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The Last Scion
By : RotSeele
Category: A through F > Eragon
Views: 5098 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Eragon. I do not make any money from this story.
Chapter List
- 9
- 10
- 11
A Scion is Born
Murtagh made a quick stop by his chamber to get one more item for his sword before he was led by several young Fel toward the forge. The room was wide and cavernous, a wide floor for the forge below a high wall full of seats. These seats were filled by Fel and Murtagh was able to pick out Eragon, Yozh, and Norezha in the first and foremost row, closest to the arena floor. His three attendants left him waiting in the shadows and Murtagh felt Thorn’s familiar presence in his head. Soon, the red dragon was beside him, dwarfed by cavern, but still the dragon towered over his Rider.
Thorn’s crimson eyes closed halfway as he watched the forge fires flare to life. -What do we do now?-
Murtagh tightened his hands around the six items he held. -We forge a sword.-
-How?-
-I don’t know.- Murtagh watched as the Stone Maiden arrived and took the empty seat beside Eragon. -We’ll figure it out.-
-I hope so. Are you ready?-
-No.-
But Murtagh strode out anyway. The cavern was silent and still, the only real noises the hissing of the fire, their breathing, and their footsteps.
Not knowing the first thing about creating a sword, Murtagh stalled for time by arranging the materials he had been given. Then he stood beside the fire, on the left side of the anvil and hammer as Thorn stood on the opposite side and watched him. Murtagh let out the breath he’d been holding and picked up the twin not-silver bars. He crossed them before him and looked up into Thorn’s eyes. Those crimson orbs sharpened and Murtagh felt himself drawn into their depths. His arms lifted, and the metal hissed as the heat of the flames melted it. Still connected with Thorn, Murtagh pulled on the heavy gloves that would protect his flesh and let out a soft breath. Thorn echoed him. Then, Murtagh’s perspective changed.
Murtagh found himself looking through Thorn’s eyes, his vision lit up in bright hues of red, less so of blue and green and the other colours, and Thorn found himself looking through his Rider’s eyes, and both stared out through their own eyes. It was a strange experience for the both of them. But they understood. Their breath became one, their hearts beat as one, and every minute movement was felt by the other. Then Thorn opened his mind to Murtagh.
-I am Maeglin, descendant of Bid’Daum, my sire, and Nimki, my dam. I’m the dragon of Estel and his friend and brother above all else. To you, Estel, I give the knowledge of my fathers and mothers. To you, Estel, I give my heart.-
Murtagh replied, “I am Estel, son of Morzan and Selena. I’m the Rider of Maeglin, and his friend and brother above all else. To you, Maeglin, I give my love, my protection, and my life. To you, Maeglin, I give my heart.”
Neither knew who lifted the human’s hands, but they were moving together, in tandem, on a deep, deep level neither knew where the other began and ended. The now-liquid silver was brought out of the fire, steaming and molten, and it poured loose onto the anvil, but didn’t spill. Like a giant blob of mercury, the blob waited for the hammer strike.
Time meant nothing to Murtagh and Thorn, the only noise being the hammer as Murtagh forged a sword from the information Thorn supplied him. The blade took shape, a curved scimitar with a folded blade to make the metal strong. The edges became sharp, sharp enough to accidentally cut through Murtagh’s glove and sample his blood. He didn’t notice. The blade began to become as red as Thorn’s scales, iridescent and humming with spells the pair subconsciously imbued it with. The red blade slid into a waiting water barrel and as the steam cloud rose, Murtagh took up his father’s hilt, cutting off the wrappings and pulling out the ruby in the pommel, and melted that down along with the large scale.
When those came out as liquid of the same consistency as the sword’s metal had, Murtagh mixed the gold and bronze and began to construct a hilt. The bronze scale took on the shape of a wing, and that would shield his hand should a strike be made to his fingers. Zar’roc’s hilt took on a gentler, less cruel shape with a crossguard meant for deflection and a wide space between it and the pommel where Murtagh placed the star opal. The last ingredient he had to deal with were the red, leather-like scales given to him by Thorn’s birth mother.
Thorn lowered his head then and breathed on the scales. They shimmered with his magic, and grew together, elongating until they had become a single long strip. This Murtagh wound around the grip and pommel of the sword, and Thorn adhered the red scale leather to the hilt. Together, they drew out the red scimitar blade and held it aloft. The widest part of the blade was as wide as Murtagh’s hand from the heel of his palm to his index finger and it thinned to a span of a few inches where the blade would join the hilt. Thorn let out another breath, and Murtagh whispered words even he didn’t understand as he brought the sword and hilt together to complete the piece. The blade glowed a soft fiery hue and Murtagh traced runes onto the crossguard with his finger. Then Thorn retreated from the innermost depths of Murtagh’s mind and the young human did the same. They were once more separate, but as they gazed at each other, they knew that a part of them had been left behind within the other.
Murtagh’s attention fell then to his creation. The red-bladed scimitar favoured his many styles, double-edged for cutting and slashing, with a guard when he used his hand, and a wide crossguard for defense as well as quick movement and the ability to disengage on the fly. Aware that the Fel watched him, Murtagh lifted the weapon for all to see and bowed to his teachers.
