The Sword and the Shadow Part III: The Search

[epistler]

Well well well, look who's back.
Yup, it's time for part three! I hope you enjoy it. :) 

Lacksword.

That was the name people had started whispering in taverns and town squares all over Alagaësia, and try as they might, the Empire’s soldiers and other law enforcement had been unable to put a stop to it.

To begin with the new Rider who had overthrown the feared King Galbatorix had been referred to with such titles as “Shadeslayer” and “Firesword” and later “Kingkiller”. But since the Empire had been conquered by the Varden with his help and their leader Nasuada installed as the new Queen, the people now under her power had started to grumble. And with those grumblings came tales of the atrocities she and “her” Rider had committed during the war, and the outrages Queen Nasuada was now committing against their own subjects.

Nor was Eragon Shadeslayer Bromsson there to do anything about it. He had left along with his dragon Saphira, a host of elves, and a clutch of precious dragon eggs. And, for a time, he had been in some ways forgotten. He was a figure from the past now, unlikely to be seen in Alagaësia again. Still, resentment had followed him to his new home in the far North, and as the stories spread – true or not – that resentment only grew. Stories of murders and other unjust killing during the war. Homes destroyed, crops destroyed as well, people left to starve to death in the Varden’s wake. Most of Dras-Leona laid to waste and half its population slaughtered including harmless peasants and honest merchants who did not deserve to die. Whether the Shadeslayer had been directly responsible for all of it didn’t matter; he had been the figurehead of the Varden’s uprising, and therefore if he had not done it personally then he was guilty of not having stopped it and therefore just as culpable.

And, of course, he had been responsible for installing the new Queen and as far as the people were concerned must therefore take respsibility for all she had done since her crowning.

To begin with, Queen Nasuada had apparently, and with some justification, felt she could afford to ignore the grumblings. Public opinion hadn’t put her on the throne, after all, and public opinion wasn’t about to remove her from it. It was natural for people to complain about their rulers. Let them gossip. As long as there was enough food to go around they would forget about it soon enough.

But then one day, about five years after Eragon’s departure, a rumour came from the lands beyond Alagaësia to the North. A rumour which bit by bit was joined by accounts given by travellers from that cold place, until – as unbelievable as it sounded – it became solid fact.

Eragon Shadeslayer had lost his sword.

And not only had he lost it, but he had lost it in a duel to a common swordsman – a low-born Nidding who had neither dragon nor magic, but who had challenged the leader of the Riders, had defeated him after barely two exchanges, and had taken the sword Brisingr as spoils only to disappear into the snow with it.

At first Nasuada dismissed the story, but not long after this she received a message through the mirror she kept in her private chambers for that very purpose, and the image which appeared inside its gilded frame was none other than her fellow Queen, Arya of the elves.

‘What tidings, Arya?’ Nasuada asked with all due respect, knowing the elf would not have contacted her with so little warning unless it was to discuss something urgent.

Arya had never been one for smiling or pleasantries, but right now she looked grim even by her usual standards. ‘Bad tidings, Lady Nasuada.’

Nasuada’s heart sank. ‘What has happened? Tell me everything.’

A glittering green mass stirred behind Arya, and a large reptillian eye came into view, staring coldly at the mirror. It blinked.

Arya reached up to rub her dragon’s nose. ‘I take it you’ve heard the rumours from up North?’

‘You don’t mean – the stories of Eragon losing his sword?’ Nasuada asked sharply. ‘They’re true?’

A weary look crossed Arya’s face. ‘Alas… yes.’

‘Did he contact you?’

‘I have not heard from him at all,’ said Arya. ‘No doubt he is too angry and humiliated to wish to confess it himself… but I have heard from Blödgharm several times and he has told me everything.  According to his report…’

‘Tell me everything,’ Nasuada said curtly.

A brief, chilly look of displeasure crossed Arya’s haughty face. ‘According to his report,’ she repeated, ‘A solitary Nidding by the name of Mik’El Snowbear came to the Academy some two months past, and challenged Eragon to a duel with swords, which Eragon accepted. Apparently he did not think this stranger posed any threat to him… he has always been reckless, as you know.’

‘Reckless?’ said Nasuada. ‘Brainless for a more-like. And this… Mik’El defeated him?’

‘Yes, and took his sword. But there is worse.’

‘Is Eragon injured?’ asked Nasuada.

‘Worse than that,’ said Arya. ‘It seems this Mik’El has some form of… companion. An entity the like of which none of us has ever seen before. The duel was nothing but a distraction. And while Eragon was occupied, this creature entered the Hall of Colours and destroyed every last Eldunarí in it.’

‘All of them?’ Nasuada repeated, playing for time. In fact the news had not particularly upset her – she did not like or trust those crystalised dead dragons at all, and had not been pleased to learn about their manipulations of other people’s minds. Perhaps this Mik’El had done them all a favour.

Not that she was about to say so out loud.

‘Eragon’s failure in this has been worse than a humiliation,’ Arya was saying. ‘And one which may well cost us a great deal in the future.’

As if Arya was in any position to talk about humiliations and failures, Nasuada thought sourly. Was the elf still trying to pretend she hadn’t allowed one of her own students to flee Ellesmera for parts unknown, dragon and all, and that the two of them weren’t still at large somewhere in the country plotting who knew what? Now there was a fine joke.

‘Why didn’t Eragon contact me about this?’ she asked, keeping her tone even.

Arya’s look toward her was pained. ‘Because he was apparently so enraged at having been bested that he forsook the Academy and flew off with Saphira to track down this Mik’El and take his sword back, and when he was unable to immediately find the man he went haring off across half the continent searching for him, and ignoring every piece of advice his councillors and friends gave him.’

Nasuada was unable to hold back a groan. ‘Surely he’s returned by now?’

‘Yes, he is back at the Academy by now,’ said Arya. ‘Except…’

‘Except?’

‘It would seem he found Mik’El, and though he failed to get his sword back from him he visited some personal revenge on the man and returned to the Academy very proud of what he had done. Boasting about it, indeed.’

‘He killed him?’ Nasuada raised an eyebrow.

‘No. He was apparently unable to defeat this Nidding with the blade, even after a second match, and so he cast a spell over him to cripple his sword arm and left him for dead.’

‘But surely no-one else knows about that?’ said Nasuada, a shade hopefully. ‘Surely Blödgharm and the others would not have spread it about – they have more sense than that.’

‘They were perfectly discreet, and counselled Eragon to keep quiet about it as well,’ said Arya. ‘And thus it would likely have remained little known, but now it seems Mik’El has survived, and his story has spread like wildfire. All over the north the common people are speaking of him, and now word is spreading into Alagaësia as well. And it is word that is not good – not for any of us.’

Nasuada massaged her forehead. ‘How do the people tell the story, then?’

‘They speak of a courageous hero of great skill, who defeated and humiliated a Rider in combat twice,’ said Arya, a note of distinct displeasure creeping into her voice. ‘And that the Rider, too cowardly to accept defeat with honour, cruelly cast a black curse on this brave and honourable man and set him wandering the land with only his trusty sword and his wits to guide him. Mik’El of the Crippled Arm, they call him now, and Mik’El the Brave, and they refer to Eragon as “Eragon Lacksword” and spit at the mention of his name.’

Nasuada clenched her fists and took in several long, deep breaths. ‘Do you know the whereabouts of this man?’

‘No. My spies have been ordered to watch for him, but as we speak at the moment no-one knows where Mik’El Snowbear is, or whether he lives. But be warned,’ Arya went on. ‘These rumours are a very clear danger to you. The common humans are already restless, and at a time like this they will be looking for a hero to inspire them. If Eragon no longer has their love, then they may decide to make this Nidding their champion instead. You could well soon have an uprising on your hands.’

Nasuada wanted to bite her. ‘What do you suggest?’ she asked through gritted teeth.

‘Find him,’ said Arya, quite simply. ‘Do everything in your power to track this man down, and eliminate him. But quietly. Make no grand announcements, and do not display his head and arm on your castle walls. You cannot risk turning him into a martyr.’

Nasuada could have given any one of several sarcastic responses to this, but she resisted the temptation. ‘I thank you for your counsel, Queen Arya, and would like to ask you to help me in this.’

‘Certainly,’ said Arya, and promptly vanished out of the mirror.

‘Odious high-handed little pointy-eared weasel,’ Nasuada muttered, and hurried out of the room.

*

‘For the last time, no, I do not know where we are!’ the shadow said irritably.

Mik’El groaned and kept on paddling. His withered arm throbbed in protest with every stroke, but he ignored it. The limb might be all but useless now, but he had at least found he could still grip things with the blackened claw his hand had become, albeit not very strongly. At least he could still paddle, which was better than nothing, and by the looks of things they still had some way to go.

