329Don't own Eldest
I like this chapter. Just because it was for the most part already written out already in a previous chapter and I didn't have to keep up cause-and-reaction thoughts outside of the internal reflection parts. Hope you enjoy it.
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The footsteps of ten thousand men crossing the plains could have been an avalanche, it carried so much the same thunder of impending destruction. The sky above them was streaked with long sand-and-rose clouds that glowed with the warmth of the late day. The ebony of their armor had been smudged charcoal from the Burning of Dras-Leona, and their faces heavily dirtied with soot to match. They had set out the morning after the crisis, once the flames had all died down, leaving the boisterous city only a shadow of its old self. The people had appealed to them for help collecting the dead and rescuing those trapped inside collapsed houses, but the troops had their orders, and they cleared out without a backwards glance.
If any of the soldiers felt an individual guilt for their decision, they did not put voice to it. All marched in silence, eyes trained on their mounted leader at the forefront of the column. He rode alone, with the battalion at his back, his eyes on the horizon and his thoughts in the west, drifting down the Jiet with one close to his heart. The same heart that was torn.
He had lived too long in the smothering grip of the Empire, he saw now. The same liberation and ease that had come to him with the military now turned against him in his questioning hour, making him feel a fool for being so easily manipulated. Of course he couldn't stop them. The wheels were turning and the machine was in motion, unstoppable at this point. And of course he was a part of it, one of the many cogs turning in sync with those around it. He would fight, and probably die, for the Empire, he saw now. And there was not a damn thing he could do about it. They had him body and soul as securely as if they'd bound him with chains made by the very Gods above. But he was awakened, and that was enough of a release to make him feel free as a bird. It was a strange feeling, one of a man who, trapped between the tyrant and the cliff, chose the cliff as the lesser of two evils.
Now the black armor, streaked as it was with the white ash of the city of his past, weighed heavier on his shoulders than it ever had before, and he found the heat of the inside almost unbearable, confining and suffocating. Encased in metal, he thought wryly, now I truly am a gear of war.... He looked down at the sword that hang at his side, free of a sheathe that had been lost in the chaos of leaving. It sparkled in the sun, a pure shining silver, but he saw it in a different, darker light now. As he watched it, blood seeped from the hilt, dripping down the blade and drying into a thick crust that then turned to dust and fell away, leaving only the color to stain the steel. It was not truly so, he knew, but it might as well have been. Seeing his sister again had lifted the bloodlust veil from his eyes and brought him back to the truth of things. A harbinger of evils across Alagaësia, and blind to his own actions. Well, he wasn't blind anymore. Nor was he deaf to the screams that had so far escaped his notice under the smooth swish of his blade. And yet he was dumb, mouth stitched shut with iron fixings that not even the strongest willpower could release.
Garrick's metal-coated fingers tightened on the leather reins of his apocalyptic steed. He could feel the doctrine of the Empire pressing in upon his rebellious thoughts even as he rode, quelling them with thoughts of the greater good and improvements they'd wrought so far. He could not deny the good that had come of their campaigns. He'd seen warring towns quell and become peaceful at the hands of the Empire, seen harmony, and even progress throughout the land. Was he being manipulated? Or was he fighting for a cause that was in his interests as well? Something flickered behind his distant eyes as conflict broke out behind the complacent facade. And had he not personally excelled as well? He had come from nothing, had grown throughout his life as nothing, and yet here he rode, leader of ten thousand men he had once been equal to. Now he was above them. His actions had purpose, and did not simply perish in the quick passage of time. What he did and made now...it would last.
He fought for the Empire, he fought for himself, and he fought for his sister...with what he could achieve, they could be reunited in a peaceful Empire. And if he achieved further greatness, he might be able to gain influence enough to pardon her war crimes and gain her acceptance under Galbatorix's rule. She had always been adaptable, she would not remain such a rebel, he was sure. The burning at Dras-Leona, that had been personal. He felt grateful she'd actually done it. Seeing the town that had held so many miserable times for them, that had kept them apart, burn to the ground had appeased his unsatisfied will for vengeance. The night had been one of his happiest. He and Alycie had stood together, had embraced, and had watched the horrors of their childhood go down in flames.
A shrieking, unearthly roar pierced the low thunder and peace of the plains and Garrick held a hand into the air, halting the company as a flash of red swooped in front of the sun in a jet like dive out of the sky. Immediately the Captain's thoughts were in the here and now, his sword drawn, and his old irritation back in place, borderline fury. The great ruby hell sent lizard landed on all fours before him, making his horse leap and buck. Garrick calmed him with a few jerks of the reins as he turned his helmeted head to face the Rider's as the man dismounted his demonic steed and began a slow approach, his walk strong and deliberate. The sun was blocked from sight by the great silhouette of the horned creature, and the ground around it danced with gem-red reflected lights from its scales.
