The Black Morass

by Gerald Lambert

  search when an arrow whipped past them. Aluora barely flinched.

  "Who goes there!"

  Was that a question? Mark blinked and flicked his eyes toward the sound of the voice. "Show yourself!"

  A man stepped out of the woods, carrying a bow in his hand, a quiver on his hip. He was wearing a dark green outfit that blended well with the surrounding forests. His cuirass

  portrayed a white embellished horse head. The helmet he wore had a similar horse motif hammered into the sides. It was apparent this man was wearing a uniform of sorts, likely

  the crest of a nobleman that owned these lands. Why else wear such obviously ornate armor? "State your name and business."

  He relaxed a little, Only a guard. Mark responded, "Marcus. I'm traveling to Surda."

  "No one travels to Surda from the Empire without passing through the checkpoints. Where are your papers?"

  "Who do you work for? King Orrin or someone else?"

  The guard blinked, clearly not used to being questioned. "My orders come directly from Lord Breezewood."

  "May I speak with him? I'm here on business to the capital of Aberon."

  He stared at Mark until Aluora nickered. The guard snapped to attention and said, "Follow me, Sir Marcus."

  Clicking his tongue, Aluora trotted after the man while Mark sat in his saddle, smug and pleased with himself. After riding through the small village and gaining much attention, they

  arrived at a large gated estate. Mark dismounted and set his hand on Aluora's nose, telling her silently to stay. She counted in the grass and bobbed her head as the guard led Mark

  up the stairs, inside.

  "What is the meaning of this? Who is this? Arriving unannounced?"'

  Before the guard had a chance to speak, Mark stepped ahead of him, "My sincerest apologies, Lord Breezewood. Please, allow me to explain."

  "Go on." The short, balding man said, looking up at Mark curiously.

  "First, I must ask: do you know anything of the Varden?"

  "The Varden? Why would you ask me such a thing?" He shifted his weight uncomfortably. "I have no need to know about them."

  "I mean you no harm, please, speak with me honestly."

  Lord Breezewood looked at him suspiciously for a moment, before responding, "I know of the Varden. My land is situated on the border of the Beor Mountains where the dwarves

  dwell. The Varden is allied with them, of course I know about them."

  "Do you know of their actions as of late?"

  "Actions? If you are referring to that awful war they had with the Empire's forces, then yes, I am well aware. I pity any who were involved in that skirmish, though I suppose it can't

  be helped."

  Mark relaxed slightly, "I've heard that King Orrin is preparing to assist their efforts now that it's come to such a situation."

  "Yes, yes, I have been made aware of King Orrin's intentions. I believe he should have assisted them long ago, who am I to argue with the king, eh? My small village here grows

  some of the food that is sent to the Varden. They need every assistance we can afford to give them."

  "I am pleased to hear it."

  The man nodded, "Now, if you would so kindly explain why it is you've come here unannounced?"

  "Of course," Mark said, "I am Lady Nasuada's personal guard. As the leader of the Varden, she has sent me ahead to scout for trouble and I thought I would bring word to you that

  the Varden will shortly be arriving and traveling through your lands."

  He blinked, "Shortly?"

  "Tomorrow," Mar corrected himself, "I thought it wise to inform you, so that you don't believe you've come under attack by bandits or the Empire."

  "Yes. Thank you for… informing me. King Orrin knows of your coming arrival?"

  "He does. It was by his word that my Lady chose to bring the Varden to Surda. It's at this juncture due to the recent developments in the Empire. Their attack on Farthen Dûr was a

  turning point; we've decided this has become a full rebellion."

  "I see…"

  Mark nodded, "By chance, do you have a courier that I might be able to send a message with to Aberon? I would like to send word ahead to King Orrin that we shall be arriving in

  the capital shortly."

  "Oh, yes, yes, of course." The short man nodded, looking at his guard, "Fetch me Dravin." A few moments later a young man of thirteen or so appeared, blinking at Lord

  Breezewood. "You are to take a message from Sir Marcus to Aberon. The message is going straight to King Orrin, make sure no one else is shown the letter before then."

