Disclaimer: I do not own Christopher Paolini's Inheritance Cycle

You know how they say that the chances of dying in a plane crash are about one in eleven million? It might surprise you to learn that that kind of statistic isn't the greatest comfort when your plane's engines are streaming fire outside the window and you can see, by the angle of the blue horizon relative to the aeroplane's floor, that you're in a nose dive towards the sea.

I could say that, as the aeroplane scribed an arc downwards towards the blue, blue Atlantic beneath, I was calm and collected and accepted my death, regretting only the good I had not yet done while the rest of the passengers screamed their heads off. That would be a lie, though. I was screaming into my yellow plastic oxygen mask right along with them. There wasn't any space in my head for regret, between the panic, the omygodI'mgoingtodie and the oddly clear thought that it was just like me to go out as a result of getting out of bed late, missing the first flight and having to re-schedule.

"Please brace yourselves," came the calm, automated voice over the tannoy "The pilot is going to attempt a sea landing."

When the 737 finally hit the water, there was not so much a sound as there was simply an impact that crossed the borders between touch and hearing to occupy both senses. There was a long, dazed moment, and then I uncurled from my braced position, the overload of sensation being supplanted by a ringing pain in my head and hands where the latter had absorbed the impact of the former against the seat ahead of me. The floor buckled and more than one of the plastic panels in the ceiling popped free.

Groggily, I reached underneath my seat and pulled out the life-vest, thankful that at least one of the safety demonstrations had made it through to accessible memory. I pulled the yellow plastic lifejacket out and, unclipping my seatbelt and standing, put it on.

The automated voice was on the speakers again, urging the passengers to proceed in an orderly fashion to the overwing exits. Over the backs of the seats I could see a man in a white shirt struggling with the door there, before finally pulling it open.

Cold air rushed into the cabin as I - finally - managed to extricate myself from the chair and make my way into the aisle. I tried to get closer to the door, but everyone else seemed to have the same idea and it was all I could do to stay on my feet and be pushed along with the crowd. Men, women and children were disappearing out of the exits, one by one, jumping down and out of sight. I finally got there and, at the panicked urging of both the man behind me and my own fear, sat down on the edge of the door, then dropped to the wing, some six feet below.

I landed awkwardly, stumbling on the water-slick surface, before I caught my balance and began, cautiously, to walk over the wing towards the bright yellow dinghy which bobbed in the waves, riding up nearly level with the wing, before sinking down to a metre or so below.

Now that I was outside, I could see the plane sinking, bubbles percolating up next to the hull.

I was distracted by that as a took the last step before getting into the dinghy. That was what killed me. That and the concussion I suspect I had.

I was just on the edge of the wing, waiting for the boat to ride up so that I could step in easily. The dinghy was just in the trough between two waves and I was preparing to step down. I slipped on the slick edge of the wing, me feet going forwards as my head fell backwards, impacting the metal with a terrible crrack. Then I carried on falling, slipping off the edge of the wing, missing the boat and plunging feet-first into the water.

Everything was hazy and distant. Even the pain in the back of my head felt like it was somehow at arm's reach. My limbs were sluggish, numb even before the cold of the water set in. The whole situation felt so… far away. Nothing to do with me. Somebody else's problem. I could hear muffled sounds, a rumble that might have been the wave above me and sharper tones that might have been shouting.

All I could see was blue and, below me, black, welling up and creeping across my sight like oil. My limbs trailed behind me as the currents of the waves gently turnedme, so that the darkness of the deeps was all that I could see. My eyes drifted shut. It was little different.

When I returned to awareness, I was not sure if that for better or worse. On one hand, I hadn't just vanished with what I was pretty sure had been my death (unless this was all some crazy coma-dream). On the other, it meant that I had been wrong about the whole 'afterlife' thing, and that was worrying. Eternal punishment in hell didn't seem like a nice idea.

JUDGEMENT

It wasn't a word. I don't know that I can really explain it. It was like the very meaning and essence of judgement was made manifest and rippled through me like the notes of a thousand brass instruments, golden, crystalline and bold. It tore me from my self-awareness - I hadn't really noticed anything outside myself until this point - and I became aware of the Presences.