He noticed Yozh lean to whisper in Eragon’s ear and the elf replied before he rose. He reappeared on the ground floor with Bid’Daum beside him, and when they stopped before Murtagh, the elf held out a sheath for Murtagh’s new sword.
“You’ve learned all I can teach you.” Eragon said as Murtagh took the sheath and slid his sword home. “You’ve become a master in your own right, and now the world shall know. Kneel.”
Numbly, Murtagh did so, watching Thorn bow his head before Bid’Daum. Eragon reached down and took hold of Murtagh’s chin, tilting the human’s head up. He touched the tip of a deep, deep black charcoal stick to Murtagh’s face, drawing lightly on the left side as he spoke.
“You’ve completed your final test, Murtagh son of Morzan.” The elf said as he drew the charcoal stick over his skin. “You know what it means to be a Dragon Rider. As such, you’ll be the hope of the world. Stand now Murtagh, as the last Scion to walk the land. Take upon you the name az Ahir-Enei, and name your sword so that it may be added to the lines of history.”
Blinking, Murtagh rose and stared at his former teacher. Only one name came to mind for his weapon. He took a breath and said, “Celeb’sûl. The sword’s name is Celeb’sûl.”
Eragon’s blue eyes held surprise. Murtagh shivered. “What?” he asked.
“Ironic.” Eragon said with a smile.
Bid’Daum rumbled. -It’s not every day the student names his weapon the same as the teacher’s.-
Murtagh flushed. Eragon laughed. “Don’t worry so much about it! Now, come rest. I’m afraid you don’t have much longer with us, and the Fel, I’m sure, have their own parting gifts for you.”
He followed his former master from the forge to the elf’s own chambers. They stayed long enough for the human to wash ash and soot off his kin and dress in riding leathers made of hard, dark leather that was as hard as dragon scales. As they were Fel-made, Murtagh knew the clothing wouldn’t fail him. He had no armour, no encumbering articles, able to move swiftly if needed and fight if pressed. Then, Eragon brought Murtagh out of the city entirely, to the familiar open space the two dragons had used to take off and land. Thorn waited, bearing a black leather saddle gilded in silver stitching. Pride flooded their link. Murtagh smiled.
-What is it?- He asked.
Thorn preened. -I have been given Bid’Daum’s own saddle!-
Murtagh nearly fell. -Really?-
-Really.- Bid’Daum rumbled. -Now that you are a Scion, it’s only proper you have a Scion’s saddle.-
“Times will be hard out there.” Eragon said, gaining Murtagh’s attention. “You’ll learn of your new powers and abilities as you fly.”
Murtagh nodded. He reached up behind him and touched Celeb’sûl’s hilt where the sword rested on the small of his back on a slight diagonal, but mostly horizontal, tilt. “It’s our time to fight. But we can’t do it alone.”
-You won''t be alone.- Bid’Daum said. -A true Rider is never alone.-
The great white dragon turned his head and watched Yozh lead three others in a sort of train toward Murtagh. On a patch of white furs held by the three Fel lay a sheathed sword. Murtagh reached out and lifted the sword, gasping softly at the feel of it. It was light but strong, an extension of his body as his Rider’s blade was, a sword meant for fighting in tight skirmishes.
Yozh smiled. “Keep it by you, and it von’t fail you. De Fel magicks aren’t as strong as de God-magicks but dey vill aid you.”
Norezha stepped forward then, giving Murtagh a backpack of plain cloth. “In dis you vill find my gifts along vith all else you vill need. In here is my last lesson to you, read it vhen you can, and add your own story vhen de time is right.”
Lastly, Eragon himself came forward and handed Murtagh first an Elvish dagger which Murtagh strapped to his right thigh, then an ebony-wood bow with a quiver full of silver-fletched arrows which Murtagh held on his back, and the special pouch for the Eldunari. Murtagh swallowed his pride and hugged Eragon. “I’ll return.”
“We know.” Replied the elf as he returned the hug. “And we’ll welcome your stories as an addition to the Library. Now,” the elf stepped back and gestured to Thorn, “fly swiftly, Estel, for time is against you now.”
Murtagh nodded and moved to pull himself into the saddle on Thorn’s back. He strapped his legs down and pressed his palm to Thorn’s neck. “Let’s go.”
Thorn let out a triumphant roar and spread his wings, tamping his hind legs down to send him and his Rider skyward. With a few hard flaps, Thorn rose high and angled east, flying toward the Beor Mountains. He too felt the desire to turn back, but he shook himself.
-Don’t worry Murtagh. We’ll come back. I will show Saphira Bid’Daum!-
-And she’ll cower before her grandsire like she should.- Murtagh patted Thorn’s neck with a smile and focused his eyes on the horizon. He knew if he looked back now, he would lose his resolve. They flew for hours over terrain that was familiar and yet foreign, the landscape dotted by burned out villages and signs of war. Of the Varden Murtagh saw no sign, and they were careful to keep out of sight of the Empire soldiers. Thorn kept an ever-watchful eye out for Saphira and the green dragon. While both agreed it was unlikely the youngest of the three dragons had hatched, they weren’t sure if what they agreed upon was true.
