The Black Morass

by Gerald Lambert

  interested in. Eragon suffered extensive damage from the fight and was bedridden for several days after the battle ended. Ajihad, whom you know of, wanted a Rider along with

  him to search for any Urgals still straggling through the Dwarves' passageways. Knowing full well Eragon was in no condition to go along, my sister volunteered, despite having

  suffered just as much – if not more – than him in the past few days. I would have gone along with her, but I was exhausted and would have been no help. Murtagh volunteered to

  go in my stead. I hesitantly agreed and watched them leave. When they were returning after some time, Urgals attacked them, killed Ajihad. I followed the trail until I hit a cavern

  with a bottomless chasm. All evidence pointing towards my sister's death and Murtagh's."

  Kendra watched him for a moment, her mind going through the details. "You speak of your sister as though she's still alive."

  Mark nodded, "I believe she is."

  "Galbatorix's new Riders…" she stared at him, "You think he captured your sister?"

  "Yes."

  "And that means Murtagh might still be alive…"

  "Possibly. I don't know how valuable he is to Galbatorix, but"

  She interrupted, "He is Morzan's son. His right hand… first and last of the Forsworn, there is no one Galbatorix would rather have at his command than Murtagh."

  "Kendra, what can you tell me about Murtagh, Galbatorix, and the Empire?"

  "If what his spies said is true, he's rebuilding his army of Dragon Riders with the intention of releasing them upon the Varden. Your sister will be one of his pawns, if he hasn't killed

  her yet. The dragon eggs he's collected throughout the years… he has more than you realize he does."

  "How many?"

  "Last I knew, six."

  "Six?"

  "With your sister? Seven… and… mine… eight."

  "Yours?"

  "…my sister, Kieran. She too is a Dragon Rider."

  Mark stared at her. "He has two Riders already… and more eggs ready to hatch… how…"

  "Throughout the years after the war he spent much time locating and collecting the eggs. I myself found one or two of them, along with my sister. It's possible for him to have more

  dragons hatched already, if he's figured out a way to force them into hatching."

  "Then there's no way the Varden can win this battle…"

  Kendra looked at the map again for a minute, tracing her finger over Urû'baen. "No… there's not."

  I was going to draw out the Dragon Rider choosing for a while longer. At one point I had them in an arena, killing one another for places… then I realized I was watching too much

  Hunger Games recently and put that to a stop. So instead, you have six very vague (for the moment) new Riders.

  I'm going to start asking questions, which you are (of course) allowed to answer or not (which every you feel most like at the moment, just note it's more helpful if you do) in your

  review that you have the option of posting (or not) for me to see.

  Bright as a flaming sun, the dragon hung before Eragon and everyone clustered along the Crags of Tel'naeir, buffeting them with the gusts from its mighty wings. The dragon's body

  appeared to be on fire as the brilliant dawn illuminated its golden scales and sprayed the ground and trees with dazzling chips of light. It was far larger than Saphira, large enough

  to be several hundred years old, and proportionally thicker in its neck, limbs, and tail. Upon its back sat the Rider, robes startling white against the brilliance of the scales.

  Eragon fell to his knees, his face upturned. Awe and relief coursed through him. No more would he have to bear the responsibility of the Varden and of Galbatorix by himself. Here

  was one of the guardians of old resurrected from the depths of time to guide him, a living symbol, and a testament to the legends he had been raised with. Here was his master.

  Here was a legend!

  As the dragon turned to land, Eragon gasped; the creature's left foreleg had been severed by a terrible blow, leaving a helpless white stump in place of the once mighty limb. Tears

  filled his eyes.

  A whirlwind of dry twigs and leaves enveloped the hilltop as the dragon settled on the sweet clover and folded its wings. The Rider carefully descended from his steed along the

  dragon's intact front right leg, then approached Eragon, his hands clasped before him. He was an elf with silver hair, old beyond measure, though the only sign of age was the

  expression of great compassion and sadness upon his face.

