"And here is one our latest objects, a young male captured on the eastern plains of the Hadarac Desert, look at the size of 'em ladies and gentlemen. If that isn't a strong and hardy specimen built for labor than I don't know what is, look at his arms! Sturdy as a bull, though not as smart," the man on the platform exclaimed to the crowd of wealthy civilians, whose laughter joined with the sounds of bargaining vendors, arrogant guards, and, thanks to Eragon's enhanced elven hearing, the sounds of unheard cries for help by the poor.
Eragon could barely stand being there, with the crowd that looked interested at the various males and females of different ages, some children, chained and caged by the man on the platform and his fellow businessmen as though they were cattle sent to the market. Slavers and their buyers.
He remembered when he had first stood in this courtyard, long ago, when he had been given free reign to explore one of the largest of human cities by Brom. How delighted he had been by the various wares of foreign and exotic places, crystals of various colors and shapes from the island of Sharktooth, herbs of exotic tastes from southern Surda, books and tomes written by the brightest minds from Urû'baen, the Empire's capitol… and then, by accident and curiosity, he had stumbled upon this very courtyard and witnessed the selling of human beings as though they were livestock, mere objects of servitude for those of high birth or wealth.
One of the sellings still haunted him, a sobbing and pleading mother whose young daughter, barely at the age of four, was ripped from her arms as she was sold to a hawk-nosed man, and the child to a sour looking woman with cold, cruel eyes. How the guards who bore the sigil of a twisted flame outlined in gold thread, Galbatorix's symbol, dragged the mother away from her shrieking child, one even going as far as to punch her when she continued to scream, he remembered the hawk-nosed man had complained to the guards about damaging his newest buy… Eragon's blood had burned in rage, the magical energy within him swirling around him, begging to be released to break the chains of those men and women, boys and girls, to free them.
But he couldn't back then, and the past Eragon had realized it with a heavy bitterness, for though he could have broken their chains easily, his actions would have resulted in their deaths as the slavers would assume they were trying to run and kill them before they could even gain their bearings, and Eragon could have been caught, imprisoned or killed, because he couldn't think of a plan worthy of action.
But as he stood amongst the strangers of the crowd, his eyes looking at every weakness in the slavers' ranks, a plan had been formed and set. The slaves that stood before him, like those that had stood before him a year ago, were unlike the others, because Eragon could now free them, and free them he would.
He watched as the man was sold to a balding man with sharp cruel eyes, the slave had been one of the few left to be sold. The owner had several guards with him, the guards ruthlessly shoving the sold man in the direction of the owner's estate. Eragon could only watch in silent anger.
This plan is foolish and rash, little one. The voice of Saphira rang in his head.
Then it is a plan worthy of Eragon Shadeslayer, Eragon thought wryly.
The plan was rather simple compared to his other plans. Immun had given him command of his own soldiers, lower members of the Kuro Hasu. There were twelve in total, rather small for such an important and delicate task, but Eragon knew that he needed help as this couldn't be done with just himself, unless he wanted Dras Leona and the Empire to realize that Eragon Shadeslayer was within their borders. He was just thankful that Immun and the soldiers did not know his true identity as a Rider.
Though, unknown to Eragon, Immun actually did know Eragon's true identity as the Blue Rider, though the aging man never mentioned it to both Eragon or even his comrades in the Order of the Black Lotus. Immun was a man of honor and character, despite the reputation the Empire had portrayed their fronts as, which was true in some regards as they were notorious for smuggling and thieving, but for reasons that weren't evil in truth.
Eragon had Undbitr buckled at his hip with Blödhren buckled on the other side, his hand on the worn leather hilt on the off chance that the situation went sour which, in his experiences, happened far too often. Though a dagger wouldn't be as helpful as Brom's sword, it was less flashy in the case that Eragon would need it.