The second journey he had set out on since his last encounter with Eragon Shadeslayer had not gone well, or smoothly. He had at first intended to take a ship all the way down south to the independent city of Teirm, but had been unable to find anyone going that far for a price he was able to pay. Nor had he been able to pay his way in labour, now that he was crippled. Instead he had ended up sailing with the sympathetic captain of a Nidding longship, who was happy to help one of his people and had taken him past the border.

Unfortunately they had had to part ways not long after that, when the other Niddings on board had spied an Urgal village on shore and had decided to go raiding. Normally Mik’El would have been happy to join them – Urgals made good opponents in battle – and then joined in the feasting and celebrations afterwards. But he could no longer wield a sword or an axe, and he knew it. The knowledge had left him feeling so ashamed that he had unshipped his canoe from the rear of the longboat and paddled away without so much as stopping to say goodbye, and had kept going until he found a river entrance and was able to paddle inshore.

Eventually that river had brought him to this lake and by now, after somewhere close to two months of travelling, he was badly lost and low on both supplies and patience. The constant pain from his cursed arm wasn’t helping at all, of course.

What he needed was to find someone who could give him some directions. The lack of other boats on the lake was not encouraging, however. If anyone lived nearby, where the hell were the fishermen? Maybe this lake didn’t have enough in the way of fish for anyone to bother? He needed to get closer to the shore, and keep an eye out for smoke or any other signs of civilisation which might be about. The shadow drifted over the rippling waters beside his canoe, and hummed tunelessly to itself. It had recovered its strength by now, and despite his bad mood Mik’El was very aware that it had saved his life more than once and was not about to forget it. This mission they were on was for it as much as for himself.

If only they could get to Uru’Baen.

He paddled on doggedly, and enjoyed the sunshine. If nothing else Alagaësia was warmer than his homeland, which his people called Nidland. No wonder its people were said to be so fat and wealthy. After a while he saw a shoreline up ahead and began paddling toward it; if nothing else it would be nice to have a rest on dry land.

But as the shore grew closer, he began to see that there was something other than trees and hills coming into view. The distant wickering of horses drifted toward his canoe, and as the lake narrowed toward a river entrance he saw a small forest of tents just a few miles away. Mik’El frowned – it didn’t look like any encampment he’d ever seen. The tents were white rather than the dark brown of bear and deer skins, and there were far too many of them. And, as if that wasn’t odd enough, there were colourful flags flying above them. What in the world was going on here? No warband would ever advertise their presence so brazenly, even if there were this many of them.

Mik’El said just that to the shadow. ‘What are they, idiots?’

The shadow chuckled softly. ‘That’s not a warband – it’s the entourage of an important noble. He she or they travels with a small army of supporters, flunkies, cronies… whatever you want to call them.’

‘So they don’t care who sees them?’ Mik’El asked incredulously.

‘Not at all. Being seen is the whole point. It’s an advertisement of how rich and powerful the noble who leads them is. If anyone dares to attack them… well.’

Mik’El snorted and paddled toward the river mouth on the far side from the camp. The shore there turned out to be marshy and generally unpleasant, so clogged up by low-growing plants and spindly trees that reaching dry ground would have been a tiresome and difficult struggle. There had clearly been some recent flooding, too, because there was plenty of floating debris – mostly chunks of wood ranging from broken planks to sodden logs.

Mik’El shoved them aside with his paddle, grimacing as he noticed the telltale stains of fire. ‘This lot came here from a raid upstream – I can tell,’ he said.

‘No doubt,’ said the shadow. ‘Wait – look!’

Mik’El turned his head, and saw a little girl hanging onto a low-hanging branch over the water not far away, looking part unsure and part terrified. She had a shock of copper red hair, which had helped her to stand out against the greenery, and her eyes were dark grey and very frightened.

Mik’El paddelled toward her. ‘Do you need help, girl?’

The girl immediately reached toward his canoe. ‘I wanna get back to my mummy!’  

Mik’El looked around, but couldn’t see any sign of anyone on the bank. ‘And where’s she?’

‘On the other side of the river,’ said the girl, sniffling. ‘I made a raft to go sailing, but it got stuck on a tree so I climbed up here to stop drowning and then my raft floated away. Can you help me? Please!’ She was already starting to cry.

Mik’El carefully manouevered his canoe as close to the branch as he could get, and reached out with his good arm. ‘Grab on, and I’ll pull you on board,’ he said. ‘C’mon. You can trust me.’

The girl quickly wrapped both arms around his, and Mik’El easily heaved her over the side  and sat her down in front of him. Her grip was surprisingly strong. ‘There,’ he said. ‘Now you just sit tight and I’ll paddle to the other side. What’s your mother’s name?’

The girl was already smiling again. Everything was all right now. ‘She’s Lady Katrina Stronghammer.’

Mik’El frowned to himself. Something about the name sounded familiar, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. He started paddling nonetheless, careful to keep his withered hand tucked away. ‘And what’s your name?’ he added.

‘I’m Ismira Katrinasdaughter, from Carvahall. And who are you?’

‘Carvahall – isn’t that where Eragon Shadeslayer came from?’ asked Mik’El, shocked.

She nodded. ‘It’s where mummy and daddy came from too. He’s Earl Roran Stronghammer.’ She said this with a definite note of unhappiness creeping into her voice.  

Now Mik’El finally realised where he’d heard that name before. He gritted his teeth and paddled harder. Roran Stronghammer, cousin of Eragon, and if the stories were true, guilty of his own share of wartime outrages. Was that who owned the great encampment which was now growing steadily closer on the far shore? Had he left his hold in Carvahall for some reason?

Either way, it would not be a good idea to stay in the area for long. He’d deposit the child on the shore and send her on her way, he decided, and then head on down the river before anyone else spotted him.

The far bank here was more accessible, and featured a narrow sandy beach. He headed toward that, thinking it would be a good place to drop the child off, but as the canoe drew closer he spotted a small group of people running about, and heard the shouts. Ismira stood up in the canoe, almost tipping herself over the side in the process, and as Mik’El quickly grabbed the back of her dress she started to wave her arms and shout back. ‘Mummy! Mummy, I’m here!’

‘Sit down, will you!’ Mik’El said sharply. ‘You’ll fall straight in the river and the pike will get you.’

Ismira hastily crouched, holding onto both sides of the canoe, and kept cheerfully calling for her mother who, seeing her child coming, ran straight down onto the beach to meet them with her friends close behind. ‘Ismira!’

Mik’El deftly grounded the canoe, but as he hopped out into the shallows to help the little girl she clambered out of her own accord and ran to her mother’s arms. Katrina, a finely dressed woman in her early twenties who shared her daughter’s coppery hair, scooped her up with a cry of delight and hugged her. ‘Oh, thank goodness! Where did you go? I was so frightened! Don’t you ever go off by yourself again!’

Mik’El started to get back in the canoe, but then Katrina turned her attention on him, and before he knew what was happening she had rushed into the water and flung her free arm around him. ‘You saved her! Oh, bless you, kind sir!’

Mik’El found himself blushing as the lady’s friends called out praise and thanks from the beach. ‘You’re welcome,’ he said. ‘Milady,’ he added hastily.

‘There’s no need for that,’ Katrina said, beaming. ‘Please, come with us – you should be rewarded for your kindness. The gods know there’s little enough of that in this world,’ she added, sighing. ‘But my husband will want to know she’s safe and give you his thanks as well.’

In a moment Mik’El found himself surrounded by Katrina’s friends, who might have been her ladies in waiting for all he knew, all cheerfully ushering him away up the bank toward the camp. His heart was thumping, and he mentally listed a string of swear words. If anyone realised who he was, he was dead.

But then perhaps they wouldn’t. Surely Eragon Shadeslayer would have had the sense to suppress the story of his humiliating loss at swordplay to some common Nidding barbarian. He’d just have to mumble a few polite words to this Roran and leave as soon as he could do so without attracting suspicion. Surely they’d be breaking camp soon anyway, if they were on the road.

‘Can I ask where you’re going, milady?’ he risked asking.

‘Of course,’ said Katrina. ‘My husband and I are travelling to Ilirea, for the royal wedding celebrations.’

‘Ilirea?’ Mik’El repeated, frowning. ‘Where is that? Milady?’

Katrina laughed. ‘Why that’s the capital city, good sir! Have you never heard of it?’

‘I thought the capital of Alagaësia was Uru’Baen,’ said Mik’El, more puzzled than ever.

‘Ah, I see.’ Katrina held up the hem of her dress as she walked. ‘That was its name during the old king’s tyranny. Queen Nasuada has changed it back to its original elvish name, but I suppose not everyone knows about it yet. Oh, but where are my manners? My name is Lady Katrina Ismirasdaughter, of Carvahall. And you?’

