"Aí varden abr du Shur'tugalar gata vanta!" Arya struck the stone wall with her rock, a sharp clack echoing off the walls and over the rumble of the waterfall.
A massive section of the wall rumbled as it slid aside. The opening was so huge Harry had not been looking within ten feet of the edges for the creases. The smooth cliff face seemed to roll entirely aside. The tunnel behind went back as far as Harry could see, boring through the rock. In the entrance, a row of armored people barred their path. Not one of them stood over four feet tall. Harry had to school his expression; it looked like the Varden had sent children in costumes to defend their home base.
One dwarf with a brown beard and a cartoonishly oversized axe stepped forward and greeted Arya in a language Harry had never heard, harsher and with more consonants than English or the rather flowery Ancient Language.
Arya answered him in the same language. Harry caught Arya's own name from the dwarf, and his name from Arya, but that was all he could make out. Harry stood passively, arms crossed and hands empty while she negotiated.
At some point, Harry caught them switch as Arya said a couple of phrases in the Ancient Language. Assurances that she was here of her own free will, and that Harry was an ally. Harry was surprised to hear she could say that truthfully. He had not very confidently declared himself so.
He was still so unsure how to proceed in such a different world. The confidence he'd built over seven years in the Wizarding World (which was not so different from the muggle one) meant nothing here, where different laws and rules governed a harsher world with much higher consequences for being wrong. Harry knew the rules back home. He was scrappy, he could fight, he knew he could handle himself if worse came to worst.
Here, he was always second guessing.
"He speaks the common tongue?"
Harry waved. "Hello. I'm Harry." He offered his hand to shake. The dwarf seemed more interested in cutting it off than shaking it. From close up, he looked like a much more credible threat than a kid in miniature armor. The dwarf had the facial shape of an adult, the eyes of a fighter, and the bulk of someone hiding a lot of muscle beneath his armor. Unlike the goblins Harry was familiar with, the dwarf looked basically human minus about a meter.
"Orik," the dwarf grunted. "Are you here to be a member of the Varden?"
Harry considered. The pause alone made the dwarf wary. Member was a strong word. "I'm here to see how I can be helpful in defeating Galbatorix."
"That wasn't a very confident answer," Orik said suspiciously.
"Harry is careful with his commitments," Arya placated. "I swear to you he is no ally of Galbatorix's."
"Nor ours," Orik pointed out.
"Trust me when I say his abilities make up for his hesitance."
Orik shrugged and beckoned them both in through the tunnel, barking an order in the other language to the rest of the dwarves. Harry did not fail to notice the dwarven fighters mostly clustered around him while Arya was free to walk by herself.
"You know they will want to speak with you immediately," Orik mentioned to Arya.
"They will have to wait. Harry is a special case."
"Can he use magic?" Orik asked.
Arya looked across to Harry. He nodded. "Yeah. I can."
That made all the dwarves uneasy.
Harry went with the flow. This felt much more professional than the Order of the Phoenix. They whisked him off to a different room, exchanging curt sentences in Dwarvish. He wasn't happy to be separated from Arya, but Harry took solace in the fact that he could apparate away at any moment; there were no anti-apparition wards here, or whatever magic in the Ancient Language mimicked their effect.
Despite being dug out of a mountain, the place felt finished, like it was not just a mineshaft, it was a hallway. The room had meaningless repeating designs etched into the circular wall, and the light in the ceiling looked closer to a lightbulb than a lantern. The light was steady.
Bored, Harry got out a stasis meal and ate lunch.
Orik opened the door a few minutes later with food. He was flanked by a couple of guards who remained by the door. Orik brought his axe with him. He saw Harry with food and blinked.
"Someone else brought you food?"
Harry shrugged, munching on warm toast. Orik assessed him.
"You come here unarmed?"
"I've got my wits," Harry grinned. Durza's sword was somewhere in his backpack.
"Then you come here empty-handed," Orik shot back. "Do you object to your pack being searched?"
"Yeah, I do," Harry said. He was not interested in explaining his whole story to every rank-and-file member up the chain of command. Nor did he want the secret to spread that far. "I'd rather give my secrets to the top and let them trickle down as they see fit than give them to the first person who asks, let them get spread nice and wide, then explain to the guy in charge how important it is that my secrets stay secret."