Be careful, Eragon, Saphira said to him, fear laced in her voice that made his heart ache at the thought of her hurting because of him. The last time we were in Dras Leona… this city has made us suffer far too much to allow it to happen again.
Eragon instantly knew what his greatest companion was implying, sorrow overcame him as he remembered fleeing this rotting husk of civilization with his life on the line. He had almost been killed a few mere leagues from the city, had someone not saved his life at the cost of his own.
If only he could turn back the sands of time to save him, the man who had been more of a father than Morzan had ever been. He would give anything just to hear his advice on what to do now that his destiny had been altered so greatly. Would Brom have approved of his desertion, or would he be disappointed that he had run from the rebellion Brom himself had founded? If he could just understand why Brom had saved him that night when the Ra'zac ambushed them, why he had given his life for Eragon's. He was Eragon Morzanson, his father and Brom had been the most bitter of enemies. His own father had slayed Brom's Saphira, damning him in a way only a Rider could understand and fear.
Why did Brom give up his life for the son of his worst enemy?
Brom had to have known that he was the son of Morzan, why else would Brom have moved to the desolate village of Carvahall if not to keep an eye on his enemy's progeny? Brom had been watching him his entire life, always there but never interacting save for those brief moments of storytelling. Did Brom fear that the young boy who dreamed of dragons and adventure would turn into his father, a monster?
Eragon wanted to laugh bitterly as he remembered the stories Brom had regaled the villagers with, stories he had listened to with wide eyes and open ears, the legends of the Fall. Brom had been rather descriptive of the Forsworn, his hatred for them obvious for all to see. And out of all of the thirteen Wyrdfell, Morzan was always the one who was the most bloodthirsty, the most villainous, the most barbaric, the most monstrous. Did Brom say these things, though true, knowing that Eragon would hear the stories? Did Brom find some sense of vengeance upon the man who killed the other half of his heart and soul by influencing his youngest son and corrupting Morzan's image to his own son, making his child fear and hate his own father?
If his father had survived his duel with Brom, would Brom have made Eragon fight against Morzan? Pitting the son against the father?
You shouldn't be thinking like this, little one, Saphira said softly, concern and worry flowing through their bond along with -was that guilt?- as she flew high above him, hidden by the clouds. You know as well as I that Brom would never do such things to you.
He could have told me, Saphira. Eragon said as anger bubbled within him suddenly. Oromis-elda should have told me, but neither of them did and I found out anyway on my own, he said bitterly, why had no one told him?
Did they fear if he knew of his origins, he would suddenly transform into his father? Did they fear that knowing that he was the son of a Wyrdfell he would desert the rebellion and return to the Empire?
Well technically he had, but that was completely beside the point.
The point was that no one thought that telling him about the identify of his father was the wisest course to follow. Wouldn't it have been smarter to have been told this during his training by Oromis? Surely Oromis had known, his father had trained under him after well, as well as Brom. Brom must have surely told him about Eragon's existence, as back then Brom must have thought Eragon was the only son and heir to Morzan, as his older brother Murtagh had been hidden from the world for his entire childhood. He could somewhat understand why Brom never said a thing to him; he hadn't been the most level-headed of people back then when he had been traveling throughout the Empire on his vengeful hunt to slay the Ra'zac, but it didn't stop the hurt that Brom didn't trust him with the truth of his parentage. What would Eragon have done besides raging and possibly flying away with Saphira? It wasn't as though he would have slit the old Rider's throat while he slept in some type of twisted revenge for a father who had never known him.
There were many things Oromis needed to have told him, his parentage was one thing, but the existence of an Eldunarí was another. He knew that his apprenticeship had been cut short due to the war, but why hadn't Oromis told him the reason for Galbatorix's rise to King and his monstrous amount of power? Had Oromis known? He must have surely, before the Fall Oromis had been a member of the Council who denied a grieving and half mad Galbatorix a new dragon, surely he and Glaedr were aware of a dragon's Heart of Hearts?
