Paolini, Christopher - Inheritance Trilogy, Book 2 - Eldest (v1.5) (14 page)

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muttered.

The air grew warmer through the night, until by afternoon Palancar

Valley shimmered and sweltered with the unexpected spring heat. Car-

vahall looked peaceful under the bald blue sky, yet Roran could feel the

sour resentment that clenched its inhabitants with malicious intensity.

The calm was like a sheet stretched taut in the wind.

Despite the aura of expectation, the day proved to be utterly boring;

Roran spent most of his time brushing Horst’s mare. At last he lay to

sleep, looking up past the towering pines at the haze of stars that adorned

the night sky. They seemed so close, it felt as if he hurtled among them,

falling toward the blackest void.

The moon was setting when Roran woke, his throat raw from smoke.

He coughed and rolled upright, blinking as his eyes burned and watered.

The noxious fumes made it difficult to breathe.

Roran grabbed his blankets and saddled the frightened mare, then

spurred her farther up the mountain, hoping to find clear air. It quickly

became apparent that the smoke was ascending with him, so he turned

and cut sideways through the forest.

After several minutes spent maneuvering in the dark, they finally broke

free and rode onto a ledge swept clean by a breeze. Purging his lungs with

long breaths, Roran scanned the valley for the fire. He spotted it in an in-

stant.

Carvahall’s hay barn glowed white in a cyclone of flames, transforming

its precious contents into a fountain of amber motes. Roran trembled as

he watched the destruction of the town’s feed. He wanted to scream and

run through the forest to help with the bucket brigade, yet he could not

force himself to abandon his own safety.

Now a molten spark landed on Delwin’s house. Within seconds, the

thatched roof exploded in a wave of fire.

Roran cursed and tore his hair, tears streaming down his face. This was

why mishandling fire was a hanging offense in Carvahall. Was it an acci-

dent? Was it the soldiers? Are the Ra’zac punishing the villagers for shield-

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ing me?... Am I somehow responsible for this?

Fisk’s house joined the conflagration next. Aghast, Roran could only

avert his face, hating himself for his cowardice.

By dawn all the fires had been extinguished or burned out on their

own. Only sheer luck and a calm night saved the rest of Carvahall from

being consumed.

Roran waited until he was sure of the outcome, then retreated to his

old camp and threw himself down to rest. From morning through eve-

ning, he was oblivious to the world, except through the lens of his trou-

bled dreams.

Upon his return to awareness, Roran simply waited for the visitor he

was sure would appear. This time it was Albriech. He arrived at dusk

with a grim, worn expression. “Come with me,” he said.

Roran tensed. “Why?” Have they decided to give me up? If he was the

cause of the fire, he could understand the villagers wanting him gone. He

might even agree it was necessary. It was unreasonable to expect every-

one in Carvahall to sacrifice themselves for him. Still, that did not mean

he would allow them to just hand him over to the Ra’zac. After what the

two monsters had done to Quimby, Roran would fight to the death to

avoid being their prisoner.

“Because,” said Albriech, clenching his jaw muscles, “it was the soldiers

who started the fire. Morn banned them from the Seven Sheaves, but

they still got drunk on their own beer. One of them dropped a torch

against the hay barn on his way to bed.”

“Was anyone hurt?” asked Roran.

“A few burns. Gertrude was able to handle them. We tried to negotiate

with the Ra’zac. They spat on our requests that the Empire replace our

losses and the guilty face justice. They even refused to confine the sol-

diers to the tents.”

“So why should I return?”

Albriech chuckled hollowly. “For hammer and tongs. We need your

help to. .remove the Ra’zac.”

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“You would do that for me?”

“We’re not risking ourselves for your sake alone. This concerns the en-

tire village now. At least come talk to Father and the others and hear

their thoughts. . I’d think you would be glad to get out of these cursed

mountains.”

Roran considered Albriech’s proposition long and hard before deciding

to accompany him. It’s this or run for it, and I can always run later. He

fetched the mare, tied his bags to the saddle, then followed Albriech to-

ward the valley floor.