Orik scowled. "What makes you think you can demand an audience with the Varden's leader and not be clapped in irons?"
"Clapped in irons?" Harry echoed. "Like applause? Or hair styling?" He ruffled his own hair. "I look presentable, don't I?"
"Arrested," Orik spelled out. "Imprisoned."
"Oh," Harry realized. "Arya's going to vouch for me."
The dwarf raised an eyebrow. "Oh she is, is she?"
"Yeah," Harry nodded. "Yeah, she is."
"You make a poor impression," Orik said. "But your entrance to the Varden is not up to me. It is up to them." He stepped aside and let a pair of bald, robed men through the doorway. He gave them a distasteful glance and retreated to the edge of the room. The two men looked exactly identical, down to the completely hairless heads, including eyebrows, eyelashes, and hair follicles. Their skin was eerily smooth and featureless, like they were made of clay rather than human flesh. Bizarre purple symbols were embroidered into their black robes, and they walked in an eerie lockstep unison.
"Do not speak," one barked harshly. "If you open your mouth to speak other than to answer our questions, you will be killed. If you attempt to cast magic, you will be killed. If you refuse to follow directions–"
"I'll be killed?" Harry guessed bemusedly. How good was his wandless protego? Though perhaps the question was, how fast was it? He didn't like his chances against a one-word spell like slytha, but he thought he could defend himself if they used a longer phrase. He needed something faster than human reaction.
"Entrants to the Varden must submit to a mental examination," the other added. "It is our way to ensure there are no traitors among our ranks."
"No exceptions are made," the first said. "It would defeat the purpose of certainty. The Varden may be freer with their trust when confident every fellow member shares the same goal."
Harry disliked them both very much. The twinspeak thing was a lot less cute from these eerie magicians than a couple of lighthearted gingers. It was downright unsettling. And if there was one thing he knew, it was that there was no way he was letting those two clay facsimiles into his mind.
"Like Arya said, I'm a special case." Harry stood up. The twins went on alert.
"Do not speak!" they shouted, voices overlapping.
"I don't want to fight you, but I won't be silenced and I won't be examined," Harry said coolly. "Orik heard what Arya said. I know she wasn't examined because the Varden doesn't know things both of us do know that the Varden shouldn't."
If anything, that only made them more eager to know. Harry saw the gleam of avarice in their beady eyes. "You don't have a choice."
A mental attack slammed into Harry like the Hogwarts Express had derailed and rammed straight into his brain. For all that Snape's Occlumency lessons had been miserable and useless, it had never occurred to him that maybe, just maybe, the git had been going easy on him. These two weirdos attacked with a hundred times more force and viciousness than Snape ever had.
Gritting his teeth, Harry emptied his mind. He had never been good at this. No matter how much he put into it, Harry knew he wasn't going to win the mental battle with his mind alone. He refused to allow them to drag up any secrets into his mind. They fought in the here and now. When the Evil Twins tried to dangle questions of where he'd been or how he'd got there in front of him, Harry shut their grasping attempts down.
They had no idea, they knew nothing of his history, and so their attempts to push deeper into his mind were like slapping clay with their palms instead of digging their fingers in. Harry's whole world narrowed down to the circular dwarven room. This was his entire life, his entire identity. This room was all he knew. He had no name, no history. He was the Man in the Room, and that was all they could find out, because that was all that was.
The Evil Twins' attempts continued, scouring at that incredibly simple, shallow identity Harry had cloaked himself in. They skirmished on the edge of Harry's consciousness as he defended even that puddle of knowledge, determined to drive them the rest of the way out.
He saw the frustration on their faces. No visions for the Evil Twins, they stayed with him in the moment. One opened his mouth, but Harry beat him to the punch. "Protego!" he shouted, holding up a palm.
A translucent barrier caught the first one's whispered attack, whatever it was. Harry felt the hairs stand up on the back of his neck. He had no idea what the limitations of the shield charm were against this kind of magic.
Stupefy!
A flash of red light zipped across the room, sinking into the second magician without resistance. He fell to the ground.
