#fighting shadows

“‘EY!” A red auto injector pinged off the Shade's temple, knocking his head to the side by a full inch. Both he and the young Rider whirled to find the elf woman standing tall, her sword drawn and pointed at the man-shaped monster. Her voice was rough, months of nothing but silence, screaming and swearing having taken their toll. But the vehement growl was audible enough. 

“You're fighting me.”

That look. There was a wild, raging fire in her eyes, sharp and directed at the Shade and the Shade alone. Eragon had never seen such unbridled determination in any creature’s eyes but Saphira’s, the strength and tenacity to back it up. 

There was no way Eragon could convince her to stand down. He stepped back, perpendicular to the line drawn between these two beings steeped in magic. 

Or at least, he tried to. 

He felt rather than saw the Shade moving, the change in the air pressing against his cheek only noticeable due to his attunement with Saphira’s natural instincts in the sky. Another surge ripped in front of him, sent him flying back ten feet to slide across the top of a table, scrabbling to grab the sheeting across it and stop his momentum. 

The crash of metal on metal was near instantaneous with the burst of motion, and the Shade and the elf were suddenly locked together where the boy had stood. 

Eragon stared, dumbfounded, from where he had landed in a pile of tablecloth and protective sheeting on the floor. It couldn’t have even been more than a second.

The Shade’s cold chuckle filled the room. “Do you really think you can best me, little elf?” His smile held a wild undercurrent of its own, eyes wide with unexpected glee as he leaned in over their crossed blades. “I know all your weaknesses, I can take you apart in every way that makes you scream, and you think you can–”

The elf snapped her head back and slammed it into the bridge of the Shade’s nose. 

Black blood sprayed across the monster’s face with a satisfying, squelching crunch. He howled and disengaged, shoved his sword against the elf’s to propel himself back as she did the same. 

“Shut the fuck up and fight, you rat-faced bastard!” 

With that the woman drove forward again, and Eragon lost track of who was who and what was what in the blur of blade and limb. 

“A little help!” 

Murtagh’s shout cut through his stupor. Eragon scrambled to his feet and leapt over the fallen benches. A guard was gaping at the servant’s entrance to Murtagh’s right, the rogue’s hands full with the crossbeam. Eragon cut the intruder down just as he began to turn back and shout down into the hall, rushed footsteps echoing against the stone.

“Doors!” Murtagh grunted. The tendons in his neck stood out as he heaved one end of the beam into the bracket. “And tell Saphira to get on with it!”

As if on cue the entire dining hall boomed. Masonry dust rained down. Eragon looked up, alarmed, only to throw himself against the servants entrance door and scrabble for the deadbolt when two guards clattered into the entry. “Working on it!”

“Left!” Loud Urû’baenite swearing replaced coherent language as the large main doors jolted, dislodging the beam. “Other door!”

Screaming echoed down from the rooftop. It was soon drowned out by the screech of what had to be metal on stone, ear piercing and enough to make both Durza and Arya flinch. Neither one gave, their blades a blur in the dust laden air as chunks of mortar and wood began to rain down about their heads.

Arya wouldn’t lie to herself. Hell, she could never lie during battle. This was not a fight she could win definitively, but she would try her damndest. And she had at least one advantage over the Shade. 

‘He can’t kill me. He’s been ordered not to.’ A surge of battle-joy despite the pain creeping in between her shoulder blades made her gnash her teeth in a determined smile. ‘And I’ve got a score to settle.’

His blade suddenly came up dangerously close to her face. She leapt back, threw out her right wrist when the space wasn’t enough and deflected it on the shackle still clamped around her arm. It skated off with a shower of sparks. 

Her hand went numb from the force of the blow. That was closer than expected. ‘Alright, maybe he is trying to kill me.’ She was back in his space again, slipped a foot behind his and dipped under his slash to slam her elbow into his chest. In retaliation he brought his other leg up and shoved her back, flipped over her trip and landed with the ease and elegance of a dancer.

Then it was back to the whirlwind. 

Eragon slammed the latch on the last servant's entrance closed and turned only to shove his body against the main doors as they juddered inward again. 

“Jes’ hold ‘et!” Murtagh’s face was beet red with strain. “Hold ‘et closed!” Eragon swore in response, sweat rolling down his own forehead and into the corner of his eye as he crouched and threw all of his weight into the doors. With a mighty roar his companion managed to scoop the beam up in his arms and staggered forward. 

He had to raise on his tiptoes to clear the tips of the brackets, but he did it. The beam fell into place with a solid clatter, and Murtagh slumped down, chest heaving. He gulped in two mouthfuls of air before he wiped his mouth on his ragged sleeve and choked out, “Get under something.” 

Despite his leaden limbs Eragon shook his head. Feeling was coming back the more air he took in, the lightheadedness fading. “What about–”

“Shut up and do it!” The man ran and grabbed one of the benches and began sliding it over to the doors. “If you get your head caved in then we’re all dead.”

The combat stims were wearing off. Arya grit her teeth and tried to push through the lead collecting in her veins. Wyrda had never felt heavy before. She was dimly aware that something on her back had opened, probably more than one something, and she was rapidly losing more blood than she could spare. 

Durza threw an arm out, and with a panicked jolt the elf realized he wasn’t pointing towards her. Her gaze snapped to the side, where the Rider boy had been, foot already planted and pivoting. Weight shifting, twisting through the heavy air to put herself in front of the Shade again, block his view.

It was only when his blade, unyielding and just suddenly there, bit deep into her hip did she see the Rider over his shoulder, dashing for a table as rubble rained from the sky. Entirely opposite where Durza was pointing. 

‘Oh fuck me.’ 