"What is your business, Rider?" demanded Garrick, his voice strong and steady. Almost derisive.
"My business is the king's," replied the Rider coolly. Garrick knew exactly what was coming, but he refused to bow before this man.
"As is mine," he replied, gesturing with his blade at the large dragon, "and you are hindering it! Now move your dragon!"
"The king has requested that you return to Urû'baen. he has a job for you." The voice was dead, almost bored, yet it still held an authoritative tone.
"Who is to lead the army, then?"
"I have orders to do so."
"You? You've been locked in the palace for the past half of this year and you suddenly think you can emerge as the great leader of an army?" Garrick's irritation had indeed escalated now. Why should this nobleman suddenly spring so easily into a position it had taken a year for him to attain? A traitor even. If he was a weapon, let him be used as such. Cannons, after all, do not fire the soldiers.
"The king seems to think so," the Rider replied. Garrick shook his head, raising his sword.
"The king be damned!" he shouted, kicking his horse's sides. The black horse galloped forward, whinnying at the sudden effort. Garrick's teeth were bared behind his metal mask. The Rider made no move to step aside out of the horse's path. He looked almost bored at the turn of events. A single metal hand raised as the red dragon let out a reptilian roar and Garrick heard one word.
"Jierda."
Without so much as a crunching noise, Garrick felt six of his ribs sever within his chest as though the dragon had flown at him suddenly with full force and rammed into it with its head. With a choked cry, he fell back off of his horse and hit the dusty ground, sprawled out as the pain threatened to crush him. He reached up shakily, numbly, and managed to unfasten his helmet, rolling it away as he rolled onto one arm, coughing. He opened his eyes to see streaks of blood and tasted the iron tang in his mouth. Footsteps caught his attention then and he looked past the blood to see the metal-sheathed legs of the Rider before him. The knees bent as the Rider crouched to his level, looking at him piteously, almost smug. Garrick could see two glints behind the slits in the mask, and he saw the man was staring at him unblinkingly.
"You are a bold man," he said in his deep voice, deadly serious,"but foolishly rash. Cross me again in future and I will waste no time in killing you where you stand. Do you understand me?"
"Not sure I do," muttered Garrick, clutching at his ribs and coughing into the ground once more. Something unbreakable inside him would not let him submit to this man. Any other authority figure he would have stood out of the way for, but not this man. No. He watched as the Rider's head tilted to one side.
"Look at me when you speak, Captain," he said adamantly. An order. Reluctantly, Garrick met the two glints of eyes with his own gaze, licking at the blood that continued to trickle from the corner of his mouth.
"Not sure I do understand you, Sir," he repeated loudly and slowly. The Rider snorted and shook his head.
"You must have a death wish."
"So I hear," Garrick goaded, smirking grimly. The Rider was on his feet in a second, staring down at him as though about to smash his heel down on the Captain's weak chest. Garrick stiffened, bracing for pain. But the tall man did not move, seeming almost paralyzed. For a long time they stared each other down, and soon Garrick realized that the heavy breathing he heard was not just his own.
"Stop...Stop looking with those...with those eyes..." The Rider muttered, strained. Garrick's eyes narrowed in sudden complete confusion.
"What? Would you like me to use my spares?" he asked, incredulous. As he watched, the Rider put a hand to his head and walked away, muttering inaudibly, pacing in disjointed patterns. Garrick's brow furrowed as he attempted to sit up, bracing himself on an elbow and wincing as his whole torso shot with pain. The Rider seemed suddenly lost, or mad, uncertain whether to return to his dragon or walk off away from the soldiers.
Then without warning, the Rider turned on his heel and dove at Garrick in a move too fast to anticipate and his sharp metal fist collided with Garrick's exposed face, knocking him back onto his back, his head hitting the hard dusty ground. He felt warm blood begin to course down his face as the metal fist impacted again, and again. The spiked knuckles tore at Garrick's skin, and the blunt force behind it smashed his skull against the compact dirt.
Finally, after what seemed an eternity, the blows stopped coming and Garrick faintly heard retreating footsteps.
"You'll follow me now! You three take him to Urû'baen. Keep him alive. The rest of you, keep up!"
A faint swoosh, some nearing voices of the assigned soldiers, and then the thunder began to shake the ground on which Garrick lay, and he soon fell unconscious to its rhythm.