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Posted 17 November 2009 - 03:56 PM
For those of you that have read my other work, welcome back.
And for those of you that are new, hey!
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I really enjoyed writing my other bit, however it just kind of died on me, and so anyone reading it, I recomend only the first half up to before greenie hatches .
So with this in mind, I decided to try my hand at a Book 4. I can't say it will be finished either, but I'm going to try my best.
It picks up a few days after the battle of Feinster, but not directly after - I'm going to say about a week - and as of yet is un-named.
All the chapter titles will be in the Ancient Language, and anyone who can tell me what it means first, will win a chance to ask a question about anything; me or the story.
Thats about it really - so enjoy. Critique away (I know C-levels went out the window, but around about a C4/5 would be me ideal level of crit.)
Contents
Chapter One; Du Solus Chetowa Vardar Fenister
Chapter Two; Vinr Sem Eka Weohnata Tauthr
Chapter Three; Du Brisingr Raudhr Eldrvorya Wiol On
Chapter Four; Du Vindr Galeya Abr Alfrs Gata
Chapter Five; Ai Orum Raudhr Ai Du Solus Celobreya Du Alagaesia
Chapter Six; Sundavar sum Stydja
Book 4 - Bromsson
Chapter One; Du Solus Chetowa Vardar Feinster
(Chapter One; The Morning Sun Watches Over Feinster)
The walls of Feinster were cast in a deep shadow; the blood that bathed them seemed silky black. The moon smiled down at the scene of carnage that met her eyes, and her star-children winked and glittered in laughter for the fall of Feinster was a welcome victory. The dust that had been kicked up the previous day was settling; rather like the life that teemed and thrived inside the market town. Children were abed; blacksmiths and iron mongers, stall-owners and merchants were returning home; and the second shift of soldiers took their turn at watch. Even those soldiers who had fought as enemies; brother against brother; now stood, sharing the peace and serenity of the night with their erstwhile opponents.
The keep of Feinster Castle still stool, tall and opposing, thrusting upwards into the sky; a constant reminder of success and a paternal eye over the surrounding lands. The Varden force that had swept northwards with the intent of laying siege to the mighty castle; mirroring the movements of a warm wind was blowing southwards. A lone leaf was caught in this breeze and it swirled and spiralled in a secret dance, known only to those with the eyes to see it.
And there was one such set of eyes watching.
The cobbled paves of Feinster whispered of light feet and swift strides as a lone figure sneaked through the streets. The grass whispered of their passing; a silent silhouette who stalked the shadows. The figure was heading to a low rise just north of the town. Any guards watching would have noticed an unnaturally straight line of dust rise from the ground, before sinking back to the ground.
And still the leaf danced.
The figure stopped in the lea of the hillock and spread their arms out, letting the wind wash over them. The wind smelled of home and of hearth; of trees and of earth. It tasted of clear air and clearer water; while those eyes that saw, noticed it tracing the outline of the mysterious dance that everyone partakes in; and yet few know of its existence.
To Arya, that wind encompassed her journey to this point – an unfinished one. Watching the leaf float where the wind took it, she mused on how far the piece of foliage had travelled, and how far it had still to go. The moonlight played of each tiny ridge and the starlight shone through each vein on the dappled surface of the leaf. The orange hue was dulled somewhat, and the three major digits were torn and tattered; but to Arya, the leaf represented the fate of Alagaesia; so delicate, that a strong buffet of wind would send it spiralling off course. It was impossible to see how Alagaesia would survive, so thin was the knife edge that the country now rested on.
Arya watched the leaf and felt a measure of peace. This leaf had made the migration from far to the North, or maybe even The Spine. This leaf had undertaken the journey from source to sea, along the rivers and valleys; across the deserts and wastelands; across the mountains and out, to lands unknown, pushed by even the tiniest gust of wind. So too, would the resistance force, be pushed by the smallest glimmer of hope.