Her leg gave out and her knee slammed to the floor hard. She could see Durza smiling, lips moving, the familiar cold of his hand around her throat. She let out a clipped cough when her ribs slammed into the side of a table, tossed like no more than a damn ragdoll. 

Despite what had to be the absolute cacophony of the chaos above, the soldiers crashing against the doors as the young man in rags barred them, the screaming of slate and metal, all Arya could hear were the softly hissed words from Durza’s mouth as she struggled to get back on her knees. 

That spell. 

Desperation was a hell of a painkiller. She needed only one leg to launch herself at him, forced herself up, dug her nails into the flagstones for purchase and gripped Wyrda’s hilt tight as the world spun and dipped and shoved off–

And her nerves, her blood, her bones, brain, whatever the fuck was left of her soul, her entire broken body was shattered in an instant. 

Hitting the ground felt like…there was no word for it. 

All she could do now was wait for it to stop. 

Eragon whipped around at a crash of one of the tables slamming into another. The elf woman was already up again, nearly up, on her knees, looked about ready to throw herself at the Shade– 

And not even a second later her eyes flared wide and she collapsed with a sound he would never forget. A scream beyond agonized, ragged, torn, like her mind was being ripped away. 

Eragon didn’t know what possessed him. A surge of something new, something primal, screaming at him to protect. 

The Rider leapt from his cover and barked out a command to Murtagh. “Help her!” 

Without hesitation Eragon was scrambling, dashing, swooped down to pick up one of the fist sized chunks of rock from the shaking ceiling and, with perfect aim, slammed to a stop and whipped his arm through the air.

For the second time that day, that fucking hour, a projectile collided with the Shade’s temple. 

The creature staggered. The scream stopped, and the elf curled into a shaking ball with a strangled groan. Murtagh was already halfway to her, rifle slung under his arm, a trauma dressing package from the pilfered supplies clamped in his teeth.

The Shade started towards them, hand again beginning to reach out from where he had clutched the gash on his head.

“I’m not done with you!” Eragon roared. Stunned at his sudden appearance, the Shade lifted his arm and was rewarded by Zar’roc slashing through the meat of his forearm. He snarled and spun to face the young Rider. 

The first strike nearly spun Zar’roc out of his hands. Eragon shifted his stance as the next blow came, tilted the wine red blade so that the Shade’s sword slid across it rather than slammed into the edge. 

He spun away and approached from another angle. This wasn’t going to be a battle of strength. It was wits that would save him.

He didn’t dare flick his gaze up. ‘Hurry, Saphira.’ 

Murtagh hit his knees next to the elf and shoved the mahogany bench away. The sheet on the table had been ripped off at some point, and with the stone coming down around them Murtagh grabbed the woman by the shoulder of her prison tunic and dragged her under with him.

“Hey, ya’ alright.” Her eyes were glassy when they snapped to him, a hand clamping around his wrist as he tried to pry her from her side onto her back. “Easy! I’m helping!” 

He could feel blood cooling on his skin when her fingers slipped off. She tried to sit up, trembling and holding her side while trying to keep hold of the sword still in her nearly limp left hand. 

“Not a good idea!” A rock the size of an Urgal’s head bounced off the bench opposite their hiding place. He pushed her back down, alarmed at how easy it was. She had ripped apart a locker with what amounted to her bare hands earlier, and now she was shaking like a leaf and couldn’t push him away.

“You gotta stay with me, lass.” Murtagh pleaded. “You’re hurt, you’ll just make it worse.” Elves, Shades, dragons, Dragon Riders. The entire roof coming down over his head because a dragon was ripping it apart. He was rapidly starting to find he had a wits end and was maybe, just maybe, in a little bit over his head. 

“He’ll kill him.”

Murtagh nearly missed the rasped words, busy tearing the dressing packet open with his teeth while his free hand held pressure on the elf’s bleeding hip. He tossed aside the packaging with a practiced flick of his wrist, and with a gruff word of warning, none-too-gently shoved the thick gauze material into the gash. 

When he looked at her face she was craning her neck, trying to watch Eragon and the Shade with unfocused eyes. Murtagh followed her gaze, drawn to the flickers of red and white steel that flashed in the melee. 

Eragon was a skilled swordsman. Murtagh knew that fact well, still wearing the fading welts from their last sparring session. But there was no way he could best a Shade. The monster was just playing with him, dragging out the inevitable end where the boy would be overpowered and recaptured. 

But Eragon didn’t have to beat him. He just had to stall him, and the Shade was playing right into their hand.

“Don’t worry about him, yeah?” Murtagh smiled. Zar’roc bobbed and dipped, a familiar flourish that the Rider had picked up from his sparring bouts with the young man. Executed perfectly after so many nights practicing. “Eragon’s got it handled. Saphira’s almost here, we’ll be out of here in no time.”

“Saphira?” The rogue snapped his full attention back to the woman. The mumble was more slur than words, and Murtagh grabbed the side of her neck when he realized her eyes were closed. Her skin was disturbingly pale, pulse erratic under his thumb. “‘Fira’s dead.” 

“Hey!” She didn’t answer, head lolling to the side. “I just fucking said– Damn it!” 

The Shade had lost his mocking smile, a snarl full of filed teeth and fury filling his pale face. A harsh growl ripped from his throat when the young Rider managed to skate his blade across the flat of Zar’roc again, a deft mix of footwork and unpredictable half strikes putting the boy just out of his reach. 

The next blow was no longer at a fraction of his strength. Eragon’s trembling hands went numb, wrists zinging with pain when their swords connected one final time. The impact drove him to his knees, and with a clipped shout Zar’roc was ripped from his grasp and smashed to the shaking floor.

