Christopher Paolini - Eldest [en]

While the dragons dueled with increasingly complex acrobatics, Eragon became aware of a disturbance on the Burning Plains: the spellcasters of Du Vrangr Gata were beset by two new magicians from the Empire. These magicians were far more powerful than those who had preceded them. They had already killed one of Du Vrangr Gata and were battering past the barriers of a second. Eragon heard Trianna scream with her mind, Shadeslayer! You have to help us! We can’t stop them. They’ll kill all the Varden. Help us, it’s the—

Her voice was lost to him as the Rider stabbed at his consciousness. “This must end,” spat Eragon between clenched teeth as he strove to withstand the onslaught. Over Saphira’s neck, he saw the red dragon dive toward them, angling beneath Saphira. Eragon dared not open his mind enough to talk with Saphira, so he said out loud, “Catch me!” With two strokes of Zar’roc, he severed the straps around his legs and jumped off Saphira’s back.

This is insane , thought Eragon. He laughed with giddy exhilaration as the feeling of weightlessness took hold of him. The rush of air tore off his helm and made his eyes water and sting. Releasing his shield, Eragon spread out his arms and legs, as Oromis had taught him, in order to stabilize his flight. Below, the steel-clad Rider noticed Eragon’s action. The red dragon shied to Eragon’s left but could not evade him. Eragon lashed out with Zar’roc as the dragon’s flank flashed by, and he felt the blade sink into the creature’s hamstring before his momentum carried him past.

The dragon roared in agony.

The impact of the blow sent Eragon spinning up, down, and around. By the time he managed to stop his rotation, he had plummeted through the cloud cover and was heading toward a swift and fatal landing on the Burning Plains. He could stop himself with magic if he had to, but it would drain his last reserves of energy. He glanced over both his shoulders. Come on, Saphira, where are you?

As if in answer, she dropped out of the foul smoke, her wings pressed tight against her body. She swooped underneath him and opened her wings a bit to slow her fall. Careful not to impale himself on one of her spikes, Eragon maneuvered himself back into the saddle, welcoming the return of gravity as she pulled out of the dive.

Never do that to me again , she snapped.

He surveyed the steaming blood that laced Zar’roc’s blade. It worked, didn’t it?

His satisfaction disappeared as he realized that his stunt had placed Saphira at the mercy of the red dragon. He hurtled at her from above, harrying her this way and that as he forced her toward the ground. Saphira tried to maneuver out from under him, but every time she did, he dove at her, biting and buffeting her with his wings in order to make her change course.

The dragons twisted and lunged until their tongues lolled out of their mouths, their tails drooped, and they gave up flapping and merely glided.

His mind once again closed to all contact, friendly or not, Eragon said out loud, “Land, Saphira; it’s no good. I’ll fight him on the ground.”

With a grunt of weary resignation, Saphira descended to the nearest flat open area, a small stone plateau set along the western edge of the Jiet River. The water had turned red from the blood pouring into it from the battle. Eragon jumped off Saphira once she alighted on the plateau and tested his footing. It was smooth and hard, with nothing to trip on. He nodded, pleased.

A few seconds later, the red dragon rushed by overhead and settled on the opposite side of the plateau. He held his left hind leg off the ground to avoid aggravating his wound: a long gash that nearly severed the muscle. The dragon trembled his entire length, like an injured dog. He tried to hop forward, then stopped and snarled at Eragon.

The enemy Rider unbuckled his legs and slid down the uninjured side of his dragon. Then he walked around the dragon and examined his leg. Eragon let him; he knew how much pain it would cause the man to see the damage inflicted on his bonded partner. He waited too long, though, for the Rider muttered a few indecipherable words, and within the span of three seconds the dragon’s injury was healed.

Eragon shivered with fear. How could he do that so quickly, and with such a short spell? Still, whoever he might be, the new Rider certainly was not Galbatorix, whose dragon was black.

Eragon clung to that knowledge as he stepped forward to confront the Rider. As they met in the center of the plateau, Saphira and the red dragon circled in the background.

The Rider grasped his sword with both hands and swung it over his head toward Eragon, who lifted Zar’roc to defend himself. Their blades collided with a burst of crimson sparks. Then Eragon shoved back his opponent and started a complex series of blows. He stabbed and parried, dancing on light feet as he forced the steel-clad Rider to retreat toward the edge of the plateau.

When they reached the edge, the Rider held his ground, fending off Eragon’s attacks, no matter how clever. It’s as if he can anticipate my every move , thought Eragon, frustrated. If he were rested, it would have been easy for him to defeat the Rider, but as it was, he could make no headway. The Rider did not have the speed and strength of an elf, but his technical skill was better than Vanir’s and as good as Eragon’s.

Eragon felt a touch of panic when his initial surge of energy began to subside and he had accomplished nothing more than a slight scratch across the Rider’s gleaming breastplate. The last reserves of power stored in Zar’roc’s ruby and the belt of Beloth the Wise were only enough to maintain his exertions for another minute. Then the Rider took a step forward. Then another. And before Eragon knew it, they had returned to the center of the plateau, where they stood facing each other, exchanging blows.

Zar’roc grew so heavy in his hand, Eragon could barely lift it. His shoulder burned, he gasped for breath, and sweat poured off his face. Not even his desire to avenge Hrothgar could help him to overcome his exhaustion.

At last Eragon slipped and fell. Determined not to be killed lying down, he rolled back onto his feet and stabbed at the Rider, who knocked aside Zar’roc with a lazy flick of his wrist.

The way the Rider flourished his sword afterward — spinning it in a quick circle by his side — suddenly seemed familiar to Eragon, as did all his preceding swordsmanship. He stared with growing horror at his enemy’s hand-and-a-half sword, then back up at the eye slits of his mirrored helm, and shouted, “I know you!”

He threw himself at the Rider, trapping both swords between their bodies, hooked his fingers underneath the helm, and ripped it off. And there in the center of the plateau, on the edge of the Burning Plains of Alagaësia, stood Murtagh.

Murtagh grinned. Then he said, “Thrysta vindr,” and a hard ball of air coalesced between them and struck Eragon in the middle of his chest, tossing him twenty feet across the plateau.

Eragon heard Saphira growl as he landed on his back. His vision flashed red and white, then he curled into a ball and waited for the pain to recede. Any delight he felt in Murtagh’s reappearance was overwhelmed by the macabre circumstances of their meeting. A unstable mixture of shock, confusion, and anger boiled within him.

Lowering his sword, Murtagh pointed at Eragon with his steel-encased hand, curling every finger but his index into a spiny fist. “You never would give up.”

A chill crept along Eragon’s spine, for he recognized the scene from his premonition while rafting the Az Ragni to Hedarth: A man sprawled in the clotted mud with a dented helm and bloody mail — his face concealed behind an upthrown arm. An armored hand entered Eragon’s view and pointed at the downed man with all the authority of fate itself. Past and future had converged. Now Eragon’s doom would be decided.