Japan in Alagaësia

The Torch of War

The Torch of War

Randolf gripped his axe tightly, his knuckles turning white. He looked at his brother, and their gazes met. No words needed to be said. The time had come. At long last, the time had come.

His emotions swelled further as he took the final step across the hallway to the door. He swung his axe against the door with all his might as he let loose decades of suppressed rage. Next to him his brother let out a cry of pure fury, his hammer smashing the wall.

The door buckled and Randolf raised his arms for another strike. Finally, the door shattered completely, and he felt his heart soar in anticipation, his breaths ragged. And there, in the corner of the sparse inn room, he found the figure of abomination, embodying everything wicked in the world, and everything he had ever hated. It looked a little different than in his memories, but he could recognize evil for what it was, and his blood boiled.

The abomination cried repugnantly and its mouth flapped as savage lispings filled the room, its arms flailing. With a roar, Randolf charged the barbarian, his arms moving on impulse as memories overcame him—

His mother and father impaled and impaled and impaled with spears as he and his brother ran. The barbarians laughing, their sickening cackles plaguing his dreams night after night after night—

His arms struck down as something wet splattered his face.

Plumes of smoke rising from his village in the distance. He patted his sobbing brother, unable to find any words of comfort. "Will anyone avenge them?" his brother rasped.

He could scarcely see through the wetness in his eyes as he chopped unrelentingly at the demon of his past.

His few friends rotting from the black sickness. The barbarians had followed him so far, to bereave him once more, and he wept and laughed. The barbarians had found him; he had found the barbarians.

He was vaguely aware of his brother forcefully shoving him aside, and the justice of the hammer replaced that of the axe.

"We will," he told his brother as the sun rose above the smoke.

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Eragon gagged as the sweet smell of death assaulted his senses, the hairs standing up on the back of his neck as he and Brom quietly stalked the dark streets of Teirm. The deathly city had been eerie during the day, and without the shelter of the sun the eeriness had turned into terror. The darkness felt threatening, suffocating, as if it was the miasma itself. Was the very darkness dangerous? It had the color of the black sickness...

Eragon felt the calming presence of Saphira in his mind, and he breathed somewhat easier.

"Jeod," said Brom as they were met with a figure in what looked like a part of the city that was less surrounded by houses.

"I brought my rapier, and candles," informed Jeod hoarsely, his face gaunt under the light. "We should make haste." They started walking toward the castle.

"Something is troubling you," observed Brom. "Has the situation surrounding the watchmen changed?"

"It hasn't. Our endeavor should be of little risk." He sighed. "Ill-feelings toward the nihonjin have grown further with the plague. People seek retribution. I've heard rumors about... killings." For some reason, Jeod sounded troubled.

"You want to return to them as soon as possible," surmised Brom. He too sounded troubled. Eragon held his tongue, gnashing his teeth.

"Let us apply ourselves fully to the coming task, and make quick work of it," said Jeod.