  The boy nodded and looked at Mark.

  "I'm afraid I haven't a written letter. Would you mind?"

  "No, no, of course not. Please," he waved a hand toward a desk nearby.

  Mark strode over and hurriedly found a piece of paper and a quill. His handwriting quickly filled the page, fluid letters seeping into the paper. When he finished, he ran his finger

  along the edge, muttering under his breath. "Mor'amr wiol Könungr Orrin. Skölir thornessa kvaedhi frá haina." He looked up at the boy and handed him the paper. "Please make

  sure it arrives into King Orrin's hands safely." Mark smiled at the boy.

  "Dravin, take the fastest horse in the village, get it to Aberon quickly."

  "Yes m'lord." He bowed quickly and shot out of the room.

  Mark turned to the lord, "Thank you again for all your help."

  "It's no trouble. I am pleased to assist the Varden. Tomorrow, be sure to stop in again with your Lady. I will be grateful to have her in my home."

  "Consider it done." He nodded. "I should return to her now however. Thank you for your assistance. Tomorrow, expect to see the Varden on your horizon at dawn." Mark inclined his

  head in a small gesture of a bow and walked himself outside again, climbing on Aluora's back and wheeling her around. She nickered, rearing back for a moment before sprinting

  off the lord's ground and charging back towards the mountains.

  Mor'amr wiol Könungr Orrin. Skölir thornessa kvaedhi frá haina. Open for King Orrin. Shield this letter from harm.

  QUESTION: Is there anything that you don't like? Anything that you want to see? Anything you think you want to happen? Please, please, give me feedback, without it I have very

  little direction aside from the books.

  I've done my best to try and make everything purposeful. The parts with Eragon are still a good way to keep track of what's going on. I think the next parts are going to have to

  speed up a bit, because in the book, aside from Eragon's training with the elves, it's all Roran. And since no one's with Roran, I'm not going to be writing everything out about his

  journey.

  Nyx – Kendra's wolf's name, a Greek Goddess

  Nox – The Latin translation and equivalent of Nyx

  Night – Which both Nyx and Nox mean, the Goddess of Night or just Night

  Title Explanation: It's night time during most of this chapter… see what I did there? I'm so clever. Haha… ha… no.

  I do apologize for how late this chapter seems from the others, but I've been selfreflecting a lot lately on top of being extremely busy.

  Writing this story is fun, though timeconsuming. I love seeing everyone that reads this story come back for every chapter. The updates I receive on my email are always so

  encouraging and I have been feeling slightly guilty about not posting a new chapter for a while.

  Hopefully, this won't happen again where there's such a large lull. I'm planning on working and going to school however, so it might be a while between chapters. For the rest of the month though, I'm going to try my best to get five chapters up. My goal was to get through Eldest by the end of summer – that didn't happen. But it's okay. We'll get there

  eventually.

  "Tell me, Eragonfiniarel… What do your people sing about in these dark days? I remember the epics and lays I heard in Ilirea – sag
as of your proud kings and earls – but it was

  long, long ago and the memories are like withered flowers in my mind. What new works have your people created?" Eragon frowned as he tried to recall the names of stories Brom

  had recited. When Lifaen heard them, he shook his head sowrrowfully and said, "So much has been lost. No court ballads survive, and, if you speak truly, nor does most of your

  history or art, except for fanciful tales Galbatorix has allowed to thrive."

  "Brom once told us about the fall of the Riders," said Eragon defensively. An image of a deer bounding over rotting logs flashed behind his eyes from Saphira, who was off hunting.

  "Ah, a brave man." For a minute, Lifaen paddled silently. "We too sing about the Fall… but rarely. Most of us were alive when Vrael entered the void, and we still grieve for our

  burned cities – the red lilies of Éwayëna, the crystals of Luthivíra – and for our slain families. Time cannot dull the pain of those wounds, not if a thousand thousand years passed

  and the sun itself dies, leaving the world to float in eternal night."