I don't know what they were, I can't describe what they looked like. I can't describe how I could perceive all three of them, despite the fact that they encircled me, were above and below and beyond me in all ways I could comprehend. All I can do is say what they were like, but that falls far short. I don't even really remember all that much myself.

One was like cold and darkness and oblivion, serpentine in that it was significantly longer than it was thick and curled upon itself, an ouroboros of uncreation. One was like fire and heat and growing things and fangs and hot, running blood, a living star-furnace, sublimating existence from nothingness. The last was like glass and metal and solidity and ice. It might have been spiderlike, if the way in which its fractal limbs wove the madness of the second into stable form was compared to the way a spider weave its web, but that's still not right. I'm not going to try to describe them any more. It won't do any good, really.

CERTAINTY

The second Meaning drove through me like spears, but it wasn't meant for me. It was directed towards the weaving-thing, the judging one.

ACCEPTANCE

It rang again in brazen tones and sunlight off of gold, deafening and blinding me.

Something unfathomably weighty fell upon me. It would have crushed me flat, burned me hollow, had I been physical and not formless, substanceless thing. I felt flayed, as though everything that I was had been peeled away by that vast regard.

The last Meaning came, from all three, and this time it was directed straight at me, ringing like a bell, like shattering crystal, like glass through my heart and like the cracking of broken ice and broken bones.

PURPOSE

And then I was gone again, unaware once more of those immensities as I faded into unconsciousness.

Carn of the Gedthrall Clan was with Helzvog.

Over two months ago, now, a member of his clan had heard from a trader of the Wandering Tribes that something had been uncovered in the desert, a long silver thing being revealed beneath the sands near one of their oases. They had apparently tried to enter it, but had been unable to get through whatever material it was made of. Chalking it up as some mischief of spirits, they had left it there once they had been certain that the water was still running fine, and had thought nothing more of it.

The clan's leaders, however, had been very interested indeed, as had the council of the Grimstborithn, when they were told of it. Although the other races of Alagaesia cared little - the humans out of ignorance and the elves from arrogance - there had been peoples on the continent before they had arrived, before the dwarves had left their existence as nomads in the Hadarac behind. The Time of Giants may have been over, but it had left traces, traces that the knurlan as a whole had a vested interest in reclaiming. After all, it was in the Time of Giants that Guntera had walked the earth. It was in the Time of Giants that the dwarves themselves were created. Who knew what other wonders might be discovered?

And so it was that the Grimstborithn, in an unusual display of speed, had organised an expedition to the nameless oasis, large enough to have protection from raiders and spirits, yet small enough to traverse the desert with reasonable haste. The best and the brightest had been picked to go with them, and Carn had been honoured beyond belief that he, a scholar and magician from the Library of Baragh, had been chosen.

They had set out a little over three weeks ago, now, and had arrived at the oasis, a trickle of water that seeped from a crevice in the granite protrusion which jutted up from the sands like the hand of a dead giant after seventeen days in the desert. They had set up camp in the shadow of the bluff and had spent the first night speculating on the contents of the silvery cylinder whose side had been revealed by the shifting sands.

The next day had been significantly more frustrating.

First, they had set up a canopy over the artefact, so that they could work without the sun beating down on them. Then they had begun to measure whatever they could, and the alchemist they had with them - a Ledwonnu clansdwarf by the name of Strâddsigt - had managed to scrape a sample of the material and taken it back to his rudimentary laboratory in the shadow of the crag to analyse it. In the meantime, he and the mason and smith of the expedition, Gurmund, had worked together, he with his magic and Germund with her skill, to try and locate any areas that might be thinner or hollow.

That had not taken a great deal of time - it seemed that the surface of the artefact was only an inch or so thick, little more than a barrier between the outside and the inside. The issue had been with getting through it. The surface was near-flawless and was slightly convex, making it difficult for tools to get a purchase. They had left it while the sun was high in the sky and retreated to the crags, where their supplies and the rest of the expedition had been sequestered in the crevices that riddled them. There, Strâddsigt had regaled them with what he had discovered about whatever substance it was that made up the artefact. Apparently it was extremely tough and had qualities of both metals and ceramic, being both extremely resistant to heat and as strong as high-end dwarf steel, albeit not as easily worked, given that the hottest flame that the alchemist could produce failed to create even a red glow.