‘Bjorn Gullshore,’ he lied, choosing the name at random.

‘By that name and accent you’re not from around here,’ Katrina observed.

‘I’m not,’ said Mik’El.  ‘Milady.’

They were among the tents by now, and everywhere he looked there were people watching him pass. Native Alagaësians to a one, he thought; his own people called them the Brorrings after the original kingdom they were descended from. Most of them had brown hair and were more lightly built than himself, and their style of dress was unlike anything he was used to. Wool and cotton, rather than furs. Most of the men were clean-shaven as well. To him they looked soft and fat, and spoiled. These weren’t hunters or raiders, but farmers and those who lived off their labour. Send this lot to the icefields up near Giant’s Tooth and they’d be dead in a week, Mik’El thought contemptuously.

Toward the centre of the camp was a tent larger than any of the rest – larger, in fact, than any tent Mik’El had ever seen in his life. It was red, and bigger than a longhouse, with a flag flying from its highest point bearing a symbol of a golden hammer.

Mik’El kept his withered arm carefully hidden under his bearskin cape, which he had taken to wearing draped over his right shoulder for that very purpose, and took a deep breath. The shadow was staying sensibly hidden.

The little group skirted around to the front of the tent, which was open wide enough to show off most of the interior. There was a man sitting by it on a finely carved wooden chair, idly cleaning his fingernails with a dagger and chatting with a group of men who were hanging around, either sitting cross-legged on the ground or leaning against the tent supports. Between that and the fancy chair it was obvious enough which one of them was Earl Stronghammer.

Katrina went first, with Ismira. ‘Roran, dear, we’ve found the little runaway,’ she called.

The man looked up. ‘There you are,’ he said irritably. ‘You’re both filthy! Where have you been, Ismira?’

Mik’El would have expected the child to rush over to her father, but she stayed by her mother’s side and stared at the ground. ‘I went sailing and I got stuck, and then this nice man came and found me in his canoe,’ she mumbled.

Roran stood up. ‘How could you have let her wander off by herself, Katrina?’ he said. ‘Well? If this man hadn’t come along, anything could have happened!’

Then why weren’t you looking for her yourself? Mik’El wondered silently. He could see sour accusation written all over the man’s face.

Katrina gave a short, irritable sigh. ‘I did not come here to argue with you, Roran. This man Bjorn saved our daughter and should be rewarded in the proper manner. Or have you forgotten all your courtesies?’

Roran glared at her. He was a solid-looking man, with a short brown beard and the same dark grey eyes as his daughter, who was now looking very unhappy indeed. ‘Please, Father,’ she piped up nervously. ‘Bjorn was very nice to me. He found me on a branch and lifted me in his canoe and brought me back to Mother. I’m sorry I was bad.’

Roran looked Mik’El up and down. ‘Who are you, then?’ he asked. ‘What’d you say your name was?’

‘Bjorn Gullshore… milord,’ said Mik’El. ‘I’m a traveller from up north.’

‘And where are you bound, Bjorn?’

‘Feinster,’ he lied. That was where the shadow had originally come from, and it was the only Alagaësian place name he could think of off the top of his head.

‘That’s in more or less the direction we’re going,’ said Roran. While he spoke he idly fingered the only other weapon he had on him, which was a hammer no longer than Mik’El’s forearm. It looked like a small carpenter’s tool for hammering in nails to him. ‘If you wish you can travel along with us for safety’s sake.’

Mik’El’s forehead furrowed – was that really the hammer from which this man had taken his name? How in the shit had he managed to fight with it at all? It wasn’t even a proper warhammer. ‘I wouldn’t want to bother you, milord,’ he said, pulling himself together. ‘Now I’ve seen your daughter to safety I should be going.’

Roran’s eyes narrowed. ‘No,’ he said slowly. ‘I insist.’ He turned to one of his men. ‘Issue him with a tent, and a spare horse. We’ll be on our way shortly.’

*

Naturally Mik’El tried to slip out of the camp at the first opportunity, but it was no use. The entire perimiter was under guard, and when he protested that he didn’t want to leave his canoe behind a couple of men went and helpfully fetched it for him, and loaded it securely onto the back of a cart where he’d never be able to get it down without attracting attention.

On top of that little Ismira – now in a clean dress – had apparently decided that they were friends and kept following him around asking endless questions. Katrina, not wishing to risk letting her daughter out of her sight again, stayed close by as well, which meant that – intentionally or not – Mik’El was more or less under constant surveillance.

On the one hand this left him both nervous and aggravated – nervous because he already distrusted Roran, and aggravated because he hated being surrounded by large numbers of other people and had always cherished having the ability to make his own decisions about where, when and how he travelled. Being obliged to ride with Roran’s entourage, which began later that morning, left him feeling both stifled and trapped.

But on the other hand Katrina had chosen to ride with him, with Ismira on the saddle in front of her, and they were both pleasant company. It had been a long time since he had even spoken to a woman, let alone a child, and Katrina was a nice lady, albeit one who seemed sad to him. Maybe it was because she was unhappy in her marriage, which seemed more than likely. Meanwhile Ismira was sweet, even if her constant questions were exhausting. She wanted to know everything about her new friend, and he had to be careful not to give too much away. Fortunately Katrina must have noticed how uncomfortable he was with being interrogated and said, ‘That’s enough of your chatter, ’Mira – leave the poor man be.’

‘So you say the Queen is getting married,’ said Mik’El, relieved. ‘Who’s the lucky man?’

‘King Orrin of Surda,’ she replied. ‘It’s just a marriage of political convenience, of course.’ Katrina shrugged. ‘They say she was in love once, but it didn’t last. Once I would have said a woman should only ever marry for love, but it’s never so simple as that.’ A bitter look crossed her face.

‘Earl Roran didn’t look too happy to see you earlier,’ said Mik’El, never one for discretion when it came to that sort of thing.  

Katrina pursed her lips and looked away.

‘Daddy kills people,’ Ismira said solemnly. ‘He kills little girls. Mummy found out and now-,’

Katrina looked sharply at her. ‘Hush!’

Mik’El stared at the girl, appalled. ‘He killed children?’

Ismira nodded. ‘In the war,’ she said, ignoring her mother’s frantic signals for her to shut up. ‘He hurt one girl, and he killed another one, and I saw him fight once and he laughs. Like it’s a fun game. I don’t like him any more. He’s horrible.’

Mik’El glanced at Katrina. Though she didn’t say anything, the look on her face spoke volumes. He grimaced. Now things were beginning to make sense.

‘Back where I come from, it’s honourable to fight,’ he said. ‘Young men and women prove themselves in combat, and anyone who fights with enough courage and strength is given a new name and special status.’

‘Like the Urgals?’ said Ismira.

‘A bit like that, but we don’t kill each other,’ said Mik’El. ‘A real warrior knows when to accept defeat, and that includes the defeat of his enemy. Well, there was one man who lived near my family who killed a child.’ He shifted uncomfortably on the saddle – it had been a long time since he had ridden on horseback. ‘A girl trying to prove herself who was too young for it, and not properly trained. He killed her in a fit of temper because she was too young and foolish to surrender when she should have. Afterwards he insisted it was an accident, but our elders branded him a coward and a murderer and banished him. I was only a boy then, but I remember it well. How everyone turned their backs on him – even his own mother.’

‘What happened to him in the end?’ asked Ismira.

‘He went off into the snow all alone, and was never seen again,’ said Mik’El. ‘He would have known that if he tried to come back he’d be driven away with spears and probably killed on the spot. Most likely he froze to death or was eaten by wolves. But he deserved it for what he’d done, because only the worst kind of coward kills a child. Everyone knows that.’

Ismira nodded fiercely. ‘Have you ever seen a dragon?’ she asked suddenly.

Mik’El blinked. ‘Uh… no,’ he lied. ‘Have you?’

‘Once, in the distance. It was only a little one and Mummy says maybe it was just a big eagle. But I think it was real.’ Ismira’s eyes were shining. ‘I always wanted to meet a dragon.’

A memory of roaring and flames and savage teeth flashed across Mik’El’s mind, and he shuddered. ‘I’d rather stay away from ’em.’ He said, quite truthfully. ‘Dangerous beasts.’

‘I’ve told her so, but she never listens,’ Katrina said with a chuckle, clearly glad the subject had changed.

‘The way I recall, children never do,’ said Mik’El.

‘Do you have any of your own, then?’

‘No,’ said Mik’El. ‘Marriage and children was never for me. I’m a solitary man by nature. I like the quiet out in the forest and on the water. That’s why I left home.’

‘Not many men would have had the courage,’ Katrina said politely.

Mik’El shrugged. ‘In the end the only real truth is that you’ve got to live according to your nature. If you don’t honour that, you’re not really living.’

