of the sack secured to the saddle. "For some seasons now, the Varden have been living in Farthen Dûr, hidden within the city and the dwarf tunnels, thus avoiding the hatred and wrath of Galbatorix. There were many reasons that made them leave the kingdom of Surda, where they had found refuge for years, but the main cause was an assassination attempt."
Murtagh fixed his steely gaze into the Dragon Rider's eyes. Yes, he could say this, confident it would have an impact. "Galbatorix decided to crush the morale of the Varden leader by sending assassins to harm not him, but his child. A thirteen-year-old girl!" He paused, allowing the Dragon Rider to digest the fact before continuing. "She was saved, but Ajihad, her father and leader of the Varden, decided that for the safety of the rebels, they needed to seek asylum elsewhere. The dwarves of Farthen Dûr accepted them, and I later traveled to join them. Ajihad honored me with his trust by sending me to Urû'baen."
Murtagh took out the notebook from the sack, containing all the observations he had written during his months at the capital's castle. Everything he had heard, learned, and seen was recorded on these pages. "Now I will return to the city to complete my mission. What I ask of you is to wait safely hidden for one more day and one night. If I haven't returned within this time, then take the path I will show you. If all goes well, I will be the one to guide you to the end of your journey. I entrust you with everything I learned during the time I spied for the Varden. Make sure these notes reach their leader's hands. Trust no one else, especially the twin magicians who work with them. It is urgent to inform Ajihad that the people he chose to protect the Varden are traitors. They secretly work for Galbatorix. Tell him to ensure they are eliminated. They are nothing but snakes, spewing their poison at his bosom to destroy him. Through them, the king learns all the plans and secrets."
At that very moment, with a thud, Saphira landed behind them, startling the horses. She stretched her long neck, sniffing at Murtagh as if it were the first time she had been near him. "Little one, ask him how he knows so many details."
"Saphira and I would also like to know who you really are to be aware of the details you describe."
If the Dragon Rider was impressed by his words, he didn't show it. Instead, a look of suspicion spread across his face. Murtagh simultaneously felt Eragon's attempt to penetrate his mind, to examine the truth of his words, something he immediately blocked and forbade.
"I am none other than who I said. My name is Murtagh, son of Tornac. It's been two years since I lost my father, and my mother died when I was very young, so I barely remember her. Ajihad and his people are now all the family I have left. I am sworn to his cause and mission. He must learn this information immediately, and I must complete my mission."
The Dragon Rider grabbed him by the sleeve, pulling him closer. "Tell us also, where did you learn to shield your mind so effectively, and what is your mission?"
Murtagh nodded, casting a furtive glance toward Saphira. "I learned the first from a great teacher in Surda. As for my mission…" He took a deep breath before answering. "There are still two dragon eggs in the capital. My goal is to try to free them by stealing at least one from Galbatorix. I know it's a dangerous mission, but…"
Saphira stretched her long neck to the sky and roared her joy towards the heavens. Her talons scratched the ground, uprooting plants, while the spikes of her tail shattered branches and bushes. The Dragon Rider's heart filled with the deep emotion and enthusiasm of the dragoness. Murtagh needed all the strength of his arms and his persuasion to restrain and calm the horses, which, frightened, tried to gallop away in surprise.
"If it's about dragon eggs, nothing and no one will stop us from coming with you to the capital," declared Eragon with a determined expression. A feeling of serenity surged in his chest. "We are no longer alone, my soulmate!"
"Eragon, no! Swear that you will only wait for me for the time I asked, hidden in safety. Saphira, I implore you, you must keep him away from any danger. The priority is for both of you to reach the Varden safely. Ajihad is an honorable man. He will treat you with fairness and justice. But if you fall into the clutches of the king, eternal slavery awaits you both. As for Alagaësia... it will continue to be shrouded in the darkness of Galbatorix's magic and tyranny. Its people will live deprived of the freedom, equality, and justice that the Varden intend to bring. Believe me, I have a way to escape if things don't go as planned."
The Dragon Rider seemed to be discussing their alternatives with the dragoness. Murtagh waited for them to finish their consultation. Then, Eragon turned to him with a calm demeanor.
"Up to this moment, everything you've advised us has proven correct. We will follow your recommendations and wait for you where you suggest, hidden in safety."
Relieved, Murtagh began to describe the route they should follow. He directed them towards Tüdosten Lake, the safest road from which they could cross into the lands of Surda. He urged them to look for Tornac's old friend, Gietwald, in Aberon. As the leader of a caravan, Gietwald could guide them to Farthen Dûr if he still undertook that journey. Otherwise, he would advise them on how to find the way. In case Gietwald had disappeared or the Dragon Rider could not meet him, Murtagh drew a rough map for them on the ground, and Eragon, along with Saphira, memorized it. He also urged them to keep the dragoness's existence hidden from everyone and to trust no one except Ajihad himself.
Through a gap in the canopy of pines, Murtagh glanced eastward, where the clouds had begun to blush. Soon, the sun would rise from there. There was little time left, but he intended to write a few lines to Nasuada. He placed the small ink jar and the leather notebook on a flat stone, using its surface to steady the parchment. It wasn't difficult to find the words he would write to her. They had been etched deep in his heart for a long time.
"Nasuada, sweet maiden…"
Eragon discreetly withdrew, conversing with Saphira. The gray steed, Tornac, impatiently pawed the ground with its hoof. Time was running out...