“Your resistance is laughable, boy.” Eragon raised his eyes to meet the Shade’s, lungs burning with exhaustion. “You are the last gasp of a dying creed, and a pitiful one at that.” The snarl was turning up again, triumph and mockery dripping from his thin lips. “If you are all the Riders have to offer in their time of need, then the fact that Galbatorix required the thirteen to destroy your order is yet another sign of just how weak and unfit the Riders were.”

A flicker of sapphire blue flashed over the last remaining skylight. 

Ah. That made sense then. 

A calm settled over Eragon’s racing mind. He reached out and twined his mental threads with his partner’s, felt her strength flow to him. 

‘Saphira. Now would be a good time.’

“I think you’re forgetting something.” The unnervingly serene tone to the boy’s voice made the Shade’s step falter. 

No matter. He continued to stride toward his prize. “Oh really? And what, pray tell, could that be?”

A skull shaking roar rippled into the room, and suddenly the night sky filled a corner of the hall. 

Eragon threw himself back, reclaimed Zar’roc in hand, and let the falling rubble separate him from his foe. “THE DRAGONS!”

The Shade’s face transformed from that of a mocking victor to a shocked and confused witness. Eragon was already out of reach by the time he recovered and with a wordless howl the man-shaped monster launched himself forward to reclaim his captive.

Eragon hit the floor and rolled to his knees just in time to see a puff of black blood spray from the Shade’s outstretched arm. The Rider snapped his head to the side and silently cheered. Murtagh had his rifle up, kneeling in the dust and debris. The elf was slung over his shoulders, her pack on the young man’s back, none of it affecting his aim. 

The Shade stopped. The split second of surprise was overridden when he slowly turned his gaze to the rogue. “You’ll have to do much. Better. Than that. To stop m–”

The rifle coughed again. Murtagh didn’t blink. The Shade’s head snapped back.

Even among the crashing stone and splintering wood, the shriek was earsplitting. Despite the hole in his head, the shattered bullet lodged in the massive doors behind him, the monster lifted his rapidly changing hands to his blood splattered face. His skin was fading, stretching tighter and tighter, translucent and taut. 

Something pulsed beneath the membrane. In a final, horrific scream the Shade exploded, blood coalescing into a black mist. When it settled to the ground, all that was left was a pile of clothing and the beast’s white steel sword.

Eragon scrambled to his feet and dashed to Murtagh’s side. “You killed him!” 

“I’m not so sure.” The young man’s face was grim. He lowered the rifle. “Saphira! Get in here!”

At Murtagh’s call a pair of taloned claws gripped the sagging chunk of roof beside the gaping hole and ripped it back. Saphira stuck her head in the new space and growled, warning any who dared harm her Rider that they would soon be joining the masonry at the bottom of the keep’s walls should they enter. 

The clatter outside the doors suddenly fell silent.

Eragon threw open his arms, unable to contain himself any longer. “Saphira!”

Her glittering eyes caught on him. A bugle of elation and relief rippled from her throat, and without a moment’s hesitation Saphira dropped down into the dining hall. Tables crunched under her weight, her tail sweeping away piles of rock and broken wood as she barreled into her Rider’s embrace. Eragon fell to the floor, the wind knocked from his ribs, but was up just as fast, trying to envelop all of his Partner of Heart and Mind with his too-small arms.

‘Little One.’ Her hum rumbled through his chest. His aching muscles eased, the burning tightness and anxiety that had riddled him since their separation finally abating. They were whole again. ‘I’ve missed you.’ The dragon lowered her head, gently nosed him closer to her even though he was hanging on as tightly as he could. ‘Have they hurt you? Shall I tear them from this world?’

The offer made him laugh. He knew she was entirely serious. ‘I’ve missed you more than anything.’ Despite the sharpness of her scales he nuzzled his face against her chest. 

“Very sweet, very touching.” Murtagh grunted. He was already by Saphira’s side, shoving the stuffed laundry sack into her saddlebags. “Can we get a move on? She’s heavier than she looks.”

‘Excuse me?’ Saphira balked at the comment. She pulled away from her Rider and swung her head to fix Murtagh with a sharp glare. ‘Are you calling mWhat is that?’ A sudden hiss shot through her teeth. ‘An elf? How–’

Eragon bolted to Murtagh’s side and hurriedly released the elf’s pack from his back, lashing it to Saphira’s saddle. ‘She’s the woman I’ve been seeing. The Shade had her captive here this whole time.’ Alarm at the mention of a Shade crashed through their link. ‘Can you carry us all? We can’t just leave her here.’

‘Of course I can.’ He could hear the almost offended sniff in her mental tone. He smiled and placed a hand on her warm shoulder. ‘But we should hurry. You’ve really kicked the hornet’s nest this time.’

‘To be fair, I did have help.’ 

With Eragon’s help, Murtagh hoisted the elf up into the saddle. The Rider followed her up, then helped his friend clamber on. The banging on the doors had started again, this time with the deep rhythm of a battering ram. 

Sure her passengers were secure, Saphira bunched her powerful hind limbs and leapt onto the remnants of the dining hall’s roof. Shouts from across the keep rang out, a clatter and host of clicks rising into the night as weapons began hauling around to aim inside rather than out. 

“Get a move on!” Murtagh’s voice held an edge of panic. 

Saphira snorted. ‘Featherless chicken. Now you shall learn to fly!’ And with that, she took three great bounds and launched herself from the roof and into the night beyond.

Eragon ducked out of instinct. The whiz of bullets cutting through the air buzzed in his ears. ‘Climb!’ He gripped the saddle tightly as Saphira tilted in an attempt to evade. ‘Saphira, higher!’

‘Stop getting seconds, then!’ She snapped back. A savage growl ripped from her throat as she drove her wings down, struggling to gain altitude. Pain lanced through Eragon’s arms as several projectiles tore through the thin membrane of her wings. 