"Stop!" Orik shouted, his voice echoing in the stone room.
A bang cracked off the rounded walls, echoing over and over as Harry lobbed another spell with his bare hand. The first twin muttered "Brisingr," under his breath, conjuring a ring of flames around Harry.
He laughed. This was the best they could do? He didn't even bother to move his hands in mentally casting the bubblehead and flame-freezing charm. Harry stepped through the flames and slapped the remaining magician. The man was so surprised by the unexpectedness of it, the mental attack halted. Harry withheld the fight-ending stunner.
"Stop attacking me," he ordered, looking straight into his eyes. A red handprint bloomed on his cheek. "I'm here to help the Varden. I'm not here to fight you. Talk to Arya. She will vouch for me."
The twin's eyes were full of loathing. He glanced down at his brother, then back up at Harry.
"He's not dead," Harry dismissed. "Stunned. He'll be up in an hour. Probably."
The magician looked to the dwarves for help with his brother, but the dwarves just stood around. Humiliated, he cast a spell to levitate his stunned accomplice out the door.
It rolled shut behind them. Orik and his guards watched him silently, unsure how to proceed.
"We should have killed you for that," Orik grumbled. A friend of his said something jokingly in their language.
"Aye. Nobody has ever dared slap the twins. Though everybody's dreamed of getting to." He sighed, lost in the pleasant fantasy."
"Sorry," Harry apologized, sitting back down. "Arya would have my head for letting them get ahold of her secrets. Y'know?"
Orik tugged his beard. "I suspect Ajihad is the only one qualified to untangle this mess. You may be here for a while as this mess gets sorted out."
Harry coughed. He wasn't eager with the idea of being cooped up in this room for days while Arya talked down whoever was in charge here. Apparently Ajihad. "I should mention I have absolutely critical information to get to Ajihad. And it's fairly time sensitive."
Orik drummed his fingers on the haft of his axe. It was built to be exactly long enough to fit in his belt loop without the blade dragging on the ground. "I'll pass it along."
After his run in with evil-dee and evil-dum, nobody seemed interested in poking their heads in. Harry thought it was a bit of an overreaction; he'd not dealt any damage a nap wouldn't cure them of, despite their blatant attempts to kill or cow him. He was surprised by how effective his spur-of-the-moment Occlumency technique worked. Grounding himself in the moment denied them any handholds to get further into his mind, and it let him stay present and able to fight, rather than caught in his own memories.
He wondered if it would have worked on somebody who knew any of his history, or if it was only the fact that he was a complete stranger to the Evil Twins that kept them from using any ammunition against him to get their footholds. Merlin knew Snape had plenty of humiliating moments to use as a way in – most of them he'd manufactured himself in Potions class.
The dwarves fed him at least, meals and water slid under the doorway for him to eat. Usually cold meat and bread, Harry reheated the food with magic and appreciated the novelty of meat after so long without it. He really needed to stock up at some point. He supposed he could go buy some livestock and hire a butcher to render the whole thing down for him. If the dwarves took twenty-four karat gold as legal tender. He'd have to ask somebody about that.
There were no allocations made for going to the bathroom. Harry was not about to conform to the medieval expectation; he simply sealed the door so the dwarves couldn't come in while he pitched the tent to use his nice magical indoor plumbing.
It was hard to tell the passing of time with the unchanging dimness of the light in the ceiling in the stone room. Harry had developed an irritating habit of casting tempus every twenty seconds when he was bored. Since he'd begun growing into his wandless magic, that meant glowing numbers often popped up next to him almost without his input.
He brought a book out from Arya's room to read: War Machines by some author from Teirm. It detailed the development, purpose, strengths, and weaknesses of a dozen different siege engines. The book was a regression from even the wizarding books Harry was used to. Grammatical rules and spelling were inconsistent even within the book itself, the 'table of contents' was broadly only for the major divisions between each siege engine, and the author had trouble structuring his thoughts into chapters. It all read like stream-of-consciousness, and catapult mechanics leaked into trebuchets and battering rams and vice versa, like chapter divisions were mostly there for lip service.