Their progress slowed as they neared Carvahall, using trees and brush

for cover. Slipping behind a rain barrel, Albriech checked to see if the

streets were clear, then signaled to Roran. Together they crept from

shadow to shade, constantly on guard for the Empire’s servants. At

Horst’s forge, Albriech opened one of the double doors just far enough

for Roran and the mare to quietly enter.

Inside, the workshop was lit by a single candle, which cast a trembling

glow over the ring of faces that hovered about it in the surrounding

darkness. Horst was there—his thick beard protruded like a shelf into the

light—flanked by the hard visages of Delwin, Gedric, and then Loring.

The rest of the group was composed of younger men: Baldor, Loring’s

three sons, Parr, and Quimby’s boy, Nolfavrell, who was only thirteen.

They all turned to look as Roran entered the assembly. Horst said, “Ah,

you made it. You escaped misfortune while in the Spine?”

“I was lucky.”

“Then we can proceed.”

“With what, exactly?” Roran hitched the mare to an anvil as he spoke.

Loring answered, the shoemaker’s parchment face a mass of contorting

lines and grooves. “We have attempted reason with these Ra’zac. . these

invaders. ” He stopped, his thin frame racked with an unpleasant, metal-

lic wheeze deep in his chest. “They have refused reason. They have en-

dangered us all with no sign of remorse or contrition. ” He made a noise in

his throat, then said with pronounced deliberation, “They. . must. . go.

Such creatures—”

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“No,” said Roran. “Not creatures. Desecrators.”

The faces scowled and bobbed in agreement. Delwin picked up the

thread of conversation: “The point is, everyone’s life is at stake. If that fire

had spread any farther, dozens of people would have been killed and

those who escaped would have lost everything they own. As a result,

we’ve agreed to drive the Ra’zac away from Carvahall. Will you join us?”

Roran hesitated. “What if they return or send for reinforcements? We

can’t defeat the entire Empire.”

“No,” said Horst, grave and solemn, “but neither can we stand silent and

allow the soldiers to kill us and to destroy our property. A man can en-

dure only so much abuse before he must strike back.”

Loring laughed, throwing back his head so the flame gilded the stumps

of his teeth. “First we fortify,” he whispered with glee, “then we fight.

We’ll make them regret they ever clapped their festering eyes on Carva-

hall! Ha ha!”

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RETALIATION

After Roran agreed to their plan, Horst began distributing shovels,

pitchforks, flails—anything that could be used to beat the soldiers and

the Ra’zac away.

Roran hefted a pick, then set it aside. Though he had never cared for

Brom’s stories, one of them, the “Song of Gerand,” resonated with him

whenever he heard it. It told of Gerand, the greatest warrior of his time,

who relinquished his sword for a wife and farm. He found no peace,

however, as a jealous lord initiated a blood feud against Gerand’s family,

which forced Gerand to kill once more. Yet he did not fight with his

blade, but with a simple hammer.

Going to the wall, Roran removed a medium-sized hammer with a long

handle and a rounded blade on one side of the head. He tossed it from

hand to hand, then went to Horst and asked, “May I have this?”

Horst eyed the tool and Roran. “Use it wisely.” Then he said to the rest

of the group, “Listen. We want to scare, not kill. Break a few bones if you

want, but don’t get carried away. And whatever you do, don’t stand and

fight. No matter how brave or heroic you feel, remember that they are

trained soldiers.”

When everyone was equipped, they left the forge and wound their way

through Carvahall to the edge of the Ra’zac’s camp. The soldiers had al-

ready gone to bed, except for four sentries who patrolled the perimeter

of the gray tents. The Ra’zac’s two horses were picketed by a smoldering

fire.

Horst quietly issued orders, sending Albriech and Delwin to ambush

two of the sentries, and Parr and Roran to ambush the other two.