It was a few more panic laden seconds before Saphira breached the thin layer of clouds, bursting through with a hiss deep in her chest. Eragon pressed his palm against her scales, feeling her trembling beneath them. ‘You’re hurt.’ It wasn’t a question.

Saphira strained and flapped hard twice more, getting further into the sky before finally gliding a stretch. ‘There’s…there’s something in the muscle.’ Burning, grating, so dangerously close to bone. ‘I…I will be fine, Little One. Brom is not far.’

‘I’ll heal you when we land. I’m sorry.’ He tilted his head back to let the wind catch and carry his words to Murtagh. “Saphira’s hurt! I have to heal her when we land.” The young man grunted in affirmation. He didn’t seem all that thrilled to be so high up. “Is the elf okay?”

“She’s out cold.” Murtagh had to yell to make himself heard. “I got her patched up as best I could, but she’s not in good shape. Brom should take a look at her before we go further.”

“Will do.” 

With that decided, Eragon returned his hands to either side of Saphira’s neck. Her shaking was regular, breath labored. ‘You are amazing, Saphira.’ Careful of her spikes, he lowered his forehead to rest on her scales. ‘Absolutely amazing.’

The dry grin of ivory teeth reached his mind’s eye, her words half panted and half chuckled. ‘You could stand to mention that more often.’ 

Eragon smiled. ‘Every day.’