Despite the book's imperfections, Harry enjoyed reading it. He felt like he had a much better insight into Garth Macavoy's mind than he ever got into Miranda Goshawk's after reading seven levels of Standard Book of Spells.
Garth was clearly brilliant, too. Harry realized he had not been keeping up with his journal, and resolved to recommit to writing entries. He fished it out of his backpack and put it next to him as a reminder to put it by his bed next time he pitched the tent to go to the bathroom.
He appreciated the wit Garth showed in his writing, as well as the understanding he had of the titular War Machines in each chapter. It made him realize that Garth was no less intelligent than him when it came to devising machines. Garth couldn't make a turbofan engine because he had no concept of flight outside of animals, petroleum-based fuels and the engine itself had never been invented, and he simply had never considered fluid dynamics as particularly useful outside of how the wind affected a ballista javelin's trajectory.
If it was all explained to him, Harry had no doubt the man would understand. The difference between a modern nuclear physicist and Garth wasn't some temporal superiority granted to the physicist by being born in the 20th century, it was about twenty generations of scientists before them and a decent education system.
The door rolled open. Harry was startled from his spot lounging against the wall with War Machines, tracing a series of diagrams depicting the tactical advantage of a siege tower versus a walled target.
Orik stood in the doorway, this time without his massive axe and without a battalion of guards flanking him.
Harry nearly cast tempus before catching himself. "Orik," he greeted. "What's happening?" He got to his feet and slotted in a bookmark before stuffing War Machines into his pack.
"You're getting that meeting," Orik grunted. "I hope you know what you asked for."
"Is Arya there?" Harry tried not to sound too hopeful.
Orik shrugged. "I'm just the messenger. Follow me. I'd go through the song and dance of threatening to kill you if you use magic, but I'm no fool. It won't make a lick of difference. Just know that if you want anybody to believe you're here to help the Varden, flaunting their request that you keep your magic to yourself is not going to convince them."
"Fair," Harry agreed. "You made it sound like those creepy magicians weren't anybody's favorites."
Orik snorted, leading him into the massive hallway. They began a long, long walk down the seemingly endless tunnel. "I don't think they're not anybody's least favorites. Smarmy, smug, arrogant, and important enough to get away with it. You made powerful enemies. Harry, right?"
Harry nodded. "Harry Evans." He offered to shake hands again. This time, Orik clasped his forearm and gave it a firm shake. The logistics were awkward when he was so much shorter. "I've never met a dwarf before."
"Your life was empty before," Orik joked. Then, more seriously, "few have with the Empire looming large over Alagaesia. Dwarves and dragons have always been the natives of this continent. Though we have always preferred the Beors, there are plenty of older dwarves who still remember a time when they could wander the grasslands and visit the cities of humans and elves."
"That's over a hundred years," Harry pointed out.
"Aye," Orik agreed. "A lucky dwarf might live for two or three centuries before he joins his ancestors in Helzvog's Hall."
Harry wasn't sure how he felt about being the gerbils of this universe. At least wizards seemed to get a bit longer than muggles.
After hours of walking, the end of the tunnel became visible. It was still so huge and so far away that it took another hour to reach, at which point Orik began watching Harry for his reaction. Harry had seen a drawing of Tronjheim in Domina Abr Wyrda and knew vaguely what to expect, but still had no sense of scale.
As they drew closer and the tunnel's end approached, Harry began to understand how completely inadequate that drawing was at conveying the size of Tronjheim. When they reached the entrance, Harry stopped in his tracks, struck dumb by the sight.
"Holy shit," he whispered.
Orik watched him with a wide smile and a good deal of smug pride. "This is Tronjheim. The greatest of our cities and the largest."
Harry was at a loss for words. Finally, he had encountered something in Alagaesia for which Earth had no peer. There was simply no contest. Nothing existed even in the muggle world that was half as impressive as Tronjheim.
The tunnel opened into an unfathomably huge cavern. It was hardly fair to use the word cavern, it was ostensibly a hollowed out mountain. And that mountain was unthinkably huge. Even by the standards of the Beors, the size of the hollow mountain was gargantuan. It looked like merely walking from one side to the other would take a full day.