‘I think that’s very wise,’ said Katrina, and after that she lapsed into a long, frowning silence and only spoke again much later, and then only in order to make a few trivial remarks about the weather.

Mik’El sensed that she was thinking about something, and wisely left her alone. He preferred the silence anyway. Even Ismira had stopped her chatter, and sang little songs to herself to pass the time.

Eventually night fell, and the company halted to make camp on the plains not far from the ruins of a small village.

‘Yazuac,’ one man said, nodding toward it. ‘The King’s Urgals destroyed it before the war. Killed every living soul in the village and then desecrated the corpses. Best steer clear of it; it’s a cursed place nowadays, and no-one would dare try to settle there.’

So that was why nobody had apparently thought to make use of the buildings which were still standing, Mik’El thought. Well that was sensible enough; there was no sense in disturbing the angry spirits of the dead.

He set up the tent he had been given, as close to the edge of the camp as he was able to without arousing any suspicion, and unrolled his blanket to use as a sleeping mat. His cloak, which was made out of shaggy bearskin, would do for a covering. He unfastened it and put it aside, and gently massaged his withered arm by the light of a small oil lamp. It looked as bad as ever. Not only was it blackened as if burnt, and so weak he could barely lift it, but the skin was cracked and flaking and only cracked more when he tried to move the useless limb. The cracks were red and bloody, and a painful infection had set in on his forearm and was now seeping with a watery pus. He cursed under his breath and rummaged in the new pack he had made for some dried bloodwort. Having found a sprig of the herb, he chewed some of the leaves into a paste and gingerly packed it into the wound. It stung horribly, but he ignored it and wrapped a bandage over the top one-handed.

The shadow watched. ‘Is it getting any better?’ it asked, breaking its day-long silence.

‘Perhaps, but it’ll never really be healed until…’ Mik’El trailed off, knowing it wasn’t necessary to say more.

‘Indeed,’ said the shadow. ‘But now we’re in the company of the Shadeslayer’s cousin, who going on what I’ve heard is every bit as cruel and savage.’

‘Is it true he killed children in the war?’ asked Mik’El, heart sinking.

‘Supposedly, yes. There were outrages committed in the city of Aroughs, including the murder of its ruler’s young daughter, and Roran was the Varden officer in command of the assault.’

‘Ugh,’ Mik’El muttered. ‘Bad blood, the pair of them. We need to slip away from here as soon as we can, canoe or no canoe. Maybe if I wait until late I can knock out a guard or two and escape to the river.’

‘Agreed. It’s obvious Roran already has suspicions.’

Mik’El nodded, and got back to work on the improvised brace he had been trying to make. It had occurred to him that if he could splint the elbow of his cursed arm as if it were broken, and so prevent it from moving too much, it would be easier and less painful to use.

While he clumsily tied some flexible pieces of yew wood together with leather thongs, his keen ears picked up on the sounds of the camp around him. There were a couple of people just outside, sharing a conversation, and a word caught his attention.

‘-Nidding.’

‘What?’

‘It was a Nidding what done it; that’s what I heard.’

‘Done what?’

‘You know.’ The man lowered his voice. ‘Took the Shadeslayer’s sword.’

‘No! Really?’

‘Sure as I’m standin’ here!’ the first man said, with a touch of glee. ‘The story goes he challenged him to a duel and defeated the boy in a single blow, then claimed his fancy blue Rider sword for a trophy and disappeared into the wilderness.’

His friend laughed loudly. ‘He lost to some snow-eating barbarian?’

‘Oh aye – weren’t even wearing any armour, they say – just a grubby old bearskin! But by the gods he’s gotten the better of “our” Rider, and half the country’s talking about it. Word has it the Queen knows, and she’s furious.’

‘Hah. Makes me happy enough; fuck her. You ask me, she’s worse than Galbatorix ever was.’

‘You didn’t hear me say this, but it’s true.’

Mik’El’s eyebrows rose.

‘Anyway,’ the second man went on, ‘Do you know what became of this Nidding after that?’

‘Rumour has it that Eragon Shadeslayer went haring after him in a rage, trying to get his sword back.’

‘So the man’s dead by now,’ the second speaker said in weary tones.

‘That’s the thing, though. He survived. The story goes they fought a second time, and the Nidding won again.’

‘And he killed Eragon?’

‘Pah. If only. Apparently the Lord Rider was so infuriated over losing, he put a curse on the poor man and left him to wander the land in agony for the rest of his life.’

‘That sounds like him right enough.’ The man sounded gloomy. ‘At least someone’s finally gotten the better of that monster, and they’re not likely to let him forget it.’

Mik’El bit back a small incredulous noise. The shadow, not so restrained, sniggered.

‘Well Earl Roran’s not likely to be happy about this,’ the second man added a few moments later.

His friend snorted. ‘When is milord ever happy? You can tell he hates it in Palencar Valley, even with that fancy castle of his. Haven’t seen him smile once in two years. I’ll wager he’s taking it out on Lady Katrina behind closed doors as well. I mean they barely even look at each other any more. And them the famous couple from The Hammer Smites the Horror!’

‘I always hated that song, truth be told.’

‘Oh aye? Try this one on for size, then. And lo the valiant Nidding did cry his challenge bold. “Come and fight me, Eragon, out from thy dragonhold”…’

‘Argh! I’ve told you not to sing anywhere near me; your voice could take the scales off a rock lizard!’

The two of them moved off, laughing and teasing each other, and Mik’El shook his head in disbelief. ‘There’s a song about me?’

‘So it would seem,’ said the shadow. It laughed again. ‘Fancy!’

‘You seem to find all this very amusing.’

‘Astute as always, I see.’ The shadow had made itself very small and now danced around the flickering lantern flame, amusing itself. ‘Didn’t you say you hoped people would tell your story?’

‘That was before this!’ Mik’El indicated his arm. ‘Before, I could have just disappeared and-,’

‘But you already have,’ said the shadow, as it did a flickering little jig on the canvas wall. ‘No-one knows what you look like, and those fellows clearly don’t know your name. And anyway, if people are as discontented as it sounds, you may just find some unexpected allies.’

Mik’El had a go at strapping the brace on around his elbow, and growled when it refused to stay in place. ‘I never asked for this,’ he muttered sourly. Pain, tiredness, and the stress of being effectively trapped here were making him irritable. He growled again and tossed the brace aside. Might as well get some rest while he had the chance.

He bundled himself up in his cloak and lay down, with the cursed arm carefully covered up as usual. Unfortunately he had always preferred to sleep on his right side, and the curse now made that impossible, so he lay on his back instead and stared at the tent ceiling. He left the lantern burning. No sense being left in the dark if danger threatened.

Eventually, he dozed off.

What felt like mere moments later, the shadow hissed in his ear. ‘Someone’s coming!’

Mik’El was up in a moment, instinctively reaching for his sword. His arm flexed once, weakly, and went limp. He swore and drew his dagger with his good hand. Not that it’d be much use against an armed opponent.

A shadow appeared outside the tent – not his companion, but a perfectly ordinary shadow thrown by a perfectly ordinary person. The intruder pressed up against the tent flap and whispered. ‘Bjorn? Bjorn, are you awake?’

He recognised the voice at once. ‘Lady Katrina?’

‘Yes!’ Her voice was urgent. ‘Can I come in?’

Mik’El sheathed the dagger. ‘All right.’

She twitched the flap aside and slipped in, glancing back over her shoulder as if she thought someone might be following. Despite the late hour she was still dressed in her travelling clothes, and her pretty face was full of anxiety.

‘We must talk,’ she said, keeping her voice low. ‘Now.’

‘What do you want?’ Mik’El murmured back, immediately suspicious.

Katrina glanced toward the tent flap again. ‘I think we can help each other,’ she said. ‘And I think you need it as badly as I do.’

‘What do you mean?’ Mik’El pulled his cloak up over his bad shoulder. ‘What help could you possibly give me?’

She smiled thinly. ‘Don’t think I haven’t guessed who you really are. I know Roran has. A Nidding, yellow haired, long-faced, carrying a sword, and concealing his right arm?’ She glanced down at it. ‘You’re the one the Queen is looking for. You’re Mik’El the wandering swordsman. The one who defeated Eragon Shadeslayer and took the sword Brisingr.’

Mik’El’s heart beat faster. ‘But you’re not going to turn me in,’ he said, quite calmly.

She shot a sharp look at him. ‘What makes you so sure of that, Nidding?’

‘You came to see me alone in the middle of the night, looking as twitchy as a rabbit who just caught the scent of wolves,’ said Mik’El. ‘You’re scared pissless, milady. But not of me,’ he added.

Katrina stared at him. He stared back.