They sailed off into the night, bedraggled, limping, but finally, together again.

~~~

(Post-A/N: Thank you again to everyone who has read and reviewed or commented or whatever it's called nowadays. I'll keep the blog updated on progress for the next sections and hopefully can have something out in a month? I gotta stop giving timelines. Don't you ever start actually expecting stuff to be out when I say it will. This was a fluke since I had to break this monster up into sections. As promised to another reader I will be listening to Murtagh over this next week at work, so might have to slow down on this, but I'll keep it in mind.

The self satisfied hum was unnecessary. So was tossing the broken lock to Murtagh before she opened the door. 

“You get yours, I’ll get his.” The elf nodded and slipped inside, moving immediately to one of the corners where a military style pack was tucked away on a shelf, a pile of clothes and a set of boots beside it. 

Zar’roc wasn’t all that hard to find. The wine red sheath stood out among the greys, blacks and whites that dominated the standard supplies for the guards and inmates. 

He had to force his hands to close around it. Murtagh lifted the sheathed blade carefully. His mouth felt dry at the cool leather’s touch, the etched glyph’s edges razor sharp against his fingers as he wrapped the first half of the sheath with the belt still dangling from the sheath’s loop. 

His back twinged, familiar patches of static springing to life along the white scar where it brushed against his clothing. If it were any other situation, Murtagh was certain he would have left the bloodied blade there, shoved it under some shelf or taken it with him only long enough to chuck it down the nearest well. 

But Eragon needed a sword. He needed a Rider’s sword. 

Murtagh swallowed the bile rising in his throat at contact with his father’s weapon and tucked it under his arm. Did everything in his power to push the thoughts out of his head.

Murtagh gathered up Eragon's other things and paused. There was plenty here they could use. He grabbed a laundry bag and started stuffing it with spare clothing, toiletry kits, half a box of MREs, anything that looked useful. On the wall by the door he spotted a metal cabinet, bright red and painted with a stark white medical cross. 

Medicine. They were sorely lacking any sort of medical supplies. Eragon looked okay, he wasn’t moving like he was injured, but the elf’s arms and neck were covered with mottled bruises. She’d need some sort of treatment at some point, he was sure, and they could use all the help they could get now that they were officially on the run. 

Murtagh beelined for the cabinet and tugged on the door before letting out a sharp curse. Of course it was locked. 

“Oi, elf.” Murtagh looked over his shoulder and suddenly found himself stifling a bark of laughter. Far from the image of beauty and grace in all the stories of elves he had heard, the woman was hopping on one leg, tugging on what he assumed was one of her boots. 

Her teeth were bared in a soundless, frustrated growl, and from his angle Murtagh saw, with a twinge of sudden unease, that her canines were larger than most humans. Not only that, but there was a sharp point and cutting edge to the similarly sized premolars behind them. They mirrored the teeth that sat just beside Saphira’s fangs, for gripping and slashing into pinned prey.

The hair on the back of his neck rose. Despite the oh so familiar, so very human dance she was currently doing with her boots, it sank in for him then that she was not of his kind. 

Murtagh cleared his throat. “Hey.” 

The elf yanked the laces tight and bounced on her toes to double check the fit before she went to him. A fine sheath and blade were strapped into the snap-lock holster on her right side, stolen pistol discarded for a much sturdier and heavier looking gun with an unfamiliar bluish tint to the metal. She showed it to him as she approached, displeasure and near disgust flitting across her face at the open breech and locked slide stop indicating a lack of ammunition. 

“Live rounds are probably in the guard shack. We don’t have time to get any.” The woman made a dismissive tsk from the corner of her mouth and thumbed the slide release before she holstered the pistol. “Medical cabinet. Think you can get this one open?” 

She gave him a deadpan look and pointed to the laundry bag. Getting her hint, he handed her one of the shirts and watched her wrap her right fist with it, knuckles covered in thick improvised padding. 

And then she slugged the cabinet door right next to the lock. Metal crumpled like paper, the lock popping free with a ragged rip of stressed steel. She grabbed the top of the door and ripped it off the hinges, tugged it away from the crimped parts and tossed it behind them. 

Murtagh stared. After the lock outside, he should have expected something like this. But damn. He sure as hell couldn’t forget she wasn’t human now. “Well, now you’re just showing off.” 

She ignored him, dragged a finger down the rows of medicine vials, injectors and pills that sat above the shelves of bandages and other more mundane supplies. She tossed several vials into the laundry bag Murtagh still held open and stuffed a handful of yellow auto-injectors into the pouch on her pilfered belt. Lastly she grabbed a packet of tablets, and, before he could stop her, popped three of the white discs out of the foil and tossed them in her mouth. 

When he sputtered, incredulous, the elf held up the packaging and tapped the medication name. Murtagh recognized it as a strong painkiller, one frequently handed out to troops due to its non-drowsy formula. 

“Alright, fair enough.” If the blood was anything to go by, the elf would certainly need that as the adrenaline surge of their escape wore off. She helped him stuff practically all the bandages, syringes, and other first aid supplies into the laundry sack. “That’s enough. Let’s get out of here.”

He was already halfway out the door when, out of the corner of his eye, Murtagh saw the woman rake her eyes over the medical cabinet one last time. She seemed annoyed, or that might have been half concealed panic, but he couldn’t worry about it now. Eragon had been alone for all of ten minutes, and that was plenty of time for him to attract masses of trouble.

He missed the click of an auto injector. Behind him, Arya rubbed the newly blossoming sore spot on her right shoulder and stuffed the empty red syringe into the side of her pack. She paused one more time, grabbed a bundle of red combat stim pens and chucked them into the remaining pouch on her stolen belt. 

As satisfied as she could be without the antidote in hand, Arya grit her teeth, slung her pack onto her shoulder, and jogged after the already retreating Murtagh. 

There was a bit more activity now. They could hear shouting down the hall, the tromp of boots bouncing around the space. The cacophony eased somewhat when they came to the carpeted dining entry, disappeared completely when they slipped inside.

Murtagh didn’t know if he should sigh in relief or hold his breath when he saw the massive room was empty. It took Eragon’s mop of honey streaked hair popping out from one of the tables close to the center for him to relax, even if it were just a tiny bit. 

Murtagh was already holding Zar’roc out to the Rider as the trio met at the midpoint, the smooth sheath burning his fingertips until Eragon gratefully accepted the blade. They let him strap it on over his prison tunic and pull on his hunting boots, the elf and young man exchanging a bemused glance as he did it all with a large chunk of bread clamped in his teeth.