That evening, and the next few days as well, had been spent slowly and painstakingly making their way through the hull of the artefact, first creating a small peep-hole and then enlarging it, inch by painful inch, until they finally, finally had an entrance large enough to get through.

The rope constricted around Carn's waist and shoulders as he was lowered downwards towards the sloping floor, revealed in the light of the erisdar held by the dwarf already down there, a warrior by the name of Gerdir whose fists were punctuated with the blunt spikes of a set of ascûdgamln. His feet hit the floor and the dwarven magician quickly untied himself, cautiously probing outwards with his mind. He could feel nothing alive except for the faint lights of the insects in the sand and the steady lamps that were the other four members of the expedition. Nothing new.

He pulled his own flameless lantern from where it hung on his belt and ignited it with a muttered word.

In its light, he could see that he stood in what looked like a hall or a corridor, sized about right for humans or something of their stature. The passageway sloped downwards along both its length and its width, as if the artefact had tipped over at some point and extended deeper beneath the sands. Everything that Carn could see was made of the same matte-silver material as the exterior.

Picking a direction at random, Carn held his lantern high and began to make his way downwards, thankful for the slight roughness of the floor. Gerdir followed, one hand holding his lantern and the other on the pommel of his sword.

Before the pair had walked more than a few metres, the smooth lines of the wall was interrupted by the outline of a door, the door itself being a slab of the same material which was half-retracted into one side of the frame. Through the opening, Carn could make out a number of rectangular blocks with slanted ends that rose up from the floor like the tips of a giant's chisel-set. They were arranged in a rough semi-circle, the curve facing away from the door. Most importantly, the magician could sense the faintest hum of energy from them, a sign that they might be enchanted.

Opposite the door was a recessed alcove that held what looked like a statue made of bone-white plates of a similar material to the walls, over a dark skeleton of what looked more like metal. Its shape was humanoid, but its head looked like one of the jackals that stalked the fringes of the desert, with a long, pointed snout and equally long and pointed ears. Its hands were clasped in front of its chest, holding a long rod which extended down towards the floor.

Hooking his lantern back onto his belt, Carn tried to squeeze through the gap in the door. It was just a little too small.

"Gerdir, give me a hand with this?" he called, motioning the dour warrior over. He deposited his own lantern on the floor and joined the magician at the door. Together, they pulled back on the door and, with a grinding creak, it moved a few inches, just enough to squeeze through. Muttering his thanks, Carn did so, wriggling a little to get through.

Now that he was inside, the dwarven explorer could see that the room itself was a semicircle as well, the curved side opposite the door. Other than the five uprights, the room was barren and empty. The magician wondered what purpose it might one have served. An aid to enchanting, perhaps?

He trailed a hand over the rightmost pedestal. It was at about his chest height. It almost felt… empty. Drained. Some high-quality gems got like that, if they were used to store large amounts of energy for long periods of time. When the energy was drained out of them, they acquired a certain hunger, a desire to be filled again. Even humans and elves had noted the phenomenon, despite their dismissiveness of the life of stones.

On a whim, Carn channelled a mote of energy into the pedestal, little more than would be needed to ignite a werelight. To his surprise, the pedestal ignited with a tracey of blue light, streamers, rivers and channels of azure light playing over its surface. He tried to cut off the feed of energy, but the pedestal refused to relinquish its grip, savagely pulling power from him. A refrain of liquid and incomprehensible speech filled the air. Carn had no idea what it meant, and wasn't in the frame of mind to work it out. Blackness was clawing at the edges of his vision. Dimly, he felt the floor impact his knees as they buckled.

The last thing he saw was the eyes of the statue opposite igniting with the same cold blue light and stepping from its pedestal with implacable purpose.

Lexicon

Helzvog - a dwarven god, the creator of the dwarves

Grimstborithn - plural of Grimstborith, clan chief

Knurlan - dwarves

Guntera - a dwarven god, the king of the gods and creator of elves

Baragh - a dwarven city

Erisdar - a magical flameless lantern, explodes when shattered

Ascûdgamln - literally 'fists of steel', a set of metal spikes embedded in the bones of the hand like integral brass knuckles.