There are some secrets that are better off staying secrets, Eragon, Saphira said sternly, though Eragon could feel her unease through their bond.
And some secrets are better off being told, Eragon rebuffed angrily, trying hard to conceal the hurt in his tone when he saw that Saphira wasn't on his side, it was his parentage after all and to see her side with Brom and Oromis cut at him deeply.
Little one… Saphira said mournfully, her guilt nearly overtaking his anger.
Eragon cursed himself that Saphira had realized his hurt towards her, the guilt he felt coming from her side of the bond due to his words made himself feel twice as guilty for thinking that Saphira would not side with her Rider, her Chosen.
I'm sorry, Saphira, I did not mean that, he thought to her softly, Please forgive me. You must know that of all the beings in the world, you are the one I trust the most.
He expected to feel warmth overcome him from their great bond, shared feelings that out of everything, they always had each other to turn to and to trust without hesitation or fear of betrayal. He didn't expect to feel guilt and self-loathing, but that was exactly what was coming from his other half of his heart and soul, it confused him greatly.
The Blue Rider was jerked out of his thought when he saw the crowd had started to disperse, cursing himself for being so careless to his surroundings; Eragon realized that the auction was over. Only ten of several dozen were unsold, men and women alike from one of the slavers he would target. He watched as the slaver and his guards walk away with the chained humans.
Eragon followed them for several minutes; his own men following him like silent shadows.
The slaver was middle aged, strong but hardy, jet black hair slicked back by sweat though a few grey hairs had crept up around the man's temple. Green eyes stared impassively at Eragon's blue (having used magic to alter his appearance) as the guards surrounded him protectively whilst the remaining slaves immediately froze instinctively.
"Halt!" Eragon yelled as he stepped in front of the private guards and the slaver, Undbitr held tightly in his hand. The son of Morzan stood before them, several members of the Order of the Black Lotus stood behind him.
The slaver raised a darkened brow at Eragon, his face still impassive. "You're blocking the street," he said pointedly, almost bored as he looked at the ensemble of armed men before him.
"I'm afraid that I must, for I have a goal in mind that must be completed." Eragon said gruffly, his left hand on Blödhren's hilt.
Blödhren… Blood Oath… I wonder, how many oaths have been sworn with you? Eragon mused as he held the wickedly sharped blade that had been forged by his namesake, the First Rider, Eragon. Have they all been fulfilled, those oaths sworn in blood? Blödhren… an odd name for the blade of leadership for the Order. What oath created your name? Did my namesake name you this, or perhaps his successor? Or mayhap their successor? Blood Oath… do you know of my Oath? Eragon asked himself ponderously. My Ren… my Oath to keep…
"And that is?" The slaver asked.
Eragon noticed something, his eyes narrowing dangerously as he did so. The slaver wore a faded tunic that showed his arms, but it was the tattoo on his forearm that caught his attention with startling clarity. A black flame danced across his arm, twisting violently.
The sigil of King Galbatorix.
The guards. They wore the common chainmail of foot soldiers, but the armor was highlighted and detailed with bloody crimson, golden twisted flames emblazoned, though they seemed to have been long faded and Eragon barely saw it, became apparent to the Blue Rider.
The slaver and his guards had been, or might still be, soldiers in the Imperial Army. They had sworn allegiance to the King. They might even be working for the king at that very moment, were those men, women and children sold under the order of Galbatorix? The thought left a rotten taste in Eragon's mouth.
So many oaths I have sworn. I had sworn to avenge my uncle Garrow, whom I saw as my true father. When the Ra'zac tortured and killed him with Seithr Oil, I fulfilled that oath. I swore an oath of fealty to Nasuada, to protect and to serve the Varden until my last breath. I broke that oath the moment I deserted when I discovered their plots to either exile me or kill me. What am I when it comes to oaths? To the villagers of Carvahall, I am Oathkeeper. To the Varden, Oathbreaker.