With that done, Murtagh led the two former prisoners to the first row of tables back from the opposite end of the hall, where an open space for performances gave them easy sight to the doors. He waved them down to crouch between the mahogany benches, eyes flickering to check the entrances and exits out of habit.

“We’re going to wait here for now. There’s too much rabble.” He slipped his rifle from under his arm to across his chest, two fingers tapping along the edge of the trigger guard. “Keep a low profile.” 

Eragon stuffed a torn piece of sourdough into his mouth. “When should I tell Saphira to come?” As if he had known her for years, the young Rider ripped the remaining loaf in half and casually offered it to the elf. She accepted it with the same odd hand gesture as in the cell and attacked it like it was the first food she had seen in days. Probably was. 

“Shift change. We’re going to have to wait it out.” He checked the battered timepiece Seig had given him. “Tell her…about thirty minutes.”

Eragon’s face tightened. It could have been the moonbeams from the skylights, but he seemed to go pale. “I know we had to stall to get our gear, but that’s too long.”

“There’s gunners on the roof.” Murtagh explained. “Saphira’s going to be coming in to a hotzone if we don’t wait till–”

“I know. But…” The boy leaned forward, food forgotten. “I don’t want her flying into that, and you know I wouldn’t ask her to unless it was necessary. We need to get out, now.” His gaze flicked to the elf, who nodded in agreement. “There’s a Shade here. He’s the one in charge of this place.”

A cold stone dropped into Murtagh’s stomach. 

A Shade?

He felt his mouth moving on its own. “Are you sure?”

Eragon nodded, lips tight and eyes grim. Beside him, the elf made another gesture, a sharp nod of her fist with her thumb pressed flat against the side of her hand and first two fingers bent at the second knuckle. She bared her teeth and clicked them together, aggression and muffled hatred echoing in the soft sound.

That was that, then. Plan right out the window.

Murtagh leapt to his feet. His movements were automatic, the next steps falling into place as his gaze swept around the dining hall. “Tell Saphira we need her now.” He pointed to the two servant entrances on the side of the room they had entered in. “Elf, secure those. I’ll get those main doors. Eragon, you get the set here.” He felt Tornac’s training rising in his mind, a strange mix of deadly calm and absolutely terrified at the situation he found himself in. That he now had to get them all out of. “Secure this room, now!”

The elf was already gone, Murtagh following her darting figure to the opposite side of the room again. Eragon held his tongue and sent out a mental call to his partner, felt her tilt and dive like an arrow cutting through the wind. 

Murtagh was dragging the massive beam used for barring the main doors out from its resting place when a chill tingled up the back of his neck. The hairs stood on end, a sense of bone deep foreboding latching into his muscles. 

“What have we here?” 

Out of the corner of his eye Murtagh saw the elf freeze. And then she was gone, melted into the shadows cast by the moonlight through the windows above. 

It took a moment to find his feet. The rush of dizziness wasn’t unexpected, his pounding head and lack of food no doubt the source of his unsteadiness. The ground soon leveled out under his canvas slip ons and he staggered to the door, stomping out the pins and needles in his cramped legs.

His mind was clear enough to remember Brom’s warnings about using magic around other magic sensitive people. He had to use it sparingly, do his best to move quickly after casting, or the Shade could hone in on his location once he noticed the releases of energy into the environment. 

Faint, almost imperceptible, a thread brushed the outermost edges of his barriers. He pushed the feeling aside.

As surreptitiously as he could Eragon peered out of the barred window in the door. The hallway was the same painted grey as his cell, just a few shades lighter than the prisoner uniforms, and lit with brightly mirrored white-light lamps that hung partway down from the ceiling. He listened just as intently as he looked, straining to hear footsteps or see any shadow that could indicate a passing guard.

When nothing was forthcoming the young Rider took a breath and placed his hand on the metal plate fastened over the lock. ‘Start small.’ 

Icy energy raced down his limbs as the magic was breached, and with a muttered “Thrysta,” the lock mechanism slid to the disarmed position. The door slid inwards when he removed his hand, and just like that, he was free.

Stepping into the hall Eragon couldn’t help but wince. After the darkness of the cell the light was harsh, enough that he had to shield his eyes for a brief moment and blink to clear the spots. In the time it took for his eyes to adjust, doubts began to creep into his mind.

‘What am I doing out here?’ He rubbed his knuckles into his forehead. The headache threatened to drown out comprehensible thought. ‘I need to get the elf out, but I don’t know where she is, and I don’t have a weapon. Zar’roc, I need Zar’roc.’ 

The featherlight tickle at the far reaches of his mental barriers slid across his consciousness again. He pulled away from it before he realized it wasn’t an intrusion, and with a jolt and a mental smack upside the head Eragon threw his mind out after it. 

‘Saphira!’

Blue fire burst to life in his mind’s eye and streaked to him like a bolt of lightning. 

‘Eragon!’ Saphira’s roar of his name felt high above him, but he didn’t care. Her warmth enveloped him, slid into his mind and clicked that final piece into place. The world was nearly right again, they were as together as they could be until he could wrap his arms around her neck and feel the wind in his hair as she took flight. 

Eragon grasped hold of her threads of thought and held on tight. ‘Saphira, where are you? I’m in Gil’ead, I’m–’

She cut him off. A dull pulse of alarm trickled to him through the radiant relief and joy at being reunited in at least this way. ‘We know. I’m above the city.’ Faint as a ghost of air across his cheek, he felt the sensation of wind currents fluttering the trailing edges of her wings as she tilted in flight. ‘Don’t do anything! There is a plan. Murtagh will be there soon, just stay in your cell!’

‘A plan? Saphira, what is–’

The clatter of hobnailed boots interrupted his thought. Eragon swore under his breath and whirled to face a quartet of guards just as they rounded the corner at the opposite end of the hall. 

The group stopped dead, the front man’s eyes nearly bulging out of his skull. Behind him a lanky man with a stubbled beard let out a wordless shout and pointed at the open cell door, the sound dying in his throat with a choke of alarm when he saw Eragon already dropping to a ready crouch, fists up. 

‘This is not ideal.’ Four men. Eragon knew he was a decent fighter, but unarmed hand-to-hand was not his forte. His limbs still felt weak from his fast, not responding quite as quickly as he wanted. ‘I’ll have to risk magic.’ He bit the inside of his lip. ‘Need to time it right or I’ll be out before I get through them all.’

A dry thought passed through his mind as he raced to find a way to escape the confrontation unscathed. ‘Should have grabbed the pitcher. Could have used it to bash some heads.’ 

But he couldn’t go back to the cell now. He would be cornered even worse than he was, limited by the cramped space and the single exit. Not that the hall was much better. And he couldn’t just run, not with the elf somewhere in the ward. 

The guards didn’t give him much time to mull over his options. The beefy redhead at the front drew a baton from his belt and pointed forward, face pale but still determined to recapture the wayward Rider. “At him!”