Tronjheim sat at the center of the gigantic field of stone, a mountain within a mountain. Tronjheim itself was a mountain of reckoning, a mile high and yet dwarfed by the size of the cavern it was situated in. At the top of the mountain, a gigantic ruby capped the city, so huge Harry could clearly see its shape from miles away, carved into the form of a rose.
Below the rose, arches and terraces, balconies, halls, and every other architectural feature descended from the top like the world's most elaborate wedding cake.
The gigantic cavern was dim even during the early afternoon. Harry craned his neck up and found that he could see only a small circle of azure sky at the top of the cone. Icicles the size of skyscrapers hung from the cavern roof, threatening to shake loose and fall like a meteor on some part of the stone field. The mountain had to be so high that the sun was never directly overhead to give it daylight.
"Does it ever get daylight?" Harry asked. "There's not some single day of the year or anything where it's directly overhead?"
"What a sight that would be," Orik sighed longingly. "No. As far as our astronomers can tell, we are too far north for that. The sun just misses the zenith on the summer solstice. Imagine true sunlight hitting Isidar Mithrim and dancing across Farthen Dur…" He shook himself from his wishful trance. "We should be so lucky. The gods save such visions for themselves."
The dwarf glanced back at Tronjheim. Harry was still rooted in place, taking in the whole cavern. The dwarven city was lit by a million lanterns on every arch and balcony and awning, like fairy lights adorning the most expensive Christmas tree. In the dim twilight of the cavern, it was an otherworldly effect.
A warm breeze blew past them and down the hall. Harry looked to Orik.
"The blood of the earth is close to the surface here," he said. "Farthen Dur is warmed by it. The heat plays with the air currents beneath the mountains, so the air is not as still as a tomb. The Riders of old mentioned updrafts that filled their wings and pushed them up towards the roof of the cavern." Orik gestured at the hole. "But nobody has managed to fly so high outside of legend. Mimring the dragon was said to have done it, after which his colorful scales were turned as clear as glass."
"Dragons would struggle," Harry agreed. "The air must be very thin and cold up there. Breathing would be a challenge, let alone flying with wings."
Orik gave him a strange look. "Is there any other way?"
He waved him off. "How many people live there?"
"Not as many as have ever, but more than usual, and far less than its capacity." Orik tugged him from his spot and they embarked on the long walk over a specially paved path over the cavern floor. "The mountain is hollow. Not completely, of course, but there are rooms all the way through. There is enough space in Tronjheim to house every single dwarf in our entire race. Thrice it has done so, and in each case it saved us from destruction. Dwarves complain about the expenses of maintaining it and councils love to bicker on wiser allocation of taxes, but nobody can argue with its record, so we keep the whole place maintained and ready should it be called upon a fourth time."
Harry grinned. "I bet that was a sight to see."
Orik nodded. "Dwarves are spread out across the Beors right now. I imagine it was very cramped and difficult to feed everybody, especially if they were cooped up in Tronjheim instead of tending to the Feldunost. Today, dwarves mostly live in the outer layer for the fresher air and more comely accommodations."
They passed people on the road to the giant gates, a pair of giant griffin statues guarding them from atop huge pillars on either side. Most were dwarves, but plenty more were human.
"We have plenty of space, so hosting the Varden costs us relatively little," Orik explained. "That does not stop clans who do not want any involvement in this war from complaining. It makes us a target, they say, and they dislike any taxes going to serve the Varden's needs. The Varden gives back where it can, but humans cannot contribute as much as dwarves do here in Farthen Dur. Mining is in our blood. It is what Helzvog made us for. Clans like Az Sweldin rak Anhuin are short sighted and refuse to acknowledge the danger Galbatorix poses."
Harry held his tongue and did not mention that perhaps Az Swelden Rak Anhuin had it right, and that there was an invasion headed this way that was almost certainly because the Varden lived here.
"How long did it take to make this?" Harry wondered. No cranes, no power tools, no bulldozers or lorries or cement mixers, Tronjheim had to be built on nothing but muscle and a little bit of magic.
"A long, long time. The elves were not yet established in Alagaesia when the city was finished, though Dûrok Ornthrond did not finish the Star Sapphire until some decades later." Orik spoke as if reciting from history class.