  "Osthato Chetowä," said Eragon. "The Mourning Sage… As you asked, I have come." With a jolt, he remembered his manners and touched his lips."Atra esterní ono thelduin."

  The Rider smiled. He took Eragon by the shoulders and lifted him upright, staring at him with such kindness that Eragon could look at nothing else; he was consumed by the endless

  depths within the elf's eyes. "Oromis is my proper name, Eragon Shadeslayer."

  "You knew," whispered Islanzadí with a hurt expression that quickly transformed into a storm of rage. "You knew of Eragon's existence and yet you did not tell me? Why have you

  betrayed me, Shur'tugal?"

  Oromis released Eragon from his gaze and transferred it onto the queen. "I kept my peace because it was uncertain if Eragon or Arya would live long enough to come here; I had no

  wish to give you a fragile hope that might have been torn away at any moment."

  Islanzadí spun about, her cape of swan feathers billowing like wings. "You had no right to withhold such information from me! I could have sent warriors to protect Arya, Eragon,

  and Saphira in Farthen Dûr and to escort them safely here. If you would have told me the others might still be alive!"

  Oromis smiled sadly. "I hid nothing from you, Islanzadí, but what you had already chosen not to see. If you had scryed the land, as Is your duty, you would have discerned the

  source of the chaos that has swept Alagaësia and learned the truth of Arya and Eragon. That you might forget the Varden and the dwarves in your grief is understandable, but

  Brom? Vinr Älfakyn? The last of the Elf Friends? You have been blind to the world, Islanzadí, and lax upon your throne. I could not risk driving you further away by subjecting you to

  another loss."

  Islanzadí's anger drained away, leaving her face pale and her shoulders slumped. I am diminished," she whispered.

  A could of hot, moist air pressed against Eragon as the gold dragon bent to examine him with eyes that glittered and sparkled. We are all well met, Eragon Shadeslayer. I am

  Glaedr. His voice – for it was unmistakably male – rumbled and shook through Eragon's mind, like the growl of a mountain avalanche.

  All Eragon could do was touch his lips and say, "I am honored."

  Then Glaedr brought his attention to bear on Saphira. She remained perfectly still, her neck arched stiffly as Glaedr sniffed her cheek and along the line of her wing. Eragon saw

  Saphira's clenched leg muscles flutter with an involuntary tremor. You smell of humans, said Glaedr, and all you know of your own race is what your instincts have taught you, but

  you have the heart of a true dragon.

  During this silent exchange, Orik presented himself to Oromis. "Truly, this is beyond anything that I dared hope or expect. You are a pleasant surprise in these dark times, Rider."

  He clapped his fist over his heart. "If it is not too presumptuous, I would ask a boon on behalf of my king and my clan, as was the custom between our people."

  Oromis nodded. "And I will grant it if it is within my power."

  "Then tell me: Why have you remained hidden for all these years? You were sorely needed, Argetlam."

  "Ah," said Oromis. "Many sorrows exist in this world, and one of the greatest is being unable to help those in pain. I could not risk leaving this sanctuary, for if I had died before

  one
of Galbatorix's eggs had hatched, then there would have been no one to pass on our secrets to the new Rider, and it would have been even harder to defeat Galbatorix."

  "That was your reason?" spat Orik. "Those are the words of a coward! The eggs might have never hatched."

  Everyone went deathly quiet, except for a faint growl that emanated from between Glaedr's teeth. "If you were not my guest here," said Islanzadí, "I would strike you down myself

  for that insult."

  Oromis spread his hands. "Nay, I am not offended. It is an apt reaction. Understand, Orik, that Glaedr and I cannot fight. Glaedr has his disability, and I," he touched the side of his

  head, "I am also maimed. The Forsworn broke something within me when I was their captive, and while I can still teach and learn, I can no longer control magic, except for the

  smallest of spells. The power escapes me, no matter how much I struggle. I would be worse than useless in battle, I would be a weakness and a liability, one who could easily be

  captured and used against you. So I removed myself from Galbatorix's influence for the good of the many, even though I yarned to openly oppose him."