‘It is you, isn’t it?’ she said eventually.

‘Yes, I’m Mik’El Snowbear,’ he answered reluctantly.

She breathed in sharply. ‘And are the stories true? Did you really defeat Roran’s cousin twice?’

‘I did,’ said Mik’El. ‘The first time to avenge my grandfather. The second, to save my own life. I would have left him alone after I beat him the first time, but he chased me across half the country on his dragon, and when we met on the beach and he lost to me again he rewarded me with this.’ He twitched his cloak aside, reavealing the withered black limb.

Katrina inspected it with a look of horror on her face. ‘It looks so… terrible. Does it hurt?’

Mik’El covered it up again. ‘All the time. Now will you tell me what you want from me?’

She pinched the bridge of her nose, and for a moment her eyes fluttered shut. ‘You really don’t know the situation here in the Empire, do you? You’ve been out in the wilds all this time.’

‘Maybe,’ said Mik’El. ‘Is there something I need to know?’

Katrina opened her eyes again and looked seriously at him. ‘Yes. Eragon contacted Queen Arya of the elves, who contacted Queen Nasuada, and a secret order has been sent out by Nasuada’s seneschal, Lord Dwals-,’ a look of distaste crossed Katrina’s face at the mention of his name, ‘-asking every one of her closest supporters to been on the lookout for you, with a description.’

‘And if they find me?’ said Mik’El, shivering as he pictured a public gallows.

‘She wants you eliminated,’ said Katrina. ‘But not publicly. You see…’

‘Then why didn’t your husband already have me killed?’

‘Because everyone saw you,’ said Katrina. ‘He was surrounded by people admiring your good deed. It would have ruined his reputation even further if he repaid you with a spear through the back and he knew it.’ Her face darkened. ‘There are enough stories going about telling of how unsafe innocent people are around him as it is.’

‘So he’s waiting for an opportunity to kill me and make it look like an accident or something?’ asked Mik’El.

She nodded. ‘I overheard him talking to some of his friends. The moment they have the opportunity, they’ll slip something into your food or have you trampled to death by a runaway horse, or fall into the river and drowned. But I don’t mean to give them that opportunity. If you’re prepared to help me, then I’ll help you.’

‘What do you want from me, then?’

Katrina leaned in close. ‘Get me away from here!’ she hissed. ‘Please! I can order the guards to let us pass, and we can both get away. Take us out of the Empire – take us North, where none of the Queen’s lackeys will ever find us!’

Mik’El eyed her. ‘Earl Stronghammer… it’s that bad, being married to him?’

‘I married a man I thought I was in love with,’ Katrina said bitterly. ‘I was barely more than a girl… I thought I knew him when I didn’t. When I found out about the things he did in the war, and I confronted him about it…’

‘He didn’t hit you, did he?’

Katrina did not reply, which said more than words could have.

‘You think you can trust me better than him, then?’ asked Mik’El.

She caught him by the collar. ‘If I must take a chance, then I will,’ she said, and kissed him.

Mik’El let her do it, and almost kissed her back out of sheer reflex. Her lips were soft and warm, and it made him feel good. It had been far too long since he had felt a woman’s touch.

When she let him go, he gently touched her on the cheek. ‘Very well then. Let’s not wait around any longer. Tonight is our chance, so let’s take it.’

Katrina laughed softly, and hugged him. ‘I’ll go and get Ismira,’ she whispered, kissing him again – on the cheek this time.

She got up and hurried out of the tent. Mik’El started to gather up his things, fumbling with his bad arm, and the shadow reappeared and laughed. ‘You old dog!’

‘She kissed me,’ said Mik’El, but he was still feeling rather pleased with himself. First he’d stolen the Shadeslayer’s sword, and now he’d stolen a kiss from the Stronghammer’s wife. This was turning out to be quite a year for him.

He rolled up his blanket and tied it to his pack, and made sure his sword was secure at his side. He might be unable to use it now, but he was damned if he was going to lose it. It was his most treasured possession. And besides, he’d need it right there with him once his arm was healed. Throwing it away or selling it would mean acknowledging that he’d given up on that ever happening, and he’d be damned if-

At that moment a long, low sound echoed over the camp. No sooner had it faded away than it was followed by another, which was when Mik’El realised he was hearing a horn of some kind. ‘What are they playing at-?’ he began, but before the shadow could reply a scream split the air from somewhere outside. A chorus of shouting followed, and as Mik’El grabbed his pack and staggered out of the tent a shadow passed over him. Not the shadow but a shadow – the shadow of something huge swooping overhead.

‘Dragon!’ he yelled.

People were already up and running about in a panic, and as the dragon wheeled around and flew back for a second assault a gang of great hulking figures came charging through the tents, cutting down everyone who got in their way with massive swings from the battleaxes they carried.

Mik’El stood frozen for a moment, staring in surprise, and then turned and ran for cover. Not a tent; something heavy and solid like a cart. Fortunately he found one not too far away and dived behind it not a moment too soon. Something struck it from above, and as Mik’El pressed himself against one of the wheels he found himself looking up at a great arched tail whose twitching tip hung just a few inches away from his nose.

A low growl made the cart’s timbers vibrate. He could see the talons as well; the rear ones, digging into the sides. Then the sweep of a wing as the dragon took off again, and the cart juddered violently under its weight.

The shadow spread up over the side of the cart, flickering in the light of half a dozen burning tents. ‘That’s an urgal warband!’ it exclaimed. ‘But with a dragon? What madness is this?’

Mik’El took a deep breath. ‘It’s not Saphira,’ he said. ‘It’s too small. It must be one of the ones who hatched after the war. But why fight with Urgals?’ His mind raced – had one of the Shadeslayer’s pupils gone rogue?

A deafening roar shook the ground, and he pulled himself together. Forget where the thing had come from – this was the perfect opportunity to escape.

He looked around to get his bearings, and then ran for the edge of camp closest to the river, moving in an awkward half-crouch to keep his head down. But before he had gone very far he heard a scream from behind him. ‘HELP ME!’

Mik’El looked back, and to his horror he saw Katrina. She had little Ismira in her arms and was not far from his tent… or where his tent had been. The dragon had descended on it and crushed the little structure under one talon, and now loomed over the woman as she tried to protect her daughter and screamed for a second time. ‘HELP!’

Two thoughts darted across Mik’El’s mind, lightning fast.

I have to help.

But I can’t fight!

A short distance away from where he was standing, a large triangular shield made in the Alagaësian style lay fallen and at the sight of it a wild idea occurred to him.

‘Sod it all then,’ he snarled, and ran forward.

In mid stride he snatched up the shield with his good hand, and thrust his withered arm through the straps, securing it to his shoulder.

‘Wait, what are you doing?’ the shadow yelled.

Mik’El did not slow down for a moment. He ran on toward Katrina and Ismira, as the dragon’s Rider dismounted and stepped toward them. A Rider far too big to be an elf or a human, a Rider with huge muscular shoulders, and there against the glowing sky – horns.

It occurred to him briefly that this was not just an Urgal but a Kull, twice as tall as himself. But even as he realised this his charge had already carried him too far to stop. With a roar he bounded past Katrina and hit the Kull directly in the midsection with all his strength, shield first. Caught by surprise, the Kull staggered and fell back against their dragon, and before he or she could recover Mik’El lifted the shield and hit the Kull as hard as he could with the pointed edge, right in the throat. The Kull roared in pain.

So did the dragon.

It stumbled back, clutching at its own throat, and without pausing Mik’El struck the Kull a second time and then smashed the shield into its face. The Kull roared again, but now with a pained rasp to it, and smacked him off with one blow from a huge fist. Mik’El fell hard onto the trampled grass, and as he found his feet again he looked up to see the Kull rising as well, looming massively against the benighted heavens and raising an axe over his unprotected head.

Mik’El fumbled for his dagger, and offered up a silent prayer to the gods as he drew it. Please, please let this one be a male.

He ducked under the Kull Rider’s axe, and stabbed his enemy as hard as he could, directly in the groin.

The Kull’s shriek was simply indescribable. They staggered away, bent double and clutching at the dagger hilt which wobbled horribly between their legs, looking exactly like something Mik’El had never, ever wanted to compare to what he was seeing now.

‘Oh aye,’ he rasped, listening to the screams. ‘That was a man right enough.’

Was.

The dragon reared up, screaming too, but rather than attack him it started to thrash around in confusion as its Rider foolishly wrenched the dagger out and then collapsed a moment or two later as the blood gushed out of the spot where his manhood had been.

Mik’El didn’t stop to watch him bleed to death. He darted over to Katrina, who had sensibly made a run for it, and stuck close to her as she fled from the battle with a screaming Ismira in her arms. The shield was still hanging from his shoulder, and he realised belatedly that the cursed arm had gone horribly numb. That suited him fine; it was better than pain any day. Even so he had a nasty suspicion he’d broken it.