  Orik grunted in the back. "As it is with the dwarves. Remember, elf, we lost and entire clan to Galbatorix."

  "And we lost our king, Evandar."

  "I never heard that," said Eragon, surprised.

  Lifaen nodded as he guided them around a submerged rock, "Few have. Brom could have told you about it; he was there when the fatal blow was struck. Before Vrael's death, the

  elves faced Galbatorix on the plains of Ilirea in our final attempt to defeat him. There Evandar"

  "Where is Ilirea?" asked Eragon.

  "It's Urû'baen, boy," said Orik. "Used to be an elf city."

  Unperturbed by the interruption, Lifaen continued: "As you say, Ilirea was one of our cities. We abandoned it during our war with the dragons, and then, centuries later, humans

  adopted it as their capital after King Palancar was exiled."

  Eragon said, "King Palancar? Who was he? Is that how Palancar Valley got its name?"

  This time the elf turned and looked at him with amusement. "You have as many questions as leaves on a tree, Argetlam."

  "Brom was of the same opinion," Eragon said.

  Lifaen smiled, then paused, as if to gather his thoughts. "When your ancestors arrived in Alagaësia eight hundred years ago, they roamed far across it, seeking a suitable place to

  live. Eventaully, they settled in Palancar Valley – though it was not called such then – as it was one of the few defendable locations that we or the dwarves had not claimed. There

  your king, Palancar, began to build a mighty state.

  "In an attempt to expand his borders, he declared war against us, though we had offered no provocation. Three times he attacked, an three times we prevailed. Our strength

  frightened Palancar's nobles and they pled with their liege for peace. He ignored their counsel. Then the lords approached us with a treaty, which we signed without the king's

  knowledge.

  "With our help, Palancar was usurped and banished, but he, his family, and their vassals refused to leave the valley. Since we had no wish to murder them, we constructed the

  tower of Ristvak'baen so the Riders could watch over Palancar and ensure he would never again rise to power or attack anyone else in Alagaësia.

  "Before long Palancar was killed by a son who did not wish to wait for nature to take its course. Thereafter, family politics consisted of assassination, betrayal, and other

  depravities, reducing Palancar's house to a shadow of its former grandeur. However, his descendants never left, and the blood of kings still runs in Therinsford and Carvahall."

  "I see," said Eragon.

  Lifaen lifted one dark eyebrow. "Do you? It has more significance than you may think. It was this event that convinced Anurin – Vrael's predecessor as head Rider – to allow humans

  to become Riders, in order to prevent similar disputes."

  Orik emitted a bark of laughter. "That must have caused some argument."

  "It was an unpopular decision," admitted Lifaen. "Even now some question the wisdom of it. It caused such a disagreement between Anurin and Queen Dellanir that Anurin seceded

  from our government and established the Riders on Vroengard as an independent entity."

  "But If the Riders were separated from your government, then how could they keep the peace, as they were supposed to?" asked Eragon.

  "They couldn't," said Lifaen. "Not until Queen Dellanir saw the wisdom of having the Riders free of any lord or king and restored their access to Du Weldenvarden. Still, it never

  pleased her that any authority could supersede her own."

  Eragon frowned, "Wasn't that the whole point, though?"

  "Yes… and no. The Riders were supposed to guard against the failings of the different governments and races, yet who watched the watchers? It was that very problem that caused

  the Fall. No one existed who could descry the flaws within the Riders' own system, for they were above scrutiny, and thus, they perished."

  Eragon stroked the water – first one one side, then the other – while he considered Lifaen's words. His paddle fluttered in his hand as it cut diagonally across the current. "Who

  succeeded Dellanir as king or queen?"

  "Evandar did. He took the knotted throne five hundred years ago – when Dellanir abdicated in order to study the mysteries of magic – and held it until his death. Now his mate,

  Islanzadí rules us."

  "That's" Eragon stopped with his mouth open. He was going to say impossible, but then realized how ridiculous that statement would sound. Instead, he asked, "Are elves

  immortal?"