  "The Cripple Who Is Whole," murmured Eragon.

  "Forgive me," said Orik. He appeared stricken.

  "It is of no consequence." Oromis placed a hand on Eragon's shoulder. "Islanzadí Dröttning, by your leave?"

  "Go," she said wearily. "Go and be done with you."

  Glaedr crouched low to the ground, and Oromis nimbly climbed up his leg and into the saddle on his back. "Come, Eragon and Saphira. We have much to talk about." The gold

  dragon leaped off the cliff and circled overhead, rising on an updraft.

  Eragon and Orik solemnly clasped arms. "Bring honor to your clan," said the dwarf.

  As Eragon mounted Saphira, he felt as if he were about to embark on a long journey and that he should say farewell to those who remained behind, but before he could so much as

  smile, he was gone, swept into the sky by the eagerness of Saphira's flight.

  Together the two dragons followed the white cliff northward for several miles, accompanied only by the sound of their wings. Saphira flew abreast of Glaedr. Her enthusiasm boiled

  over into Eragon's mind, heightening his own emotions.

  They landed in another clearing situated on the edge of the cliff, just before the wall of exposed stone crumbled back into the earth. A bare path led from the precipice to the

  doorstep of a low hut grown between the trunks of four trees, one of which straddled a stream that emerged from the moody depths of the forest. Glaedr would not fit inside; the

  hut could have easily sat between his ribs.

  "Welcome to my home," said Oromis as he alighted on the ground with uncommon ease. "I live here, on the brink of the Crags of Tel'naeir, because it provides me with the

  opportunity to think and study in peace. My mind works better away from Ellesméra and the distractions of other people."

  He disappeared inside the hut, then returned with two stools and flagons of clear, cold water for both himself and Eragon. Eragon sipped his drink and admired the spacious view of

  Du Weldenvarden in an attempt to conceal his awe and nervousness while he waited for the elf to speak. I'm in the presence of another Rider! Beside him, Saphira crouched with

  her eyes fixed on Glaedr, slowly kneading the dirt between her claws.

  The gap in their conversation stretched longer and longer. Ten minutes passed… half an hour… then an hour. It reached the point where Eragon began to measure the elapsed time

  by the sun's progress. At first his mind buzzed with questions and thoughts, but those eventually subsided into calm acceptance. He enjoyed just observing the day.

  Only then did Oromis say, "You have learned the value of patience well. That is good."

  It took Eragon a moment to find his voice. "You can't stalk a deer if you are in a hurry."

  Oromis lowered his flagon. "True enough. Let me see your hands. I find that they tell me much about a person." Eragon removed his gloves and allowed the elf to grip his wrists

  with thin, dry fingers. He examined Eragon's calluses, then said, "Correct me if I am wrong. You have wielded a scythe and plow more often than a sword, though you are

  accustomed to a bow."

  "Aye."

  "And you have done little writing or drawing, maybe none at all."

  "Brom taught me my letters in Teirm."

  "Mmm. Beyond your choice of tools, it seems obvious that you tend to be rackless and disregard for your own safety."

  "What makes you say that, Oromiselda?" asked Eragon, using the most respectful and formal honorific that he could think of.

  "Not elda," corrected Oromis. "You may call me master in this tongue and ebrithil in the ancient language, nothing else. You will extend the same courtesy to Glaedr. We are your

  teachers; you are our students; and you will act with proper respect and deference." Oromis spoke gently, but with the authority of one who expects absolute obedience.

  "Yes, Master Oromis."

  Mariah wiped the blood from the corner of her mouth, staring up at Hal. He was much bigger than she was, taller than Murtagh and he towered her by a few inches. They were

  fighting dirty, no blades and no magic. He's starting to vex me. My tolerance for this nonsense is just about used up.

  A little more patience darling. He's only doing what he's been told. Andrar's eyes flickered over towards Galbatorix watching them from a ways off by Kieran, who was giving him an

  update on the status of the new riders' training.