Eragon lifted his hand and, in a desperate last ditch effort to skirt fighting altogether, reached for the magic just enough for his marked palm to glow. The guards' crashing boots faltered only for a brief stutter before they continued forward, the fear in their eyes glimmering in the lamplight tempered by resolve. A whelp Rider’s wrath was one thing, but an angry Shade was exponentially more terrifying.

A fight it was, then.

Eragon dove headfirst into the rush of magic and focused on the lead man. “Thrysta!” 

The burly fellow clutched his chest and dropped without another breath, his riot armor clattering as he collapsed to the floor. Just as he did, a soft crack bounced off the cinderblock walls, echoing in the space. A spray of fine blood erupted from the neck of the charging guard to the first’s left, followed by two similar puffs from the forehead of the man behind him. 

“Don’t kill him!” Eragon lunged forward, into the path of the last soldier. He could see through the mist of blood a hunched figure at the end of the hall. The smell of spent gunpowder and long rifle in the mystery man’s hands left little doubt on who had taken down the two unfortunate guards. 

The man lowered his rifle and nodded silently.

Eragon turned to the shaking guard before him. The attack had lasted mere seconds, and in that short span each of his companions had met their end. And now he stood alone, closed in on both sides, a one man firing squad behind him and a…a thing, a thing of magic and murder in front of him. 

If Abten Hernsson hadn’t been to the latrine before starting patrol, he was pretty sure he wouldn’t have needed to after witnessing that bloodbath. 

Eragon strode forward, brows low. He wasn’t going to spend the rest of this escape running blind. “You know who I am, yes?” The soldier nodded, movements jerky as he took a step back. His heel bumped the body of his former bunkmate, stopping him. “You have seen what I can do. Make no mistake, you are alive only because you serve a purpose. You’re going to answer some questions for me, and you are going to answer them now.” The Rider stopped three paces away, hands clasped behind his back. “Where did you lot put my sword, as well as any of the elf’s gear? And where is the elf being held?”

Out of the corner of his eye Abten saw Lanks heave his last gurgling breath, gloved hand pitifully trying to plug the bullet hole through his neck. Heat rushed his chest, his shaking hands clenching to fists. Abten pressed his lips to a tight, pale line and raised his trembling chin. 

Eragon’s expression turned grim, his eyes hard in the harsh light. “That was the wrong answer, my friend.” 

The youth reached down and scooped a pinch of sand from the edge where the wall met the smooth concrete floor. Locking his gaze back on the sweating guard, he let it trickle into his right palm, a majority of the granules bouncing off. “Do you know what damage a grain of sand can do? Most don’t. Sand is harder than most things, you see. It can crack your teeth. Gouge your eyes. Destroy your lungs.” Eragon stopped in front of the man and murmured a few words in the Ancient Language under his breath. The scattering of sand grains over his gedwëy ignasia glowed bright cherry red, a heat shimmer rising in the air above them. “Ever wondered what a few grains of sand heated red hot could do to your insides?”

He leaned forward and seized a strap of the shaking guard’s riot armor, pulled him down to see the tiny nodules glow up close. Eragon’s lips curled in a dangerous smile. “Want to find out?”

Abten realized he probably should have gone to the latrine a second time.

“Alright!” The man’s voice cracked. He tried to pull away but Eragon held firm. “Alright, just don’t put that in me! We– We keep all the prisoner belongings in the storage lockup. Your sword should be there, the elf’s things too!” He let out a pitiful yelp when the Rider tugged on his armor again. “The elf! She’s in the last cell on the left,” He flung an arm out, pointing in the direction of the shabbily dressed man down the hall. “That one, down there! Please, I don’t want that in me, please–”

Eragon nodded and cut him off. “You did well, friend.” He released the shoulder strap and shoved the sputtering man away before diving into the magic again. “Slytha.”

The guard collapsed in a heap.

“Is he dead?”

Eragon squinted at the ragged man at the end of the corridor. Despite the hunched back, tattered clothing and wildly unkempt beard, the vagabond was standing in a perfect shooting form. 

Coupled with the Urû’baen brogue, poorly disguised bastard-sword-turned-walking-cane and the highly customized rifle half hidden by masses of shredded cloth, it was fairly clear who the man was.

“Murtagh? How’d you get in here?” 

True to form, the young man swore and pulled the false beard down. “Damn it, if I wanted my name sung from the rafters, I wouldn’t have gone to all this trouble, would I?” He let the shaggy accessory snap back into place with a scowl.

Mind still sluggish, Eragon gave a half apologetic shrug. “Sorry.”

“Sorry’s right. Now let’s go!” Murtagh was already stepping over the mix of bloodied bodies and unconscious men, ripping rags off his rifle as he did. “You’ve already mucked up part of the plan, and we’re on a schedule.”

Eragon was already moving, but towards his would-be rescuer. “We can’t. We gotta get her out.” He jolted to a stop when Murtagh seized his upper arm. “Didn’t you hear what I said to him? Murtagh, there’s an elf here! She’s the one I told you about, the one I keep seeing!”

That threw him for a loop. Murtagh stared, frown etched into his forehead. He could feel the young Rider’s muscles trembling, already halfway to exhaustion just from getting out of his cell on his own and casting a few minor spells. It could just be some wild hallucination, his dreams taking shape through wishful thinking and confusion.

But if he was right….

“Are you sure?” Murtagh asked. 

“Yes.” Eragon’s voice was firm despite the rough rasp his prolonged fast brought on. “Last cell on the left. I have to save her.”

Murtagh held on for a moment longer. This would complicate things. They were already complicated enough, but he couldn’t just leave an elf in Galbatorix’s hands. He doubted Eragon nor Saphira would let him anyway, and Brom would epically lose his shit if he heard of it, no matter the extra danger it brought on. 

“Fine.” He released Eragon’s arm and shoved the cell keys into his hand. “Be quick.” 

Eragon nodded and dashed down the grey hall, ill-fit canvas shoes slapping the concrete with each step. He skidded to a stop at the door the guard had indicated and jammed keys into the lock until one finally turned. Without a moment’s hesitation he ripped the door open, already calling out. “Time to g–” 

Something yanked him inside by the V neck of his tunic. 

The youth let out a startled yelp as he lurched forward and just barely caught himself on his hands before he struck the floor. Eragon rolled to his back and sprang up just as quickly as he had fallen, fists coming up on instinct. He was tired, he was hungry, he was thirsty, but damn it, if he had to fight again–

The elf woman stared at him, jaw set, from where she leaned heavily against the wall by the door. Her eyebrows were up, a fairly mild look of surprise considering the situation. 

Eragon dropped his fists. “Do you remember me?” 

The elf nodded, eyes wary. Her gaze flicked to his now lowered right hand. He held it out, palm up, and tilted it so that the light spilling in from the corridor caught on his dragon mark. “My name is Eragon. We’re getting out of here, alright? Can you walk?” 

The elf grit her teeth and nodded again. She pushed off the wall and took a few shaky steps before her knees buckled. 