"That sigil on your forearm, do you serve King Galbatorix?"
The slaver seemed to flinch ever so slightly, his fingers twitching to his tattoo that common soldiers were given when they were enlisted into His Grace's army, a brand forced upon them as though they were livestock. "Once," he said neutrally, but his eyes showed a different story, Eragon could practically feel the resentment flowing from him like the waves of the ocean. "But no longer." He finished.
"Merek…" One of the guards with the faded sigil spoke up, his hand tightened around the shaft of his spear. "We must leave, the City Guard…" he trailed off uncertainly.
The now known Merek ignored him, curiosity overcoming him as he looked at the unknown Rider. "You said you had a goal, unless that goal was to know to whom I owe my loyalty to? The answer is none, if you're wondering."
"Your allegiance does not matter to me. What matters is those behind you, those in chains and shackles who you try to sell like a common sow."
Merek laughed at that, amusement clear for all to see as his armed companions shifted closer to him protectively. "Ah, yet another cocky abolitionist. Hmph, save the lengthy spiel, boy. I've heard it all before." Merek scoffed out, watching Eragon's jaw clench in anger with a smug smile.
"No spiel," Eragon promised, "No lengthy speech about the basic rights all races are entitled to, no talk about the questioning of your moral character. No talking… just, fighting."
Eragon raced towards them at speeds only an elf could hope to compete with him, before Merek and his guards could so much as blink, Eragon had struck down the guard who had spoken to the slaver about the City Guard.
Merek and the others backed away, swords and spears held at the ready. A vein throbbed by the slaver's temple, "That man fought with me for many years in the Imperial Army, he was a brother…" Merek growled out as he charged at the Rider along with the others.
Eragon gracefully dodged the sudden flurry of quick sword jabs as his own soldiers rushed forwards and aided him, silent as shadows. Eragon paid them no heed, his attention fixated solely on Merek.
The young leader of the Order of the Riders faintly heard screams from the common civilians as they fled the street as the fighting progressed, swords clashed, spears pierced, shields blocked, blood spilt.
Merek gritted his teeth as he barely managed to dodge the sword, his eyes widening when he saw chinks in his steel sword, cutting deep into the core of the sword. What type of metal has the ability to cut through steel so effortlessly? The slaver wondered as he saw Undbitr with narrowed eyes, wonder filled them as he saw the sharp beauty in the sword of Brom. A perfect weapon, as beautiful as it was deadly. Merek winced as he was sent stumbling back from shielding one of Eragon's quick swipe, By the Old Ones, am I fighting a man or an Urgal? He wondered as he had never seen such brute strength before in a man, though he had seen it in the monstrous brutes known as Urgals when he fought in the Imperial Army, before he deserted.
Eragon didn't say anything, his brow furrow in the deepest of concentration. Though he was obviously the superior in speed, strength and skill, he wore no armor and thus was wary even with his wards, when battle came all thoughts left him, leaving him wary and cautious.
He watched as one of Immun's soldiers quite literally disarmed one of Merek's guards, the hand falling to the ground in a spray of blood, the crimson liquid dripping upon the mud-stained cobblestone.
Eragon barely had time to turn his head in the direction of the shout as he caught sight of purple flames speeding towards him in the shape of a fireball. Before he could blink, the fire hit him square in the chest, he briefly saw Merek smirk and nod his thanks to one of his soldiers, though the smirk quickly faded when he realized that the fire hadn't harmed Eragon but simply disappeared, leaving his clothes unblemished.
"Wards," Merek realized with a scowl, "Always wards." He dodged the foot aimed at his shins quickly.
Eragon smirked, "They are rather effective… perhaps I should see if you have some, Brisingr!"
Fire as blue as Saphira's flames shot from Eragon's palm, racing towards the human who, by pure and utter luck, managed to catch the brunt of the magical attack with his shield. The force of the spell sent the man flying onto his back, smoke billowed from the iron and hide round shield, molten iron dripping slowly.