They landed close to dusk but Murtagh wouldn’t risk a campfire, not as long as they were still within the boundaries of the Empire. So instead, he used Thorn’s vision, melding them together so synonymously that the dragon could keep watch while Murtagh read. At first the words were foreign to him, but as he remembered his training, he came to understand the Old Elvish and found a note in Norezha’s scrawling hand.
-Estel,- it said, -by now you are far from home. Do not despair. Within you lies a great but quiet strength, a strength that will draw others to you. This is my gift to you. Read it, understand it, and then add your own adventure. May we meet again. Norezha.-
“Miss them already.” Murtagh whispered.
Thorn drew his gaze away from the black skies and stars to look at his Rider. -We’ll see them again.-
Murtagh smiled. “I know.” Then, he opened the cover and began to read.
Thorn nudged him awake at dawn and, yawning, Murtagh packed his belongings and climbed into the saddle. They flew in silence, Murtagh dwelling on the preface and first chapter of what he had read. He turned his gaze to the pack that rested behind him on the saddle and thought of the author, his namesake, Estel.
-Not all swords are made of steel and iron, I suppose.- Murtagh thought. How many copes of this have been made? How many were destroyed? If all knew of this, Eragon wouldn’t be the only one hailed as a hero. But the fact was no one knew of Estel, or his deeds. No one knew of Nimki and her Rider. Just Eragon. And probably, Eragon had wanted it that way, to protect his friends.
They flew into the Hadarac under the cover of darkness, able to see the tiny pinpricks of light that were the Varden’s campfires. Thorn angled higher, into the blacker skies and few clouds so he wouldn’t be spotted. Neither saw Saphira nor Eragon, but they knew the pair still lived for there were signs of their presence. Thorn beat his wings and soared toward the Beor Mountains.
Close to dawn the third day, the red dragon landed within the mountains in a stony vale. Both their stomachs rumbled, and they agreed now would be a good chance to eat. Murtagh pulled off Thorn’s saddle and allowed the red to hunt what he could. The red recalled an image of a tasty mountain goat and launched himself into the air, leaving the Scion alone in the vale. Murtagh gathered enough debris to create a small fire and warmed up some dried meat and fruit for himself. It was tasteless and stuck to the roof of his mouth, but it was hot and it filled him with the energy he would need. Then he turned to retrieve Estel’s book and froze.
A boot scuffed on stone. He knew he hadn’t imagined it.
Pretending to still shuffle through his pack, Murtagh took hold of the hilt of his Fel sword and dodged to the side as an axe buried itself in the bark of the tree, inches from his skull. Had he been any slower, he’d have been stuck to the tree as well.
The wind whispered a warning and Murtagh fell into a dodge roll, coming to his feet with the Fel blade unsheathed. His eyes sought his enemy, thinking it to be a human or Urgal or even elf. Then he cursed and backpedaled as another axe came to bury itself in the stone at his feet. To Murtagh’s surprise out of the brush came a much more compact body, the dwarf glaring at Murtagh with blazing slate-grey eyes, another, larger axe ready to cleave Murtagh’s head in twain.
Murtagh stared down at his small opponent, and danced back as the dwarf came on, swinging his axe for a sure kill. The Fel blade connected with the axe’s in a shower of sparks, but each held and did not fail their masters. Murtagh swung his arm in a circle, adding strength by using two hands, and swung the axe wide. He slammed his boot into the dwarf’s face and leapt away, circling to a distance that favoured his own reach.
The dwarf snarled and lunged.
He was young, by dwarf standards, with thick blond hair pulled back into a pigtail braid and a beard just on the cusp of being full-fledged. Still, for all his youth, he swung his axe like a veteran warrior and knew the art of battle. Murtagh found himself more on the defensive than he would’ve liked, but he didn’t want to kill the dwarf.
He blocked a downward slash and pinned the axe to the ground. “I have no quarrel with you, master dwarf.” Murtagh said.
The dwarf snarled and disengaged from Murtagh, managing to slam the flat of his axe-head into Murtagh’s chest. Despite having his breath knocked out of him, Murtagh managed to keep away from that deadly axe.
Rescue came in the form of a great red claw, batting the dwarf away from Murtagh as easily as a cat bats around a ball of yarn. Thorn took a deep breath and roared loudly in the dwarf’s face, a sound that rattled even Murtagh’s bones. The dwarf promptly fell back, his diminutive body no match for the dragon. With the dwarf subdued, Murtagh sheathed his Fel blade and moved to Thorn’s side.
“Relax,” he whispered to the leviathan. “I’m all right.”
Thorn snarled. -Don’t tell me to relax! The little beast was trying to kill you!-
Now Murtagh’s gaze fell on the dwarf. “I hope you have a good reason for trying to kill me, master dwarf. Otherwise, I think he’s going to eat you.”
The dwarf licked his lips and stared up into the crimson eyes of the dragon and the dark, stern eyes of his Rider.
- 9
- 10
- 11
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The Last Scion	By : RotSeele Category: A through F > Eragon Views: 5098 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Eragon. I do not make any money from this story.

The Last Scion