  In a soft voice, Lifaen said, "Once we were like you, bright, fleeting, and as ephemeral as the morning dew. Now our lives stretch endlessly through the dusty years. Aye, we are

  immortal, although we are still vulnerable to injuries of the flesh."

  "You became immortal? How?" The elf refused to elaborate, though Eragon pressed him for details. Finally, Eragon asked, "How old is Arya?"'

  Lifaen turned his glittering eyes on him, probing Eragon with disconcerting acuteness. "Arya? What is your interest in her?"

  "I…" Eragon faltered, suddenly unsure of his intentions. His attraction to Arya was complicated by the fact that she was an elf, and that her age, whatever it might be, was so much

  greater than his own. She must view me as a child. "I don't know," he said honestly. "But she saved both my life and Saphira's, and I'm curious to know more about her."

  "I feel ashamed," said Lifaen, pronouncing each word carefully. "for asking such a question. Among our king, it is rude to pry into one's affairs… Only, I must say, and I believe that

  Orik agrees with me, that you would do well to guard your heart, Argetlam. Now is not the time to lose it, nor would it be well placed in this instance."

  "Aye," grunted Orik.

  Heat suffused Eragon as blood rushed to his face, like hot tallow melting through him. Before he could utter a retort, Saphira entered his mind and said, And now is the time to

  guard your tongue. They mean well. Don't insult them.

  He took a deep breath and tried to let his embarrassment drain away. Do you agree with them?

  I believe, Eragon, that you are full of love and that you are looking for one who will reciprocate your affection. No shame exists in that. She paused, You still feel guilty.

  question.

  Yes. But I still don't know why.

  Saphira hummed slightly, Do tell me when you figure it out young one.

  "A bow is my worst weapon," Mariah admitted to Murtagh quietly. "My brother and Eragon were always much better at it than me."

  "Were you using their bows?"

  "Yes."

  He nodded, "That's why then. They probably have a heavier draw because they're stronger than you. If you try something easier to pull back you might find it to your liking." He

  lowered h
is own bow and looked at her, "That's why I handed you that one."

  She looked down at the bow in her hand. While they were arming themselves for training today with Kieran, he'd snatched the pretty hand carved bow out of her hands and placed a

  darker colored one in her palm before walking outside. Mariah pulled an arrow from her quiver and pulled back, finding the draw much easier than her brothers'. She adjusted

  herself and let out a slow breath, releasing the arrow, watching it smack into the middle of the target twenty meters away.

  "Hate to say it, but I told you so."

  Mariah narrowed her eyes up at Murtagh, watching his mouth flicker up into a smirk. Thorn let out a few snorts, sounding much like laughter as he covered his muzzle with his

  claws. The small red dragon was sitting on Andrar's nose while the older dragon lounged in the sunlight. "So you know more about archery, so what?"

  "Nothing, glad I could help." He said, glancing over at Kieran. She was whipping arrow after arrow at her target, landing them dead center until the cluster was so thick that there

  wasn't room for any more. She huffed and stalked over, pulling them out and returning to her post, repeating the process. "Kieran, I think you've killed it." Murtagh said, raising his

  voice a bit to her.

  She turned on him with her bow drawn, making Mariah jump a bit. Kieran released an arrow, shooting it at his feet. "I'll kill it ten more times, would you like to stand in front of my

  target Murtagh?"

  "No, thank you," he said, snatching the arrow and tossing it away, rolling his eyes as she turned back to her target. After several more long hours of training, which left Murtagh

  exhausted and bleeding, they returned to their rooms. Thorn chirruped at her, pressing his nose against her hand as she extended it to him.

  "Let me heal you up before you pass out, alright?" She insisted, running her fingers over the cuts on his arms where his vambraces hadn't shielded him. "There. Right as rain."

  He smiled a bit at her, tiredly, "Thanks. Night."

  "Night," Mariah said, "Night Thorn." She watched them turn and walk to their room before sliding her door shut and leaning against it, twisting the lock. Tearing her shirt over her