Eragon sheathed the sword of Brom and instead drew out Blödhren, the curved blade glinted eerily in the sunlight, the energy within it making it glow as though the sword was ethereal, as though Eragon was holding a burned out star in his hand. Blödhren seemed to thrum at his touch, serene humming came from the blade as though it sang a song only he knew and only he could hear.
Oaths… My Oath to my people…
Merek stood up shakily, his entire arm and torso badly burned till it almost looked black, the tender skin charred to a crisp. Blood dribbled out of the corner of his mouth while more of the crimson liquid dripped from the open cut above his eye.
Eragon raced forwards, easily dodging Merek's clumsy swipe at his head, before the slaver could so much as curse him, Blödhren pierced through the side of his chest, blood gushed out in torrents as he ripped the mystical blade away.
Merek fell down in a graceless heap, his sword dropped as he clutched at his wound, he didn't scream or yell in pain; instead he kept silent as he tried to stop the flow of blood.
Eragon turned his attention to the magician who had shot purple flame at him, the man stood there as though frozen, mayhap paralyzed by fear of Eragon's superior magical prowess, for such a powerful effect on a rather simple spell was terrifying to those who weren't Riders or because he had stabbed his leader rather effortlessly.
He focused on the man's right hand, he felt the power flow through him, begging to be released, his energy was an ocean and an ocean could never be contained. He released the energy that had formed and whispered a spell that was barely heard throughout the sounds of fighting and screaming. "Jierda."
He easily heard the snapping of bone from across the cobblestoned street, the scream that followed nearly made him wince. Suddenly the street was quiet, as silent as a graveyard. Immun's soldiers had either killed or knocked out Merek's guards, none of them had perished in the fight.
Eragon turned his attention towards Merek, who glared up at him with hatred.
"Mayhap I do have time for my spiel," Eragon stated without emotion towards the slaver who glared at him. He looked at Blödhren, the silver blade stained with blood.
An Oath to keep in blood… My Ren…
… To free…
"You think freedom is something that you can give or take on a whim," Eragon scoffed at the defeated slaver with anger. "That you can rip a mother from her child based on what you deem fit, that you can separate families when it seems to serve you best, that you can take away the rights all living beings are born with… You're wrong! No one, be they a king or a peasant, be they human or one of the other races, has the power to say and decide what to do with another's life so callously. A man may be able to command others and there are those who follow him, but only willingly with their own free will do they listen to those who have the power to lead because those who command are given the power by the people they give orders too. There is no absolute authority that can rip someone's freedom from them, just as there is no absolute authority that can give them freedom, for they must take a stance for themselves. I am not the absolute authority, but I'll be damned if I do not help those in need, I will be the one to break the shackles and chains off of those you and your fellows have so cruelly captured, but they will have to be the ones to decide what to do now that their chains have been broken and their shackles shattered…"
"You… fool," Merek gasped out, holding his bleeding wound as he looked up at the disguised Rider with hatred. "You may have power and there are those who follow you," he glanced at the gathered soldiers of the Kuro Hasu, "But you are wrong. Freedom is something that one can snatch if they are quick enough… freewill…. Bah, you are as ignorant as you are shortsighted, boy. There are hundreds of fellows just like myself who follow the cycle of a slaver. Search, find, capture, and sell. That is our motto, and you are not the first to question why we do what we do… do you want to know why we do this? Because we can." He spat out a glob of blood as he glared up at the Blue Rider. "A king has power over his subjects, that's why he's a king. As I have said, you are hardly the first to question what we do, but the reason why the others have disappeared is because to your individual opinion on one of the oldest professions there are those whose opinions differ from yours and they outnumber you a thousand to one."