Another Urgal loomed up in front of them. Mik’El hit him with a body-slam, shield first, and bashed the horned warrior’s face in the moment he was down.

He didn’t linger over his fallen opponent, but ran on toward the edge of camp, heart pounding as hard as his boots. But even as the three of them neared their goal and the river and the safety it represented for him grew closer, the roar of the dragon blasted down on them and the great dark mass of its body slammed into the ground directly in front of them.

Mik’El staggered to a halt, swearing, and Katrina let out a yell of fright. ‘Do something!’

This time around he had more opportunity to think about what he was doing, or being asked to do, and an exhausted kind of despair came over him. He’d survived by luck so far, and to keep going was suicide.

He cast one last look at Ismira, whose face was a mask of terror, and then placed his feet well apart and squared up to the snarling dragon. ‘Come on, then!’

But the dragon did not attack him. Incredibly, impossibly, there was still a Rider on its back. Were there two of them-?

The Rider jumped down with a thump, and strode toward him. It was the Kull, alive and well, and glaring. But this time he kept his axe in its holders on his back, and did not draw it. Instead he stopped in front of Mik’El and raised his head, exposing his throat. Even in the gloom Mik’El could see how badly bruised it was.

Having done this the Kull lowered his head again and roared.

Mik’El hunched forward and roared back as loudly as he could.

The Kull fell silent, and then spoke in a pained, raspy voice. ‘What is your name, human?’

‘Mik’El Snowbear,’ he answered without thinking.

‘I am Nar Zhagra, leader of the Spinebreaker Clan of the West,’ the Kull said formally. ‘And this is my dragon, Orgath.’

The dragon snorted.

‘And what d’you want?’ said Mik’El, who knew enough of Urgals to know that the baring of the throat and the roar were both signs of respect.

Zhagra bared his throat again. ‘You have defeated me in single combat,’ he rasped. ‘My allegiance is now yours. What would you ask from me?’

‘Call off your warriors and end the assault,’ Mik’El said at once.

‘Very well.’ Zhagra sounded displeased, but Orgath the dragon let out a short series of roars, and a few moments later the sounds of combat slowed and stopped. Thwarted, the Urgals began to gather around their leader. Most of them looked angry, and many were already shouting in their own language, no doubt demanding to know what was going on.

Zhagra ignored them. ‘Are you the same Mik’El who fought Eragon Firesword?’ he asked. ‘The Nidding, from the North?’

‘I am,’ said Mik’El.

Zhagra was silent for a moment, unreadable – and then he burst out laughing. The rest of the warband, hearing what had just been said, quickly started laughing as well – loud, raucous, mocking laughter. Mik’El exchanged glances with Katrina, who looked petrified but was sensibly staying quiet.

‘So!’ Zhagra roared, silencing the laughter. ‘The stories we hear are true! The fool who humiliated our people and forsook his honour by fleeing the country and laying a curse on an innocent man has been defeated by this little Nidding. Ha! This is a fine day for us all. And how displeased and embarrassed the haughty elves must be!’ He came forward and thumped Mik’El on the shoulder. ‘I am honoured to meet you, and more honoured to have fought you, Nidding.’

While he spoke the humans began to regroup as well, confused, and among their number was Roran. On seeing Katrina he shouted her name, but she only stared coldly at him and turned away, cradling Ismira. It was a gesture of such final dismissal that even Mik’El cringed.

‘This one has defeated me in combat,’ Zhagra announced to everyone. ‘The raid is over and we shall leave with whatever glory we have already won. Mik’El the Nidding, Shield-Basher of the North, you are welcome to come with us if you choose, or remain with the followers of Earl Stronghammer.’

A whispering arose from the humans. That’s the Nidding? The one who-?

Roran pushed his way to the front. ‘This Nidding is wanted for treason by Queen Nasuada Peacemaker herself!’ he said loudly. ‘As citizens of the Empire, you are commanded to turn him in.’

Zhagra laughed at him. ‘You do not give orders to us, Stronghammer.’

‘Anyway, what did he ever do that warrants a death sentence?’ This time, it was one of Roran’s own men who spoke up. ‘Well?’ he added loudly. ‘Since when was defeating a man in honest single combat a crime? He hasn’t murdered anyone, has he? Or stolen, or raped, or-,’

‘He destroyed the Eldunarya which were held at the Academy under Eragon’s protection,’ said Roran.

‘What, them dead dragons what like to play with people’s minds and make them do things they wouldn’t just to toy with us regular folk?’ another man yelled. ‘Bah! I say he did us all a favour!’

A chorus of angry muttering arose.

Roran, perhaps aware that he was losing control of the situation, turned on Mik’El. ‘And what do you have to say, Nidding? Well?’

‘Challenge him!’ the shadow hissed in the privacy of Mik’El’s mind. ‘Do it! Call him a coward and let him make a fool of himself!’

People were looking expectantly at him now, including the Urgals and Katrina as well. He knew exactly what they were expecting.

Mik’El braced himself. ‘I say your cousin is a coward!’ he said loudly. ‘A coward with the honour of rotted salmon guts! A weak little worm every bit as cruel and snivelling as your own men say you are, and even your own wife as well!’

Roran started. ‘What? How dare you!’ He was already reaching for his hammer. ‘How dare you say that to me, you poxy-,’

‘A brave man, are you?’ Mik’El taunted. ‘Aye, brave enough to kill little girls it would seem! Brave enough to laugh and make a game out of the deaths of honest men! Ha!’ He spat on the ground and pulled his cursed arm back with a great effort, showing off the claw his hand had become. People gasped audibly at the sight of it. ‘Well if you’re such a mighty warrior, then no doubt you can defeat a cripple and maybe win back your cousin’s honour, as worthless as it is!’ Mik’El went on. ‘Unless this arm of mine frightens you too much to want to face me?’ He pulled his cloak back with his good hand, and flexed the cursed limb. It gleamed horribly in the firelight.

Roran gripped his hammer. ‘How dare you insult my honour.’

Mik’El raised his eyebrows. ‘You’d have to have any before I could insult it, farm boy.’

He had calculated his moment correctly. With a roar of fury Roran charged through the ranks of his men and hurled himself at Mik’El, swinging the hammer in a wide arc.

If Mik’El had still been able to use his sword, he would have taken the opportunity to thrust the blade straight through Roran’s exposed armpit and ended the fight then and there. As it was he side-stepped the first blow and brought the shield up, hitting Roran hard in his underjaw. Roran’s head snapped back, and he yelped, but quickly came in for another swing with the hammer.

His blows were hopelessly clumsy and innaccurate, though, even given the fact that he was blinded by anger. Mik’El avoided most and caught the rest on his shield, and tired and hurting as he was he soon felt the same sense of incredulous contempt as he had with Eragon. This man, this “Stronghammer” was as untrained and undisciplined as his cousin. Quite possibly even more so.

Not only was he ill-trained, but he was ill-equipped; just as Mik’El had judged the first time he saw it the hammer had no reach at all, and could not be used to block or parry. In the end Roran only managed to land a single blow on him, and that was a glancing one to his left shoulder which only struck at all thanks to pure luck.

By then the onlookers were already laughing at him, and some of the Urgals had started to jeer.

Mik’El’s head was throbbing almost as badly as the cursed arm. He lashed out with the shield, hitting Roran in the stomach, and before he could recover Mik’El followed it up with a second blow to the face and then kicked his legs out from beneath him.

Roran went down hard, dropping his hammer, which span away and fetched up against Mik’El’s boot.

He scooped it up and waggled it mockingly at its owner. ‘How does the grass taste, little man?’

Cheers rose from the onlookers, mixed with muted gasps of horror and outrage. The Urgals jeered louder than ever, and bellowed their support for the victor. Zaghra, whose wound seemed to have completely disappeared, threw his head back and laughed uproariously, yelling something in his own language which sounded harsh and mocking.

Roran staggered back to his feet. For a moment he stood there looking dumbfounded, and then his face went red with fury. He snatched the dagger from his belt and charged recklessly at Mik’El, screaming. Katrina, keeping well back, screamed as well.

The shadow let out a warning shout, and caught by surprise Mik’El turned just in time to see his opponent coming. He swivelled on the spot, shield raised, but this time Roran was ready for that. He came in at Mik’El’s left hand side, avoiding the shield, and thrust the dagger into his chest. Mik’El grunted in pain, but the blow didn’t slow him down. He continued his swing toward his enemy, roaring now, and the shield caught Roran square in the face. He went down for a second time, and hit the ground hard, head-first.

This time, he did not rise again.