The shadows lengthened, and then, in their turn, shortened. Arya could sense the sunrise long before it arrived, but still she did not return. An orange hue painted the sky red and caste a pink tinge to the surrounding countryside. For the first time since arriving at Feinster, Arya took stock of the landscape that surrounded her. The fast-becoming orange sky gave the yellow corn an over-ripe tinge. The labourers having not yet risen, the wind continued to sway the stalks. However, there was something not right about this visage; something that might be overlooked by the casual observer.
The fields closest to the castle (of which there were many) were broken and churned up; a clear sign that a battle had raged previously. Indeed, any ear of corn that had not been cut down, trodden on or ripped up had a smattering of deep-red blood across it. Where they had once stood proud and regimented, the fields now drew a breath of sadness from Arya. The damage, which before had been guessed at, was now in full view. The rows of freshly turned earth studded with foot prints were dark in contrast to the sun-baked dust.
As the sun rose and blinked across the horizon Arya turned her back on the fields of the dead and wandered back to Feinster itself. Her road was neither crooked nor straight, but followed the same meandering path that a river follows on its way to the sea.
Only as she arrived at the gaping hole that had been created in Feinster’s wall was she challenged.
‘What ho’! Who here seeks entrance into Feinster?’
The guard who had shouted was of middle build; stout but broad. He had obviously been farming stock, and Arya guessed that his father, and his father before him, had tilled the land that now stood in ruin. Arya also guessed that he had been pressed into joining Feinster’s army when Galbatorix had forced Lady Lorana, Feinster’s governess, into service. His partner on the battlements was more solider like, however, he too, looked more like a farmer and less like the battle scared veterans of the Varden army. Each had the crest of Feinster emblazoned on their chests, and the one that had shouted did so with an equal mixture of pride and defiance.
‘I do here seek entrance; for I dwell inside her walls.’ Arya called back, matching his formal tone with some reluctance. She hated the convoluted way elves talked, and when humans tried to match it, it bordered on annoying. Arya craned her neck and looked skywards, shielding her eyes from the sun that made the soldiers little more than shadows against a blue back-drop.
‘What business have you here? For, as I see, you stand outside our walls now.’
Arya raised her eyebrow before saying in a strong voice
‘I have fought for and against Feinster; as her ally and her enemy. I was one of the many who breached her walls in order to restore peace to this land. I am an ambassador for the elves, and a commander for the Varden, and I ask you to grant me passage.’
Arya saw the two soldiers conversing on whether to believe her, and heard them debating whether to let her in. After a few moments of the tedious to-and-froing of the argument, Arya considered simply scaling the walls and appearing before them on the ramparts. However, the second soldier spared her the trouble.
‘Are you Lady Arya?’ His voice was gruffer and more direct that his partners, and Arya took an immediate like to his to-the-point attitude.
‘Aye.’ She called back, ‘And I have business within your walls.’
‘That you do.’ The second soldier replied, ‘For the Lady Nasuada has called a meet, and bid you attend.’
The first soldier called down to his friends on the gate, and, with a grating noise, similar to that of two ill-fitting cogs crunching together, the heavy iron portcullis lifted, and the solid oak draw-bridge fell into place.
‘May your business fare you well, Lady Arya.’ Called one of the guards that worded the gate.
By now, the sun was well up, and the uninhibited blue sky shone down on a happy and lively market square. In the centre of this square stood a red pavilion, with three of its four walls raised and tied back, allowing the cooling breeze to waft smells in and out.
From her vantage point a little way down the road, Arya could see a table laden with small figures and flags that many men in clanking armour jostled around. She heard snatches of conversation that seemed to be at odds with each other.
‘Strike now …’
‘… Recuperate … allowing restock’
‘Ensuring the harvest …’
‘Profitable.’
Arya moved on, intrigued, for whatever Nasuada had called this meeting for, it was not to debate the profitability of the harvest. What’s more, the closer Arya got, the more she could see that Eragon, Saphira and Roran were missing.
This meeting, would indeed be interesting.
This post has been edited by darkangel447: 21 November 2009 - 12:09 PM
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