Murtagh sealed the letter and handed it along with the notebook to the Dragon Rider. "Make sure this information is delivered to Ajihad immediately. The knowledge about the twin traitors is crucial, as it is a matter of life and death for him and the Varden. The recipient of this letter is Ajihad's daughter, Nasuada. Trust no one else with this letter, but give it only to her personally."
Eragon accepted the notebook with a nod and twirled the letter between his fingers, examining it. "You and her... are you...?"
Murtagh's lips tightened, his steely gaze flashed, and his hand instinctively touched his chest, where he wore her gifted amulet close to his skin. "Nasuada is the most honorable and proud maiden I have ever known," he remarked simply, irritated by his companion's indiscretion.
Eragon secured the notes along with the letter, hiding them within his clothes. "Rest assured, Saphira and I will deliver both as you instructed." Murtagh's momentary irritation seemed to escape him.
The moment of their parting had arrived, and the emotion between the two companions was palpable.
"Let me come with you." The Dragon Rider tried one last time, his voice full of emotion. "Surely you will need my help. In a reckless mission like this, two are better than one. Besides, the dragon eggs are a matter…"
Murtagh interrupted him, resolute. "There are three reasons you should not seek to follow me. The first is to remain free, to fight with the forces of good against the darkness of Galbatorix. If you are enslaved by the king's magic, you will be forced to serve only his interests.
The second reason is to deliver the vital information I am sending to Ajihad about the traitors and more. Good people sacrificed themselves in Urû'baen to obtain this knowledge.
He looked him in the eyes, knowing that the next reason he would give would perhaps be the most important for him. "Third, the elf woman's life is now in your hands. The longer you delay going to Farthen Dûr, the more she is in danger. Stay hidden in safety. If a day and a night pass and I have not returned, it can only mean one of two things. Either I am dead or captured. In both cases, you must leave immediately following the route I indicated."
.*.*.*.
"Little one..."
"I know, Saphira! Just a bit more…"
"Time's up. The longer we stay in the same place, the greater the danger for us."
"We won't stay for much longer."
"Murtagh himself asked you…"
"I know!" No, he wasn't angry at her for insisting. His heart's chosen one was absolutely right in everything she said. But... "Just for a few more hours."
The previous day had passed quietly, and the darkness of the night had long since been erased by the light. The round-eye-that-burns had risen half a wing's span above the horizon, but the trees around them covered the place where they had nestled under their shade.
Saphira bit angrily at a root protruding from the ground, bothering her side. Her fearsome tail lashed the tree, creating gashes in its trunk. Before the first light of dawn had even broken, she had risen, flying at a considerable height and surveying the surrounding landscape. No one appeared to be coming their way, not even the two-legs-round-ears companion of her chosen one. The hours he had asked them to wait had passed, yet her rider stubbornly insisted on staying in the same place.
"Eragon! Murtagh is not coming!" It was the last time the dragoness would remain patient. If her chosen one still would not be convinced, she intended to grab him with her claws, soar high into the air, and fly far away until they were both safe. They would leave behind the horses, their belongings, and the two-legs-pointy-ears one, whom they had saved with so much effort and sacrifice. "Just think about what your two-legs companion advised you. Think about how he entrusted you with his mission and all that needs to be urgently conveyed to the rebels. Think about what he himself would do if he were in your place."
In her mind, the dragoness felt him slowly changing. His heart was filled with disappointment, but she was in a hurry to take him away from the dangerous lands. Saphira had one more strong argument. "Think about the life of the elf woman. If we don't leave immediately, not only is she in danger, but we might not even manage to leave at all if we fall into an ambush. The dead bodies of the two-legs-flame-chested ones will have already been discovered. We may have been lucky so far, but fate changes quickly."
"The dragon eggs are also at stake..."
"There will be other opportunities."
Eragon checked the vital pulse of the elf woman once more, finding it as weak as ever. "You're right, Saphira. In everything you said, you are absolutely right."
The dragoness nuzzled his hair with her snout. "Murtagh is capable and smart. He knows how to survive. He may not have made it to this meeting of ours, but he will be alright."
"Isn't that a good reason to wait a bit longer? You yourself said this morning that no one seems to be around. Our hideout is still safe for us."
The dragoness felt his previous resolve turning back into hope. No, she would not allow that to happen. "There is always the risk that if Murtagh has been captured, he could be forced to confess. We don't want him to become the reason for soldiers coming here for us, nor can we trust him without knowing what has transpired. You saw the wounds on the elf woman's body, and you understand what Galbatorix's servants are capable of. Murtagh may have been subdued."
Eragon recoiled, annoyed. "No, Murtagh would never surrender. He would rather..."
"Exactly!" Saphira felt her chosen one's heart sink into sadness. "Even so, if…" the dragoness paused for a few moments, trying to find a better way to convey the idea of the inevitable to her chosen one. "Even if his eyes no longer see the light, there is nothing you can do for him."
Both of them, sorrowful, took the long road south, following the route Murtagh had indicated. In their thoughts and the depths of their hearts, they mourned. They mourned for the loyal companion they had known for a short while and had now lost. They mourned for the fate of one who, even if breathing somewhere under the sun, they could never be sure if he was still the same.
A\N: *Ma'mor = Unlock