  She avoided another punch to her face and whipped around behind the boy. I can't take this much longer. I'm about ready to put him out for the rest of the day.

  Just pretend he's Mark or something darling. He insisted, turning his gaze back to her.

  His footing was better than most of the others'. Hal had been trained as a soldier. Mariah could have figured that much out on her own, but he'd told everyone instead. The little she

  had seen of his previous training was actually quite impressive. On an off day he might actually be able to beat her in a fight, but today wasn't one of those.

  As he turned around, she caught that halfsmirk of an amused smile on his face. It was like he was actually enjoying the fight; and considering how many hits she'd managed to

  land on him so far, it was no wonder. His tanned skin had seen more fights than he probably cared to admit. There were faint scars here and there from brawls he'd been in during

  his youth. But mostly, she was intrigued by his eyes. Stormy blue flickers of his soul. Out of all the new riders, he always seemed to have an opinion about everything, yet said

  nothing. His serene calm was unnerving and quite annoying at times. Those eyes though, betrayed everything he presented and told her he was just itching for a fight on the inside.

  She felt the confirmation of her thoughts in the fist that landed against her cheek. Picking herself up off the ground, she snarled and pounced back up, punching him once in the face

  and then whirling around to kick him in the chest. Hal let out a groaning gasp as he landed flat on his back. Mariah stood up straight and flicked her hair back, blood trickling from

  the corner of her mouth. "If you wanted the fight to last longer, you shouldn't have hit me so hard." He groaned for a minute, holding onto his stomach as she walked off.

  Murtagh smirked a bit as she walked over, "You could have gone a little easier on him."

  "A little easier? Do you see this blood?" She pointed to her face.

  "Oh, what, this?" He ran his thumb across her cheek, pulling the red away. "You're tough, you can handle that much, right?"

  She muttered under her breath and huffed at him a bit, trying her hardest to stay upset. The others were waiting in line for their turns to fight. Up next was Camilla, and Kieran was

  insistent on sparring with her herself.

  Kieran drew her
blade and charged Camilla, who smirked at her, sidestepping and slashed at her with the rapier she held. The thin sword seemed unfairly matched against a Rider's

  sword; however after a few moments of quickmoving swordplay, it was clear Camilla used it to her advantage.

  Camilla held back, barely attacking at all, avoiding Kieran's assaults and then retaliating when she was off balance or had her back turned. The woman was dressed in a furcollared

  coat that flicked out just below her waist. The brown fur trimming the sleeve cuffs and tails seemed to be from a bear or wolf, certainly not some tiny pathetic animal like a rabbit.

  The buttons were made out of bone and her boots, supple leather. The day they had met her she had seemed almost harmless, her bark certainly worse than her bite, but after

  seeing her armed and in battle, there was certainly something more disconcerting about Camilla than before. Her curling brown hair drifted around her waist, flowing with her every movement.

  Reaching up to her face, Mariah pushed her own hair behind her ear, fingertips running along the points on the tips. It had been a few months now since she had cut her hair off in

  Gil'ead and now it was starting to trail around her shoulders again, finally. At least she could pull it back when she needed to, but she missed it being so long, like Camilla's.

  Lady Reikena was thin and graceful, every bit Kieran's equal. Anyone would have been able to tell she was raised in a wealthy family. What might not be so obvious is how vicious

  that family was. Her brother, Cederic, strutted around like a wild cat. His concerns were only of himself. Though younger than his sister by little more than a year, he was stronger

  and larger than her, having just turned twentyone. He donned their family's prominent curling brunette hair and dark brown eyes, nearly black. Cederic stood just a few hairs

  shorter than Murtagh. And unlike Hal, his brand of crazy was obvious. The way he walked, spoke; even what he said made Mariah tense around him. If he was nearby, so was her

  blade. He watched his sister fight with Kieran with such intensity, she was sure he was getting ready to jump in and assist her.

  Shortly after the thought flickered through Mariah's mind, Kieran had the woman pinned, bashing the rapier away and claiming victory. Galbatorix still seemed impressed enough to