Instead of Arya, I prefer her mom (Chapter 20) (Patreon)

Somehow, that next morning, the atmosphere was even worse than the night before. Eragon found himself walking on eggshells around both Cedric and Brom. Unable to do anything about it, he was only too glad when the time came to mount Saphira, taking to the skies.

‘I don’t like him.’

Soaring above the clouds, savoring the rushing wind, the sunshine and the sight of Alagesia stretching below him, he almost missed his companion’s mutterings. As for ‘who’ she didn’t like, Eragon had no trouble guessing.

‘Cedric’s a little… strange, and I know he confronted you last night, but if it were me, I also wouldn’t have been happy-…’

Before he could finish, Saphira did the mental equivalent of snapping at him. From her, he sensed irritability, impatience and strong dislike. The intensity of her emotions somewhat disturbed him.

‘I’m not a simpleton, Eragon! You need not lecture me like one of your elders would a child.’

Stunned, he could only cling to his harness, projecting his confusion at her. Why was she acting like this?

It was a moment or two before Saphira calmed down, conveying a sense of apology.

‘The red one gives me a bad feeling. He reminds me of… one of those things.’

What followed was a mental image of a stick-like insect with a swollen abdomen, a drop of ruby blood sliding down its long mouth-parts. It was a particularly nasty type of mosquito, found in the Spine during the warmer seasons, and one not dissimilar in appearance from a big, flying tick.

Eragon didn’t know what to say. How did Cedric make such a bad impression on her, while she was practically inseparable from Brom? It made no sense.

‘…tell me the truth, Saphira. Did Brom say something bad about Cedric? Is that why you dislike him?’

Some dissatisfaction welled in his chest. He had precious few friends as it was—Roran, being his cousin, didn’t count, leaving only Horst’s two sons. However, while Eragon’s relationship with Albriech and Baldor were friendly, it was superficial.

Cedric could be counted as his closest friend, and the only person aside from Brom who knew the truth. He still remembered the young mage’s forthright treatment of him, when Eragon suddenly found his secret exposed; how Cedric helped him cope with his life turning upside down.

‘Do you truly see me as one so easily influenced, Eragon? A hatchling who can’t think for herself?’

Her response made his brows furrow, his legs tensing against her sides.

‘Then please explain your reasoning to me. From my perspective, your opinion makes little sense. I doubt last night’s incident is the reason for your dislike of him, so tell me, how did he offend you?’

‘Don’t pretend ignorance with me, Eragon—your memory isn’t so short! Not two nights ago, you confronted him over his treatment of me! He believes me no more than a beast!’

‘You two are practically strangers, and he isn’t connected to you like I am, nor does he have knowledge of dragons like Brom! Can you blame him for not understanding? Perhaps if you want his opinion of you two improve, you should reach out to him, attempt to have a conversation-…!’

Before long, the two were quarreling like an old married couple, trailing far enough behind Brom and Cedric to observe them, but not be seen by travelers. They were on their way to the town of Yazuac, to resupply and rest.

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The village was eerily silent as they entered—Cedric, Brom and Eragon together. The latter had dismounted from Saphira, still irritable from their argument, and wanting to take some time to clear his head.

They entered on foot, Brom holding the horses’ reins. He was surprisingly good with animals. Cedric supposed that, given his poor people-skills, he must be making up for it in different aspects.

“Why is it so… quiet? There’s nobody around…”

Eragon found himself whispering involuntarily, turning his head this way and that, searching between the houses. It was Brom who replied, Cedric continuing to sit in silence.

“Hmm… there aren’t any dogs barking, and someone should’ve seen us by now.”

The concern in his voice was clear as day. Lagging slightly behind him and Eragon, the young mage watched Brom with narrowed eyes. Thinking about it, the old rider’s inability to detect the urgals was suspicious. Why didn’t he use his mind to recon the village?

Eragon’s eyes flitted around nervously.

“Then why isn’t anyone coming out?”

“Could be afraid. Just for safety’s sake, let’s go around the side.”

As Brom spoke, he unsheathed his own blade, a two-and-a-half foot work of plain steel. Za’roc had already been handed over to Eragon some time ago, and the young rider gripped it nervously, looking about as afraid of it as any danger they might face.

On foot, they quietly made their way around the village, entering cautiously. The main street was entirely empty, and the buildings were dark and foreboding, with many windows shattered. Some doors swung on broken hinges.

Making their way toward the town square, Eragon’s face paled, his throat moving dryly.

“Oh no…”

In the center of the cobblestoned market, a pile of corpses rose into the air; stiff and contorted, like a dead flesh grown into a bramble. Slaughtered men were collapsed over women they tried to protect, and mothers still held their children. However, their mortal bodies proved poor shields against black-tipped arrows, sprouting from the dead like quills on a hedgehog.

Worst of all was a barbed spear, stuck in the center like a flag of conquest. And on its tip, a pale, bloodless infant was impaled, the weapon piercing its back and bursting from its chest.

Faced with such a horrific sight, a shroud of despair settled over the party of three. Brom’s teeth was bared like an animal, his fingers digging into the hilt of his blade. Eragon wept openly.