Mik’El stood over him, chest heaving, feeling the blood trickle down over his stomach. He was about to say something, but then he realised that Roran was not moving. His entire body had gone limp, and his eyes were half open and glassy.

‘He’s dead.’

Silence fell for a moment, and then Katrina let out a loud hoarse sob which could have been remorse or relief, or a mixture of both.

‘An ignominious death for one with such a bloated reputation as a warrior,’ Zhagra said contemptuously.  ‘These men should be glad to call you their new leader, Nidding.’

One of the onlookers, a man who had been with Roran outside his tent earlier in the day, shoved forward and knelt over the body. ‘You’re lying! He’s not…’ But he fell silent as he touched Roran’s still form, and his face slackened. ‘No.’

Mik’El adjusted the shield, and finally realised that there was blood all down his cursed arm and that the elbow was bent at an unnatural angle. The pain was now finally beginning to come down on him, and he winced.

The man looked up from Roran’s body. ‘You murderer!’

Before Mik’El could reply, another of the humans spoke up. ‘Don’t be an idiot – he killed him in combat, not by slitting his throat in his sleep. It was a fair victory.’ He paused, and there was a gleam in his eye. ‘…just as he defeated Eragon Shadeslayer twice. Isn’t that right, Nidding?’

‘Wait, that’s him?’ another of the men yelled. ‘The one who-?’

‘He is!’ Katrina raised her chin, holding Ismira close. ‘That’s the brave swordsman Mik’El Snowbear you see before you. He defeated Eragon, and now he has defeated Roran as well, with only one arm. You would call him a murderer, Berge?’

The man who had made the accusation flinched and said nothing.

‘We all know what Roran did,’ Katrina went on, while Mik’El stood there bewildered and trying not to let it show. She pointed at her husband’s body. ‘He suffocated a little girl to death, one no older than my daughter. He bragged about his killings in the war as if he had not been slaughtering enslaved men who had no choice but to fight him. And now just like his cousin he would rather stab a man in the back than graciously accept defeat! He was no warrior, but a cowardly killer!’

A few people muttered agreement. The Urgals, meanwhile, seemed bored.

Berge stood up. ‘Enough of this,’ he snapped. ‘Seize him! We’ll take him to the Queen and let her deal with him; this is a matter of law, not opinion.’

He must have had some position of importance, because immediately several men advanced on Mik’El, drawing their swords. The Urgals kept back, and as the dragon Orgath started to snort and hiss Zhagra said, ‘What would you ask of me, Shield-Basher? Make your choice now, before-,’

Mik’El had already squared up against the men coming to arrest him, but before he could shout for the Kull Rider to attack a roar came from above for the second time that terrible night. It was unmistakably a dragon’s roar, but far louder than Orgath’s had been, and as people instinctively threw themselves flat a mass of sparkling green scales rushed past. It struck Orgath in the side of the head as it went, hard enough that the young dragon staggered sideways and knocked a rank of Urgals over, and before anyone knew what was happening a third force had swarmed into the camp.

Elves!

Mik’El saw them with horrible clarity, even in the gloom. Tall, lithe shapes darting out from between the tents to attack the Urgals with spears and slender swords, moving with a speed and grace no human could match.

And silence. That was the part that made it worse. No screams or battle cries from them at all, or even cries of pain when one was injured. Only eerie silence broken only by the outraged roars of the Urgals and the silken patter of small elven feet.

Orgath had recovered himself, and as he charged at the elves Mik’El pulled himself together and yelled to Zhagra. ‘Get Katrina and the girl out of here! Get them to safety – take them with you and don’t let them be hurt! Promise me!’

The Kull came bounding over. ‘You have my word, Nidding,’ he growled.

Katrina had returned to his side, and Zhagra scooped her and Ismira up in his massive arms as if they were no more than a pair of dolls. Katrina struggled briefly, but Zhagra said, ‘Peace! I will protect you!’ and she clung onto him as he carried her away.

She looked back over the Kull’s arm, wide-eyed. ‘Mik’El!’

There was no time to think now. No time to do anything, in fact. The shadow was screaming at him, telling him to flee the camp and escape in the confusion, but he was bleeding now, exhausted, confused and there was an elf…

Something. Darkness and starlight and the rising moon. People shouting. People screaming. Urgals fighting. Two dragons grappling above it all. And there was an elf…

‘That’s him! Quickly!’

And a magic word which snapped toward him like a whip, and then suddenly he was lying down and a pleasant warmth flooded his body like mulled wine as he fell deep into an enchanted sleep.

Yes. Sleep now.

So tired.

So very tired.

Sleep…

Comments

[snarkbotanya]

I love it!

Nasuada is surprisingly likeable in her scene, though I suppose that comes mostly from her disagreeing with the series's ultimate Queen Bitch, Arya. Still good to see one of the canons calling out the elves for their superiority complex and being uncomfortable with the Eldunarya directing people's actions, even if it is only in her head.

Ismira is freaking adorable.

I like what you've done with Katrina and Roran here. There are certainly some similarities to what I'm planning for them in Consequence, although there are also some vast differences in how we're going to go about exploring those.

Learning that Urgal culture dictates that Defeat Means Friendship is pretty interesting, too. Zhagra's scenes fleshed out the Urgals far more than Paolini ever did.

Oh, and speaking of Consequence...

Was the elf still trying to pretend she hadn’t allowed one of her own students to flee Ellesmera for parts unknown, dragon and all, and that the two of them weren’t still at large somewhere in the country plotting who knew what? Now there was a fine joke.

I c wut u did thar ;P

[epistler]

Nasuada is surprisingly likeable in her scene, though I suppose that comes mostly from her disagreeing with the series's ultimate Queen Bitch, Arya.

I was surprised to find myself liking her while writing that scene too. Obviously I don't like Nas as a character, and clearly her new subjects don't like her either, but it made sense to me that she wouldn't get along all that well with Arya given her distrust of magic and the fact that she'd likely (and quite rightly) see the woman as the biggest threat to her power. After all if Arya decided a second change of government was in order, Nas and her handful of low-level wizards wouldn't stand a chance. It made sense to me too that she wouldn't like the Eldunarya, for similar reasons.

Ismira is freaking adorable.

I agree. I fell in love with her right away. It's not her fault who her dad is, after all. Now she's apparently due to run off and live with the Urgals I'm reaaally tempted to fast-forward to her as a young woman who grew up absorbed into their culture and is now a badass wild child who wears a set of hand-carved horns she made to fit in. If I never actually do that, feel free to accept it as headcanon because I have. :-p

I like what you've done with Katrina and Roran here.

Thanks! Roran didn't turn out quite how I was expecting - I meant to write him as a jerk, but while I was doing so I quickly realised that his bad behaviour is pretty explainable: he's depressed. As we all know, being depressed often makes people (and especially men) foul-tempered and prone to lash out.

It's Paolini's fault, really. After all, he did flat-out say that becoming King would have made Roran miserable. How is making him an Earl any better? Clearly he was never suited for the nobility, and Nas really should have known better.

Learning that Urgal culture dictates that Defeat Means Friendship is pretty interesting, too.

In canon it's presented that if you defeat an Urgal in single combat you have to kill him afterwards, but I figure there's got to be some variation between the different tribes. It would be absurd if the entire population all over the country was completely homogeneous oh wait. It made as much if not more sense to me that an Urgal leader might instead take the approach of "you've proven you're tough enough to take me down, and have therefore earned my respect".

It was awfully magnanimous of Zhagra to let the "you stabbed me in the balls" thing slide, I must say. Lucky for him magic can basically heal anything short of actual decapitation in this setting.

One thing I didn't explicitly lay out is that Zhagra and Orgath shared the pain of Zhagra's injuries not out of incompetence or inexperience but because they think that it would be cowardly not to. Being as he grew up among Urgals, it makes sense that Orgath would have absorbed a lot of their attitudes.

I c wut u did thar ;P

Oh yeah. I went there. Of course I did. ;-)
I think we can guess what dragon it was Ismira saw...

[snarkbotanya]

I'm reaaally tempted to fast-forward to her as a young woman who grew up absorbed into their culture and is now a badass wild child who wears a set of hand-carved horns she made to fit in.

Headcanon accepted. Probably not Consequence canon, but definitely Sword and Shadow canon.

It's Paolini's fault, really. After all, he did flat-out say that becoming King would have made Roran miserable. How is making him an Earl any better?

Consequence Roran is also pretty miserable as nobility... though I'm pretty sure he'd be miserable going back to farm life too. He wasn't the greatest guy to start with, but war really changed him...

One thing I didn't explicitly lay out is that Zhagra and Orgath shared the pain of Zhagra's injuries not out of incompetence or inexperience but because they think that it would be cowardly not to.

I like this; it's a good way of adding some character.