"How did anybody pay for it?" It had to have cost billions, no, trillions to create. Centuries at the least, armies of dwarves, a mountain of marble and gold and whatever other precious materials Tronjheim was made of, the number had to be beyond astronomical. He'd ask Neil how much the lunar program cost; astronomical might be a literal term.
"Volunteer work," Orik explained. "Records from so far back can be hard to chase down, but the cost was mostly feeding all the dwarves who devoted their lives to it, and paying for the lost productivity of dwarves who could have been farming or tending to flocks."
"Imagine being the guy who laid the first brick," Harry murmured. "Or the last one."
"Dûrok got the privilege of the last one," Orik said. "That entire gemstone," he pointed. "One dwarf. Dûrok spent his entire life carving the Isidar Mithrim and when he finished, he cried out 'Guntera save me, it is done!' and his heart stopped. His life's work was lifted to the top of the city through an extraordinarily complicated logistical feat of scaffolding, and Tronjheim was complete."
Harry whistled through his teeth. "Talk about a legacy."
Orik chuckled. "Aye. His is a name that will endure for as long as a single dwarf is alive that paid attention to the stories of their ancestors."
The guards at the gate recognized Orik and let them through. There were dwarves everywhere, and about a quarter as many humans milling about. Orik led him straight past the busy square and into a tunnel, then up a series of stairs and down dozens of branching hallways, taking each turn with confidence.
Flanking the halls were many, many doors. Most were stone sliding doors like the one in the room Harry had stayed in the past few days. Most were also open, revealing thousands of empty apartments. It felt like a ghost town.
Harry could tell at a certain point that they were following a pattern. Orik was not picking hallways so much as a memorized set of turns as maintaining an angle of travel through the mountain city, averaging out his turns to stay on track. The dwarf had very good bearings, too. Harry checked his work surreptitiously with a conjured blade of grass and the point me charm.
"To what end do you risk casting magic?" Orik scowled, watching the blade of grass drift down to the hallways floor discarded.
Harry voiced his observation. "I'm checking which way is north and confirming my suspicion. You just picked the right direction to head in since you know where in space Ajihad is, rather than just the right hallway."
"I suppose magicians probably tend to be smarter than the average person," Orik observed. "Exactly right. I do not need a compass not only because I have lived here for decades, I am a dwarf, and I do not get lost, but also because of those."
He pointed up at the next junction of hallways. Dwarvish writing apparently used the same letters as English, since they were engraved in gold filigree in the marble arch over the hallway interchange. There was also an asymmetrical rose carved into the arch. The petal at 2 o' clock was done in gold rather than pink, and the leaves surrounding the flower looked too deliberate to be just aesthetic. Flanking the arch were several more of those lanterns, brightening the junction a good deal more than the rest of the hall, which was left mostly dim with widely spaced lamps.
"We are heading north-northeast on level twelve," Orik said. "The rose is obvious. The leaves are a bit harder to guess. Above it, the full address of this junction is written."
"It feels like we're taking back roads," Harry observed. "Aren't there bigger halls we could have taken to reach our destination with easier instructions?"
Orik seemed delighted that he'd taken an interest in his hometown. "Of course. We could have taken the main junction, taken the ramp or Vol Turin, or any other myriad path. But this lets us cut out most of the angles of our travel, and we avoid traffic. And I do not need instructions. If you learn the way the halls are organized, you can be dropped anywhere in Tronjheim and find anywhere else without missing a turn."
"If you know Dwarvish, maybe," Harry mumbled. The dwarf laughed.
"That would help," he agreed.
Harry got the feeling they were getting somewhere when the tunnels stopped being wholly abandoned and started to see foot traffic. Boys sprinting carrying little bags, armored guards clicking and clanking their way down halls or loitering at junctions, and people in fairly nice clothes striding past.
Finally, they came to a very impressive wooden door flanked by serious looking guards.
"Orik brings Arya's guest," Orik told the guards. One of them nodded and walked around the corner of the hall. About a minute later, someone came to open the door.
"Enter," a voice commanded.
Harry glanced at Orik. The dwarf followed him inside.
