Luminescent (Inheritance Cycle and Beyond)

Chapter Twenty-Five: Iridescent

Eragon and I coughed as Saphira descended through the layers of smoke, angling toward the Jiet River, which was hidden behind the haze. The Jiet River lay before us, as thick and puffy as a gorged snake, its crosshatched surface reflecting the same ghastly hue that pervaded the Burning Plains. Even when a splotch of undiluted light happened to fall upon the river, the water appeared chalky white, opaque and opalescent—almost as if it were the milk of some fearsome beast—and seemed to glow with an eerie luminescence all its own.

Two armies were arrayed along the eastern banks of the oozing waterway. To the south were the Varden and the men of Surda, entrenched behind multiple layers of defense, where they displayed a beautiful panoply of woven standards, ranks of proud tents, and the picketed horses of King Orrin's cavalry. Eragon and I opened our minds, and when sudden panic ran through the men below, Eragon stopped the arrows heading our way.

"Letta orya thorna!" The arrows froze in place. With a flick of his wrist and the word "Gánga," he redirected them, sending the darts boring toward the no-man' s-land, where they could bury themselves in the barren soil without causing harm. He missed one arrow, though, which was fired a few seconds after the first volley.

I leaned to the right and snatched the arrow from the air as Saphira flew past it. Only a hundred feet above the ground, Saphira flared her wings to slow her steep descent before alighting first on her hind legs and then her front legs as she came to a running stop among the Varden's tents.

"Werg," Orik growled, loosening the thongs that held his legs in place. "I'd rather fight a dozen Kull than experience such a fall again."

He let himself hang off one side of the saddle, then dropped to Saphira's foreleg below and, from there, to the ground. Even as Eragon dismounted, dozens of warriors with awestruck expressions gathered around Saphira. Eragon looked up at me with a smirk as he waited for me to jump down.

"This is not funny, Eragon, not funny at all." I hissed as I jumped from Saphira, he caught me and set me on my feet.

"Whatever you say Mal," Eragon responded as Fredric, the Varden's weapon master from Farthen Dûr, still garbed in his hairy ox-hide armor approached us.

"Come on, you slack-jawed louts!" Fredric roared. "Don't stand here gawking; get back to your posts, or I'll have the lot of you chalked up for extra watches!" At his command, the men began to disperse with many grumbled words.

"Welcome, Shadeslayer. You've arrived just in time... I can't tell you how ashamed I am you were attacked. The honor of every man here has been blackened by this mistake. Were the four of you hurt?"

"No." Relief spread across Fredric's face.

"Well, there's that to be grateful for. I've had the men responsible pulled from duty. They'll each be whipped and reduced in rank.... Will that punishment satisfy you, Rider?" I cringed as Fredric's words while Eragon responded.

"I want to see them,"

"If you'd follow me, then, sir." He led us through the camp to a striped command tent where twenty or so miserable-looking men were divesting themselves of their arms and armor under the watchful eye of a dozen guards. At the sight of us, the prisoners all went down on one knee and remained there, gazing at the ground.

"Hail, Shadeslayer!" The prisoners yelled.

"You should be proud that you reacted so quickly to our appearance. If Galbatorix attacks, that's exactly what you should do, though I doubt arrows would prove any more effective against him than they were against Saphira and me. I only ask that, in the future, you take a moment to identify your target before shooting. Next time I might be too distracted to stop your missiles. Am I understood?"