Oh yeah. I went there. Of course I did. ;-)
I think we can guess what dragon it was Ismira saw...

You are free to use the V-Team in Sword and Shadow, provided I get beta-reader status to make sure they're in character.


Also, I do kind of want to bring up one thing that sort of bugged me. The Eldunarya aren't common knowledge, so it was a bit weird to hear regular rank-and-file people talk about how smashing them did everyone a favor. I can buy that from Nasuada, since she definitely knew about the things, but Roran's entourage definitely wouldn't know about the dragon hearts.

[epistler]

You are free to use the V-Team in Sword and Shadow, provided I get beta-reader status to make sure they're in character.

I'm not sure I'll actually have them appear on-screen, but if I do I'll definitely consult you.

The Eldunarya aren't common knowledge, so it was a bit weird to hear regular rank-and-file people talk about how smashing them did everyone a favor

I think we can safely assume that somebody leaked the information during the intervening five years, which would make sense given how many enemies the canon heroes have made. If it makes them look bad, you can bet someone's going to make sure it becomes common knowledge.

[epistler]

Basically the idea behind these stories is that word of the bad shit the "heroes" did during the war has since spread through Alaglag, one way or another. People gossip, after all, and a secret as big as the Eldunarya isn't likely to remain secret forever. All it takes is for one person to blab and the cat's out of the bag.

[hidden_urchin]

Week. Made. (Actually, make that my month.)

[torylltales]

OMG I love it.

But how dare you leave us with such a cliffhanger! >:(


If anyone was interested, the "how does the grass taste?" line was a reference to a video we watched recently of two HEMA (historical european martial artists) competing: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=agUaHwxcXHY

The smaller one yells "tell me how the grass tastes, little man!" and then charges his opponent. We both thought the line was too epic not to pay homage to.

[littlecaity]

It is a wonderful line! I might keep it in my Big File Of Amusing Quotes and see if I can use it somewhere.

[(Anonymous)]

This. Is. AWESOME.

I was just lamenting the lack of my favorite mangas this week and then this pops up! :D Excellent timing!

Ghost

[(Anonymous)]

Amazing!

I like how you had the Elves as monsterous creatures, and you fleshed out the Urgal culture. Katrina's and Roran's relationship was spot on, especially if we look at how Roran treats her at the end of the Inheritance Cycle, how he just asks Eragon to hold her without consulting her at all. I'm glad she got to go with the Urgals. I hope there's a Katrina/Urgal romance in the works. Does Sloan appear in the fourth part? I hope Katrina gets to reunite with Sloan.

I understand why everybody hates Queen Nas so much, since she would have no experience with ruling a country. What did she do to make everyone hate her?

Overall, I really liked it. It was much better than any book 5 Paolini would've written. (If he ever gets around to doing it.)

-UltimateCheetah

[minionnumber2]

Mostly because she kind of ended up no better than how Galby was presented in the end. She squashed some rebellions after the fact with force and decided to make it a kingdom policy that you have to join her group of magic users or be forced to swear that you'll never use magic again in the AL.

[(Anonymous)]

"...decided to make it a kingdom policy that you have to join her group of magic users or be forced to swear that you'll never use magic again in the AL."

I don't know why Nasuada thought that was a good idea. What if a small village, like Carvahall, has only one magic healer that doesn't want to join that group. Also, I remember that one guy who rebelled was named Tharos or something, and his sister died because of Roran. I don't know why Nasuada didn't try to negotiate with him.

-UltimateCheetah

[epistler]

I don't know why Nasuada thought that was a good idea

Apparently she just plain doesn't like magic and doesn't think people who use it are trustworthy (unless they're Saint Eragon, of course. Or an elf). It would certainly explain why she spends the entire series treating the sorceress Trianna like garbage despite the woman's track record of being extremely loyal and trustworthy (at one point she all but throws herself in the way of an assassination attempt to save Nas' worthless hide).

Forcing every magic user in the country (...except for the elves, again) to live in their own personal police state was a terrible idea. That and her very shady habit of giving important positions to her favourites rather than basing it on merit and fitness for the job are why her subjects don't like her. For one thing she put that moron Roran in charge of the entire Palencar Valley even though he's an illiterate teenager who only knows how to solve problems by hitting people with a hammer.

[edward9]

This is very good writing. I like how you took the existing story and made people react in realistic ways. Eragon (and Angela) set up a dictatorship under Nasuada and skipped out since they were unwilling to live under the government the installed. My favorite part was who the "shriek was indescribable." That said more than one of Paolini's thesaurus bloated paragraphs ever could.

[cavuy]

This is BRILLIANT!

The casualty in this part came as a nice surprise. It's really great to see the 'heroes' of the cycle suffer consequences for a change, if only because they are canonically so quick to enrage. :D

[littlecaity]

Oooooh this was an absolute delight from beginning to end! Glorious, glorious realism kicking Paolini's nonsense in the butt~

I cannot stand canon Nasuada and this version is still a complete bitch, but a complete bitch who is surprisingly enjoyable to watch. Mostly because anyone who thinks Arya is the absolute fucking worst is on the right track.

I love that Mik'El went through the normal person response of 'goddammit this is going to be such a pain in the ass' but still helped Ismira because leaving a kid there was something he just couldn't do. I always enjoy it when heroic characters know something is going to cause them trouble but do it anyway because it's the right thing to do.

Ismira is precious and I love her and the mental image of her being an Urgal-raised badass is perfect and wonderful! Her reactions to Roran were really natural too and I'm always happy to see a little kid being written realistically.

Mik'El's story about the man being banished for killing a child was such a wonderful exploration of Nidding culture without feeling like exposition for exposition's sake. It was a natural response to finding out about what Roran did and an entirely in-character way to explain to Ismira that his people find that kind of behaviour abhorrent.

'Stole a kiss from the wife of Stronghammer' made me chuckle, I must admit. I liked that Mik'El chose not to take advantage despite knowing and acknowledging that he could, and knowing that Katrina might well welcome it. I always like it when a hero or heroine is tempted but decides to be better than their baser self.

URGALS! BADASS URGALS! Everything you created for Urgal culture was brilliant and interesting. Defeat Means Friendship is a trope I've always enjoyed, heehee. I really hope we get some more from Zhagra and Orgath because they have the potential to be some of the most fascinating and enjoyable characters I've encountered in quite some time.

The description of the elf attack being almost silent was so delightfully chilling. Ala-Elves are creepy fucks and it's always good to see that being taken into account.

*sits here bouncing with anticipation for where this fantastic story will go*

[epistler]

I love that Mik'El went through the normal person response of 'goddammit this is going to be such a pain in the ass' but still helped Ismira because leaving a kid there was something he just couldn't do.

And then later on he throws himself at a bunch of Urgals despite having no backup and no weapon other than a shield, simply because Katrina - someone he barely knows - needs help. Mik'El does what Paolini's heroes never do, which is to place doing what's right above his own personal safety and convenience. I can't even count the number of times Eragon and/or Roran let innocent people die in canon because helping them was too inconvenient (the slaves outside Helgrind, Tharos the Quick's little sister whom Roran suffocated to death, Eragon letting the Urgals carry Murtagh off and coming up with excuses not to even try going after them, Eragon murdering an unarmed captive). Not even necessarily dangerous - just inconvenient. Roran didn't have to suffocate that little girl to death; he just didn't have the patience to bother with trying to negotiate them out of there. Mik'El would never behave like that, because clearly he has an inherent and unshakeable sense of right and wrong, which is more than I can say for any of the protagonists Paolini ever wrote, who invariably put themselves before all else.

I really hope we get some more from Zhagra and Orgath because they have the potential to be some of the most fascinating and enjoyable characters I've encountered in quite some time.

I definitely have to bring them back. At the time I wasn't sure how important they'd be, but now it's done I very much found them interesting and likeable enough to want to write more about them.

The description of the elf attack being almost silent was so delightfully chilling. Ala-Elves are creepy fucks and it's always good to see that being taken into account.

They really are, aren't they? Take away the constant praise and you realise just how horrible and scary they are, and especially from the point of view of an ordinary person.

*sits here bouncing with anticipation for where this fantastic story will go*

I do have a pretty good idea of what's going to happen in part four - I'll post a separate comment as a little preview!

Part Four

[epistler]

Okay gang, so clearly there's going to be a part four. Right now I can tell you this much about it:

-It will be called "The Sword and the Shadow IV: The Trial"
-It will probably mostly take place in Uru'Baen.
-Nas and Arya will have important roles to play
-As will the shadow, who this time around will get a much larger part and even a POV!
-We'll be seeing Eragon and Saphira again (uh-oh)

[(Anonymous)]

Lol Roran got cucked

[epistler]

Couldn't have happened to a nicer guy. >:)