Ajihad's office looked a bit like the library in Grimmauld Place mixed with an empty living room. It was unlike all the other offices Harry had seen; there were no baubles or toys anywhere. The decorations were spartan, and seemed to be there just to remind people that Ajihad was important and powerful.
His desk was cleared of any papers. Behind it, Ajihad was an impressive figure. He reminded Harry of Kingsley Shacklebolt with a more intense 'African war god' vibe. His skin was even darker than Kingsley's, his head shaved bald and polished. He had an immaculate and closely trimmed beard and mustache, and his eyes were dark and serious. He wore black clothing with gold decorations, in a cut and pattern Harry was unfamiliar with.
Ajihad examined him in silence. Harry was sick of the mind games. He pulled out a chair in front of his desk and sat. After another stretch of quiet, he opened his backpack. Ajihad's guards alerted for a moment before relaxing as he withdrew War Machines and flipped to his bookmark.
"Why are you here?" Ajihad asked finally.
Harry set down his book. "This office, the Varden, or more philosophically?"
Ajihad folded his hands on his desk and sat like a statue. "Take your pick." His voice was deep and resonant. His eyes did not move from Harry's.
"I came to the Varden to help get rid of Galbatorix," Harry picked.
"Why?"
Harry blew his bangs from his forehead. "I don't have personal hatred for Galbatorix himself, but he and his Empire are doing things I think need to be stopped. I don't like what he's doing to magicians, dragons, elves, or dwarves. I think the longer he rules unopposed, the more he will consolidate his power, hone his magic, and generally become even more difficult to overthrow. While he's not wholly intolerable to humans now, he's immortal and our window to hold him accountable through force may close at any time. If Alagaesia does nothing and he gets more powerful and more evil later, we'll be really fucked then."
"Perspicacious summary," Ajihad remarked. "What personally brought you here? Ideals alone?"
Harry shook his head. "Ideals were my weakest motivator. I don't really want to kill loads of people in a bloody war when the status quo seems tolerable. My ideals tell me Galbatorix needs to go, but they also tell me that it's wrong to get thousands of people killed over a moderate increase in living standards. Rather, Arya is a good friend and I know she is committed to this war. I have other friends I hope to support by helping the Varden. And selfishly, I am a magician and I don't want to be looking over my shoulder for Galbatorix for the rest of my life."
"You are aware that the Varden generally does not seek out battles?" Ajihad clarified. "We train for war, but often run raids, kill Galbatorix's magicians, disrupt his plans. We are closer to nuisances than threats most days."
Harry nodded. "I am. But if that egg hatches, I suspect that will change."
Ajihad's brow raised. "You are well informed. I heard from my men that you claimed to know secrets of the elves."
"I don't think they have a list," Harry cleared his throat. "I know some things that are super secret, probably some others that are pretty boring. Why do you ask?"
"I am gauging how much to trust you based on Arya's word alone," Ajihad admitted. "I have nothing to trust you by save your word and Arya's word. While I trust Arya perhaps more than anyone, to be frank, you have not sold yourself well to me."
Was this a job interview? It was beginning to feel like one.
"You refused to allow my magicians to examine your mind. You attacked them and left one incapacitated–"
"-Briefly," Harry inserted. "And they started it."
Ajihad was clearly not a man used to being interrupted. He gathered his composure, surprised and affronted. "You have given me no reason to trust you."
Harry rubbed his forehead. "I have reasons and proof that you'd be able to trust me, but I can't give them to you since they're secret. Arya is telling you I'm trustworthy because I've proven it to her. What do you want me to say? She wanted me to come here. Probably partly for my company, but she knows I can do a lot for the Varden. If you're willing to let me, I can be a huge asset to you guys."
"In the Varden trust is a precious thing we have all bought for each other by submitting to the unpleasant reality of mental examination," Ajihad said. His eyes bored into Harry. "We do not make exceptions. In the Varden we know every brother and sister among us is beyond reproach. We do not barter and trade with trust, spending it like currency and hoping our investments are wise. We choose certainty. What can you show me that will give me certainty, Harry Evans? How will you prove beyond doubt that you will never betray the Varden or its secrets?"
Harry took something else out of his pack. The guards tensed, hands going for their weapons. Ajihad held up a hand, then turned it expectantly to Harry.