In the rear, Cedric’s face was blank as an unmarked gravestone.

When a crow dipped from the sky, its dark eyes fixing greedily on the dead child, a roar suddenly exploded from Eragon’s chest. He rushed forward, waving his sword wildly until it was scared off, scattering feathers as the crow disappeared into the sky.

Before either Cedric or Brom could react, Eragon all but collapsed to his knees, crying and retching onto the ground. The old rider clenched his jaw, tendons standing starkly under his skin, and hurried over.

Patting his secret-son on the back, he spoke gently.

“Maybe you should wait for us outside Yazuac.”

“… who… could have… done this…?”

Calmly brushing Eragon’s shoulder-length hair out of his face, Brom took a waterskin and a rag from somewhere, handing it to him.

“Urgals. The spears and arrows—it’s their work. There must’ve been a company of them, a hundred perhaps. It’s… odd. They don’t usually gather in such numbers.”

Cedric watched them from behind, his eyes dead. It didn’t feel good, seeing… all of it. Not at all.

However, did he regret it? Was he apologetic for playing his part, being an accomplice in the deaths of so many? No, he wasn’t. That fact was a far greater source of discomfort than such a revolting sight, and knowing the horror those people must’ve lived through.

Though the truth was never so… evident, he’d long since known himself—when he’d dissected living creatures for his experiments, and when he’d sunk his teeth into their frail, helpless minds; feeding off their vital energies as they fell, kicking and screaming, into the abyss.

Human beings, despite all their exceptional qualities, were no less frail. No less fearful in the face of death. And he’d no doubt, when they were put under the scalpel, or when he cracked open their heads, sinking his ghostly fingers into their minds, they’d scream just the same.

He would do it—if it brought him knowledge, and power. Though, perhaps he wouldn’t be so quick to subject innocent people to his ministrations…

And then it happened. While he was stunned… out of his mind. As Eragon rinsed his mouth, still shedding tears, and as Brom tended to him, wiping his face with a rag.

The two remaining Urgals attacked, seeing their prey distracted. Despite their horned, hulking forms—standing head-and-shoulders above even a tall man; grey-skinned, clad in leather and iron, and wielding their wicked, crude weapons—they emerged near soundlessly from between the ruins.

They were practically a blur as their massive figures covered the distance in an instant, their long legs carrying them farther and faster with each step than man could hope to match. Only when they were nearly on top of the three did they roar—ear-piercing, bestial cries—the sound serving as a weapon in and of itself.

In the face of such overwhelming, brute force, even a trained soldier would find themselves frozen in place. Both Eragon and Brom were caught entirely off-guard, shocked and nearly slack-jawed as they fumbled for their weapons.

Cedric… wasn’t. However he might’ve looked, there was simply no chance of him losing track of his enemies, no matter his emotional state. What did surprise him was Brom’s reaction—he half-expected the old buffoon to be acting, but his reaction was far too raw to be faked.

Unable to understand how the ex-rider could possibly find himself in such an embarrassing situation, Cedric’s amber eyes locked with the piggish, red eyes of the urgal storming at him. Almost absentmindedly, he unleashed his prepared spell.

There was a tremendous sound, like a bomb going off. The very air itself seemed to rupture, near solid waves rippling outward, tearing up the soil and throwing ruined stone and wood.

Like an industrial arc-welder discharging, a bolt of blinding plasma, bright enough to sear eyeballs, appeared. In its wake, there was a sharp smell of burning metal and ionization.

[Lighting Bolt!]

A simple spell, but a devastating one—nearly unmatched in both speed and power.

Faster than the eye could blink, the urgal was gone. One with extraordinary perception might’ve noticed it for a brief moment, picked up and thrown into the air. It flew, contorted and bowed, every muscle and tendon drawn tight to the breaking point. Tongues of blue-violet electricity licked it from top to bottom, crisping and bursting skin, searing muscle, boiling blood and cooking marrow.

A house exploded and collapsed, the electrocuted, smoldering urgal vanishing under its remains. There was no need to check whether it was dead or alive.

His ears still ringing from the thunderclap, Cedric turned his attention to his companions. He made a mental note to use less power next time, lest he blow himself up alongside his enemy.

To his great surprise, the second urgal was already engaged with Brom, fighting on despite the tables having turned. Though its bellows were mad and panicked, its blade ruthlessly sought the blood of its prey.

And blood, it found.

Somehow, Brom suffered at once a blow to the head, and a wide cut to his side. As it were, he seemed in desperate straights, barely managing to parry the urgal’s powerful blows. And Eragon, despite having Za’roc in his hand, seemed like a deer in the headlights, unable to interfere lest he get in Brom’s way.

Cedric acted quickly and decisively, attacking the urgal’s defenseless mind.

[Psychic Crush!]

It was the telepathic equivalent of ganking someone from behind, smashing them over the head with a smith’s hammer.

The urgal suddenly stiffened, its eyes rolling up into its skull. Brom didn’t waste time either, immediately realizing what’d happened. In an instant, three feet of steel was sticking out of the creature’s chest, toppling over from the force of the stab.

It struck the ground, bleeding out onto the dirt. Within the span of a few breaths, it was already dead.

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