Eragon darted forward and caught her forearm and shoulder, kept her upright enough to sidle up beside her and pull her arm over the back of his neck. “S’all right, just lean on me. I’ve got you.” His words were becoming less slurred, the act of speaking aloud wetting his tongue just enough in his dehydrated state.

The woman didn’t transfer her weight, seeming to size him up. It was then that Eragon realized she was much taller than him, practically towering over his five-nine. Despite that, he nodded to her in reassurance and gave her a small, wobbly smile. “If I can’t, my friend outside can. Just a few steps.”

She gave it a half second of thought before nodding back. Eragon felt her put some of her weight on his shoulders, enough that he could support her while still being manageable on his smaller frame. With her free hand, she slid two fingers across her lower lip, thumb out, and gestured forward. 

“I…don’t know what that was, but…you’re welcome.” She grinned, lips tight and half teeth, eyes flashing. That spark again, the distinct impression that she was confirming he had interpreted the gesture correctly. “Let’s get out of here.”

He could feel her struggling to breathe evenly with the first few steps it took to get out of the cell. By the time they reached Murtagh she seemed to be smoothing out and steadying herself, breathing deep with only occasional hitches. She had straightened from the tight tuck of her shoulders, head up and sweeping her gaze over the hall for any sign of danger or deceit. 

“We need to get my sword.” Eragon grunted. With how hungry he was and the dehydration making him dizzy, maybe offering to support the elf was a bit more than he could handle. The elf seemed to notice this and stepped away, giving a light touch to his arm in thanks. “And your stuff, I’m guessing. Murtagh, this is uh….” Murtagh turned as he trailed off, realizing she never told him her name. The rogue’s eyes flared wide for a moment. Eragon had to agree; ragged or not, she was stunning in an otherworldly kind of way. 

The woman was unperturbed by his inability to give a name. She pointed at one of her ears and made a dismissive flick with her hand. “...This is the elf. Um…Elf, this is Murtagh.” 

She waved. Gave him a thumbs up and a crooked grin, repeating the gesture from inside the cell. Murtagh tugged the fake beard down for a moment and waved back awkwardly before replacing it again. “Eh…cheers.” He turned back to Eragon. “We’ll find it. Like I said, there’s a plan.”

They stepped over the bodies, the elf pausing only to snag one of their equipment belts and a spare combat knife. She passed the extra blade off to Eragon wordlessly and checked the pistol, racked a round into the chamber and holstered it again. Took out what had to be a taser. Got a wild grin that Eragon found to be an odd mix of unsettling and somehow assuring. 

Murtagh threw his arm out as they reached the top of the stairs and peered around the corner. “Alright, here’s the plan. We’re going to the state dining hall. Then we’ll figure out where the weapons are. You two are going to stay there while I get them.” 

The elf reached over Eragon’s shoulder and tapped Murtagh on the arm. “What?” 

In rapid succession the elf pointed a thumb at herself, double touched two fingertips to the side of her head, made a vague inward slant with two upturned palms and finally ended it all by pressing two extended fingers into the palm of her free hand, which stuck the same two fingers out and extended a thumb. 

Murtagh blankly looked to Eragon, who could only offer an apologetic shrug in response. He was a Dragon Rider, yes, and thus had an innate connection to elves, but he didn’t know what any of it meant either. “We don’t understand.”

The woman pinched the bridge of her nose before she aggressively pointed to the knife in the young Rider’s fist and tapped the side of her head. When Murtagh still frowned, she let out a soft growl and swiftly spun Eragon around, grabbed his shoulders, and looked into his eyes. 

It took a second. He felt the spark reignite, the flood of understanding. It was weaker this time, muddied. He didn’t get all of it, got some. Knowledge. She knows something. Needed. 

The thrum was lost when her gaze flickered to where his brows dipped in a confused frown, then surged forward again when she locked back on to him. A new rush, softer, immaterial, so similar yet so different from the somehow more substantial bands of thought he used to communicate with Saphira, the threads he used with Brom. This was broad, he could trail his fingers through it like ethereal smoke and never be able to truly hold. 

I know where the weapons are. I need to go with him.

Eragon nodded. Questions were buzzing through his mind, but he shoved them aside. “Got it.” He twisted back to Murtagh. “She knows where they’re keeping our stuff. She wants to go with you.”

Murtagh gnashed his teeth. They didn’t have time for this. But if she could take him to the supplies lockup then maybe it would cut some of the extra off. “Fine. But you are staying there. And hiding.”

“No argument there. It’s your plan.” Eragon’s grin was lopsided. “Thank you.”

Murtagh ignored the flush that rose in his cheeks under the itchy beard and huffed. Why did the kid always have to be so damn sincere? “Whatever. Stay quiet.”

The state dining hall wasn’t far once they exited the stairwell. The lights were extinguished in this area, corridor’s carpeting dusty from disuse and the only clear area a well worn track from previous patrols. Murtagh pulled open one half of the double oak doors to the dining hall with some difficulty and ushered his two charges inside before easing it shut behind him. 

Sheeting covered most of the tables, preserving pristine red velvet tablecloths that brushed the floor and polished mahogany benches that lined the massive tables. Only one table remained uncovered, off in the far right corner and set with a handful of places. It appeared to be some noble’s late night meal, left to be cleared by the waitstaff in the morning. Above, embedded in the vaulted ceiling, a handful of round, porthole skylights streamed silvered moonlight into the space.

“You. Hide.” Murtagh grabbed Eragon’s shoulder and pointed to the array of tables. “Under there somewhere. Not under any on the edges, they’re more likely to look there.” 

The youth nodded. “Got it. Don’t be too long, alright?”

“I know what I’m doing.” Murtagh snapped. They were taking too long as it was. “Just stay out of sight. And tell our ride to wait just a little while longer.” He turned to the elf and flicked his head towards the doors. “Let’s go.”

For a moment, she seemed reluctant to leave Eragon alone. Her gaze flashed between them, just a second’s hesitation. Despite being the one to insist on joining Murtagh when he retrieved their gear, she appeared torn in the moment. 

“Come on!” At Murtagh’s sharp hiss she scowled and made a gesture that the two boys were a bit more familiar with than the ones she had made previously. “Some gratitude!” 

The woman took Eragon by the shoulders again and touched two fingers below her eyes. When she was sure he was watching her she flattened her hand and pressed it down twice, touched a finger to her lips, and made an odd near X with her fists, bumping them twice. 

Another flicker of understanding came to him when she locked her eyes with his at the end. Stay low, stay quiet, stay safe. 

Eragon gave her what he hoped was a confident smile. “I’ll be fine. Don’t worry.” She pressed the taser into his hand. “Thank you. You two be careful too.” The elf nodded, a quirk at the corner of her lips, and gently pushed him towards the tables before joining Murtagh.