He handed over a sword Ajihad clearly recognized. Long and pale, with a deep, curved scratch up half the length of the steel blade.
"Durza's sword," Ajihad observed, accepting the blade and feeling its weight. He raised his voice. "I want everyone else out of the room. Someone request Arya's presence here. Now."
The guards filed out, followed by a maid and a servant. Ajihad set Durza's sword crosswise on his desk between them. "I have not seen this sword since I put that scratch in it trying to kill that Shade."
"I don't think he's dead," Harry said. "I managed to knock him over while Arya cut off his head while invisible. She was going for a stab through the chest, but Durza dove into her sword with his neck. He didn't leave a body, either."
Ajihad nodded. "Shades may only be killed by piercing their heart." He folded his hands again. "Suppose I accept your intentions and allow you to aid the Varden. This blade corroborates Arya's recounting of her rescue, which in turn seems to prove your animosity with the Empire. What then? Will you train with the soldiers in the fields? Join a squad I assign you, take and follow orders, drill, and fight?"
Harry frowned. "I thought magicians were not wasted on the front lines. I'm not interested in following orders." Silently, Harry gestured around the room, casting privacy spells. "My magic is unique. You can ask Arya if you don't believe me. I don't have to pay the energy cost other magicians do, but my magic is unpredictable when it clashes with theirs. I can't fight other magicians until I figure that out. What I can do is logistical support. I can grow loads of food. I can transport more troops farther and faster than on dragonback. I can keep tabs and update you on how close the incoming Urgal invasion is from Farthen Dur."
Ajihad's eyes sharpened at that.
"I want a small team of helpers you trust completely, a fairly large and private place to work, and a list of the Varden's most pressing problems to address," said Harry. "I can heal sick and wounded, grow food, probably make weapons and armor, I can support the Varden with gold or other resources. Get me that list and somebody willing to work to source odd things for me, bugs, plants, ores, rocks, seeds, whatever, and I'll start solving problems for you."
Ajihad stared at him for a while. Long enough that Harry considered bringing his book back out to make a point about his time being wasted.
"You are the most insolent person I have ever met," Ajihad said finally, making his dislike plain. "You attack my magicians, refuse routine examinations that every other member of the Varden accepts, flagrantly disrespect myself and my office at the head of the Varden, demand resources and manpower and offer vague promises of solving problems you pick and choose at your leisure, and you expect me to expose to your the Varden's vulnerabilities on a promise?"
He stood. He was imposingly tall, and loomed over Harry. "If you came any less recommended than by Arya herself, I would have had you killed after you attacked the Twins."
Harry stood to meet him. "I don't care who you are," he said with rejection and apathy. He was sick and tired of this shit. Islanzadi at least didn't glower and fume when he didn't use her title or bow when she entered the room or whatever.
"To me, you're just a guy in a chair in a fancy office. I came here to help on Arya's recommendation. I came here because you're the guy she tells me can make the most of my skills in taking down Galbatorix. The fact that an Urgal army is headed here tells me you have a spy and Galbatorix already knows the vulnerabilities you say you can't tell me."
He fished the folder of intel out of his bag and tossed it onto Ajihad's desk. The folder fell on top of Durza's sword and spilled open, half the papers leafing to the floor on Ajihad's feet.
"Are you going to turn down my help because I won't grovel and submit to your creepy pets who want to intimately invade every hopeful person to come here? Or do you want to defeat Galbatorix enough to work with allies instead of subordinates?"
Harry watched Ajihad's eyes widen as he parsed through the fairths and imprints, startled by the sensory nature of the latter images depicting dozens, hundreds of tribes of Urgals migrating en masse to the Beors with a very obvious destination in mind.
As the tension between the two of them reached its peak, somebody knocked on the door.
"Enter!" Ajihad snapped.
Arya opened the door, immediately taking in the two of them, the scattered papers, the sword between them, and the expressions on their face. There was a pause as everybody worked to find the right words to cut through the frozen moment.
"I see you two have met," she said finally.
AN: I'm writing chapter 47 at the time this is posted. 5k word chapters mostly as we wrap up Eragon and head into Eldest. Again, thanks to Scarze for beta-ing.