Roran held his breath as he stalked the oblivious soldier. His heart be-

gan to shudder as energy spiked through his limbs. He hid behind the

corner of a house, quivering, and waited for Horst’s signal. Wait.

Wait.

With a roar, Horst burst from hiding, leading the charge into the tents.

Roran darted forward and swung his hammer, catching the sentry on the

shoulder with a grisly crunch.

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The man howled and dropped his halberd. He staggered as Roran

struck his ribs and back. Roran raised the hammer again and the man re-

treated, screaming for help.

Roran ran after him, shouting incoherently. He knocked in the side of a

wool tent, trampling whatever was inside, then smashed the top of a

helmet he saw emerging from another tent. The metal rang like a bell.

Roran barely noticed as Loring danced past—the old man cackled and

hooted in the night as he jabbed the soldiers with a pitchfork. Every-

where was a confusion of struggling bodies.

Whirling around, Roran saw a soldier attempting to string his bow. He

rushed forward and hit the back of the bow with his steel mallet, break-

ing the wood in two. The soldier fled.

The Ra’zac scrambled free of their tent with terrible screeches, swords

in hand. Before they could attack, Baldor untethered the horses and sent

them galloping toward the two scarecrow figures. The Ra’zac separated,

then regrouped, only to be swept away as the soldiers’ morale broke and

they ran.

Then it was over.

Roran panted in the silence, his hand cramped around the hammer’s

handle. After a moment, he picked his way through the crumpled

mounds of tents and blankets to Horst. The smith was grinning under his

beard. “That’s the best brawl I’ve had in years.”

Behind them, Carvahall jumped to life as people tried to discover the

source of the commotion. Roran watched lamps flare up behind shut-

tered windows, then turned as he heard soft sobbing.

The boy, Nolfavrell, was kneeling by the body of a soldier, methodi-

cally stabbing him in the chest as tears slid down his chin. Gedric and Al-

briech hurried over and pulled Nolfavrell away from the corpse.

“He shouldn’t have come,” said Roran.

Horst shrugged. “It was his right.”

All the same, killing one of the Ra’zac’s men will only make it harder to

rid ourselves of the desecrators.“ We should barricade the road and be-

tween the houses so they won’t catch us by surprise.” Studying the men

for any injuries, Roran saw that Delwin had received a long cut on his

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forearm, which the farmer bandaged with a strip torn from his ruined

shirt.

With a few shouts, Horst organized their group. He dispatched Al-

briech and Baldor to retrieve Quimby’s wagon from the forge and had

Loring’s sons and Parr scour Carvahall for items that could be used to se-

cure the village.

Even as he spoke, people congregated on the edge of the field, staring at

what was left of the Ra’zac’s camp and the dead soldier. “What hap-

pened?” cried Fisk.

Loring scuttled forward and stared the carpenter in the eye. “What

happened? I’ll tell you what happened. We routed the dung-beardlings. .

caught them with their boots off and whipped them like dogs!”

“I am glad.” The strong voice came from Birgit, an auburn-haired

woman who clasped Nolfavrell against her bosom, ignoring the blood

smeared across his face. “They deserve to die like cowards for my hus-

band’s death.”

The villagers murmured in agreement, but then Thane spoke: “Have

you gone mad, Horst? Even if you frightened off the Ra’zac and their sol-

diers, Galbatorix will just send more men. The Empire will never give up

until they get Roran.”

“We should hand him over,” snarled Sloan.

Horst raised his hands. “I agree; no one is worth more than all of Carva-

hall. But if we surrender Roran, do you really think Galbatorix will let us

escape punishment for our resistance? In his eyes, we’re no better than

the Varden.”

“Then why did you attack?” demanded Thane. “Who gave you the au-

thority to make this decision? You’ve doomed us all!”

This time Birgit answered. “Would you let them kill your wife?” She

pressed her hands on either side of her son’s face, then showed Thane her

bloody palms, like an accusation. “Would you let them burn us?. . Where

is your manhood, loam breaker?”

He lowered his gaze, unable to face her stark expression.