Eragon looked down at that, remembering the crowds of potential slave owners, dozens of them from wealthy and educated backgrounds, how even those who weren't there to buy walked past the cages of imprisoned men, women and children without a look back. "It is true, that there are many, or rather the majority, of people who see my views as a fool's dream, an unattainable goal… But…" Eragon looked back up, staring down Merek the Slaver with eyes burning in fierce determination, "Even if I alone must overthrow the regime created by slavers such as yourself, whether I must fight an army all by my lonesome self, I will gladly do so!"
… To protect…
The street grew silent at Eragon's statement; people ranging from common citizens to beggars paused at his words, shocked by the Rider's belief that change is possible when change had been so far from their sights.
"You are correct that a king has power over his subjects, but all the kings in Alagaësia, both Galbatorix of the Empire and King Orrin of Surda, have lacked the power to do what kings were created for. To protect those who cannot be protected. To shield those who must be shielded. To feed those who are starving. To aid those who ask for it. Galbatorix has done none of those things," Eragon spat out, remembering the harsh winters with his uncle and cousin back in Carvahall. How if the fields hadn't produced enough food for the winter, they had to ration it until it was all but a couple bites of gruel, the thought of meat always making him wander the Spine, hoping for a doe or buck to bring back meat that was so greatly needed. He remembered one winter it snowed so badly that they couldn't even leave their house to go to their storage barn, they had been reduced to eating the skin off of fur pelts, their breath apparent as the cold sapped at them with it's slow, icy fury. Galbatorix could have sent help to the smaller villages who were so desperate for food and warmth; Carvahall and Ursur were just two of many farming villages who were ignored by their monarch. Eragon had lost too many loved ones to the harsh winters; his aunt Marian who he had always thought at his mother was one of them. Galbatorix turned a dear ear and a blind eyes to the subjects he had supposedly sworn to protect.
… To shield…
"And if the kings are as you say, what then, boy? Do you have the power to topple Galbatorix from his throne? And if the King were to be killed, who then shall reign the Empire? You don't understand, fool… this cursed life is all but a cycle, meant to be repeated over and over again until the world is finally reduced to ashes. Those who are innocent are always the ones to die for those of the wicked, it's an endless cycle, like my trade. Search, find, capture, sell. But for those of higher birth it is; war, kill, control, reign. There is no breaking the cycle, the Riders of Old might have been able too, but the cycle killed them off as well. There is no breaking it!" Merek declared with eyes that showed pain and suffering by those above him, eyes so mournful they truly believed in what he said. That those of innocence are killed by the wicked.
Eragon thought of what Merek said, and couldn't help but agree. Aye, the Riders of Old fell to the swords of Galbatorix and his Wyrdfell… but they, like Murtagh had said at the Burning Plains, were gluttonous fools, not by feasts and wine, but of glory, arrogance and power. They believed themselves indestructible, the greatest of authority, kings bowed their heads and knelt before their might, nobles cowered at the sight of their dragons, it is no wonder why the Fall happened so quickly and suddenly. They were destined to Fall… as we are destined to Rise. Never again shall the Riders believe themselves immortal and all powerful, gods in fleshed forms, not while I lead them.
He thought of his student, Ronan, who understood the cruelty of Galbatorix and of his deafened ears and blind eyes when directed towards those of low birth, Ronan had confessed that he once had a younger sister, a beautiful spirited little girl who looked so much like her mother, his mother had died from frostbite when they had no more wood to burn during a harsh winter, who went by the name of Grida, only to be killed during the winter when food became scarce and their pleas for help was never returned.
… To aid…
"I won't stand here and try to convince you of how I see the world, everyone is entitled to his own opinion, even if the opinion is one I don't agree with. I do not wish to rule, I never have. But all cycles have an end, even if to just start over again. Galbatorix overthrew the Riders and King Angrenost during the Fall… I intend to overthrow him in this Rise…" Eragon turned his attention to those chained and bound and walked over to them. They were ten in total, men and women alike, they huddled together fearfully as he came closer, distrust in their eyes.
"Jierda…" He whispered softly as blue sparks erupted to life and the iron chains turned brittle and broke. "The Rise is coming…" He announced to all, his focus upon those he had freed. "You are welcome to join me."
"You are but one man," Merek protested weakly.
"Aye, I am. But one man can become two, and those two can become ten, and those ten can become a hundred, and then become a thousand. I cannot ensure that we will win, but I can assure you that you will never have chains placed upon you and your loved ones again." Eragon vowed. And I am a Rider, I am no normal man, he thought offhandedly.
The former slaves glanced at one another, before one of them stepped forward. His face was expressionless, eyes as cold as the snow that littered the Beor Mountains. "Do you promise that we shall be free from the likes of him?" He spat in the direction of Merek, "Do you swear to protect us from those like him, to be the shield we need, to aid us, to protect myself and my loved ones?"
"I do…" Eragon vowed solemnly eyes staring directly into the man's.
… to lead them to a better life where there is no Mad Kings to force them into chains or servitude… where there is no tyranny… only peace… to free my people… to Rise… That is my Oath.
The man knelt, head bowed. "Than I shall join you," he declared, "You broke my chains and shattered by shackles… you freed me, so now I shall join you and your cause."
Eragon smiled at him warmly, offering him a hand to which the man graciously accepted and the Rider helped the former slave to his feet. The others knelt as well and Eragon gave them a hand to help them to their feet. He might be their leader, but he was still one of them and always would be. The Varden taught him that, all pieces of the puzzle that made up the army was important, a common foot soldier was the same as someone in the cavalry, a captain to a general, a general to a grunt. They were all his people, the people of the Empire, his home, his ruthlessly cruel home ruled by a madman with the strength of dragons behind him.
He too had that strength though greatly minuscule compared to the Black Rider. But now he had a new strength, these individuals who had knelt before him, vows of fealty on their lips. Though small in numbers, soon they would grow until an army stood behind him, ready to overthrow the Empire and her King.
Will you tell them your true identity, Eragon? Saphira asked sharply, seeing the positives and the dangers to revealing such information.
I must, for how can they hope to follow and trust me with their lives when I cannot trust them with my own name? Immun has offered them asylum from the City Guard, I shall reveal my true identity there and tell them of Utgard.
What of Ronan and Bjartkoü? The dragon asked curiously.
Eragon hesitated with that, his students must be kept secret until they had no other choice, and for their own safety he would not inform his followers until they reached the safe haven that was Utgard. In due time, Saphira. In due time.
Eragon stood up proudly, eyes gazing over the faces of his followers with pride burning in his heart. The son of Morzan was proud to see these men and women, who had been sold like cattle and broken, rise up as one.
Immun's men would scour the city for slaves and break their chains, with Eragon leading them. The charts of slave routes and those who owned other human beings would be a great help for them, and soon these ten would become something greater.
For now Eragon's own rebellion was fifteen strong, if he included himself, Saphira, his students and Arya, but their numbers would only grow larger and stronger as the days passed. The times for hiding in the Spine had passed, Eragon Shadeslayer and Saphira Bjartskular had finally returned to the rebellion they had fought for, but instead of the terms of the Council of Elders, Nasuada and King Orrin the Rider and his dragon now fought on their own terms.
The Fall is over, Saphira. The Rise has come.
Kuro Hasu – Black Lotus
Blödhren – Blood Oath
Ren - Oath
Wyrdfell – The Forsworn
Brisingr – Fire
Jierda – Break
I'm rather proud of this chapter really, it's my first ever time writing something so revolutionary before, so I hope it was to every ones liking. Since today is my birthday I thought I'd treat all of you guys with this chapter. Tell me if you guys enjoyed the chapter, I might have rushed the ending but I wanted to update it on my birthday so I might go back and make a few minor details like grammar and spelling. Also, poor Saphira, we all know why she feels so guilty when she can't tell Eragon the truth about his father due to her vows, that puts her in a rather emotionally painful situation.