Paolini, Christopher - Inheritance Trilogy, Book 2 - Eldest (v1.5) (15 page)

“They burned my farm,” said Roran, “devoured Quimby, and nearly de-

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stroyed Carvahall. Such crimes cannot go unpunished. Are we frightened

rabbits to cower down and accept our fate? No! We have a right to de-

fend ourselves.” He stopped as Albriech and Baldor trudged up the street,

dragging the wagon. “We can debate later. Now we have to prepare.

Who will help us?”

Forty or more men volunteered. Together they set about the difficult

task of making Carvahall impenetrable. Roran worked incessantly, nailing

fence slats between houses, piling barrels full of rocks for makeshift

walls, and dragging logs across the main road, which they blocked with

two wagons tipped on their sides.

As Roran hurried from one chore to another, Katrina waylaid him in an

alley. She hugged him, then said, “I’m glad you’re back, and that you’re

safe.”

He kissed her lightly. “Katrina. . I have to speak with you as soon as

we’re finished.” She smiled uncertainly, but with a spark of hope. “You

were right; it was foolish of me to delay. Every moment we spend to-

gether is precious, and I have no desire to squander what time we have

when a whim of fate could tear us apart.”

Roran was tossing water on the thatching of Kiselt’s house—so it could

not catch fire—when Parr shouted, “Ra’zac!”

Dropping the bucket, Roran ran to the wagons, where he had left his

hammer. As he grabbed the weapon, he saw a single Ra’zac sitting on a

horse far down the road, almost out of bowshot. The creature was illu-

minated by a torch in its left hand, while its right was drawn back, as if to

throw something.

Roran laughed. “Is he going to toss rocks at us? He’s too far away to

even hit—” He was cut off as the Ra’zac whipped down its arm and a

glass vial arched across the distance between them and shattered against

the wagon to his right. An instant later, a fireball launched the wagon

into the air while a fist of burning air flung Roran against a wall.

Dazed, he fell to his hands and knees, gasping for breath. Through the

roaring in his ears came the tattoo of galloping horses. He forced himself

upright and faced the sound, only to dive aside as the Ra’zac raced into

Carvahall through the burning gap in the wagons.

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The Ra’zac reined in their steeds, blades flashing as they hacked at the

people strewn around them. Roran saw three men die, then Horst and

Loring reached the Ra’zac and began pressing them back with pitchforks.

Before the villagers could rally, soldiers poured through the breach, kill-

ing indiscriminately in the darkness.

Roran knew they had to be stopped, else Carvahall would be taken. He

jumped at a soldier, catching him by surprise, and hit him in the face

with the hammer’s blade. The soldier crumpled without a sound. As the

man’s compatriots rushed toward him, Roran wrestled the corpse’s shield

off his limp arm. He barely managed to get it free in time to block the

first strike.

Backstepping toward the Ra’zac, Roran parried a sword thrust, then

swung his hammer up under the man’s chin, sending him to the ground.

“To me!” shouted Roran. “Defend your homes!” He sidestepped a jab as

five men attempted to encircle him. “To me!”

Baldor answered his call first, then Albriech. A few seconds later, Lor-

ing’s sons joined him, followed by a score of others. From the side streets,

women and children pelted the soldiers with rocks. “Stay together,” or-

dered Roran, standing his ground. “There are more of us.”

The soldiers halted as the line of villagers before them continued to

thicken. With more than a hundred men at his back, Roran slowly ad-

vanced.

“Attack, you foolsss,” screamed a Ra’zac, dodging Loring’s pitchfork.

A single arrow whizzed toward Roran. He caught it on his shield and

laughed. The Ra’zac were level with the soldiers now, hissing with frus-

tration. They glared at the villagers from under their inky cowls. Sud-

denly Roran felt himself become lethargic and powerless to move; it was

hard to even think. Fatigue seemed to chain his arms and legs in place.

Then from farther in Carvahall, Roran heard a raw shout from Birgit. A

second later, a rock hurtled over his head and bored toward the lead

Ra’zac, who twitched with supernatural speed to avoid the missile. The

distraction, slight though it was, freed Roran’s mind from the soporific

influence. Was that magic? he wondered.

He dropped the shield, grasped his hammer with both hands, and raised

it far above his head—just like Horst did when spreading metal. Roran

went up on tiptoe, his entire body bowed backward, then whipped his

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arms down with a huh! The hammer cartwheeled through the air and

bounced off the Ra’zac’s shield, leaving a formidable dent.

The two attacks were enough to disrupt the last of the Ra’zac’s strange

power. They clicked rapidly to each other as the villagers roared and

marched forward, then the Ra’zac yanked on their reins, wheeling

around.

“Retreat,” they growled, riding past the soldiers. The crimson-clad war-

riors sullenly backed out of Carvahall, stabbing at anyone who came too

close. Only when they were a good distance from the burning wagons did

they dare turn their backs.

Roran sighed and retrieved his hammer, feeling the bruises on his side

and back where he had hit the wall. He bowed his head as he saw that

the explosion had killed Parr. Nine other men had died. Already wives

and mothers rent the night with their wails of grief.

How could this happen here?

“Everyone, come!” called Baldor.

Roran blinked and stumbled to the middle of the road, where Baldor

stood. A Ra’zac sat beetle-like on a horse only twenty yards away. The

creature crooked a finger at Roran and said, “You. . you sssmell like your

cousin. We never forget a sssmell.”

“What do you want?” he shouted. “Why are you here?”

The Ra’zac chuckled in a horrible, insectile way. “We

want. .information. ” It glanced over its shoulder, where its companions

had disappeared, then cried, “Release Roran and you ssshall be sold as

ssslaves. Protect him, and we will eat you all. We ssshall have your an-

swer when next we come. Be sssure it is the right one.”

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AZ SWELDN RAK ANHÛIN

Light burst into the tunnel as the doors dragged open. Eragon winced,

his eyes sorely unaccustomed to daylight after so long underground. Be-

side him, Saphira hissed and arched her neck to get a better view of their

surroundings.

It had taken them two days to traverse the subterranean passage from

Farthen Dûr, though it felt longer to Eragon, due to the never-ending

dusk that surrounded them and the silence it had imposed upon their

group. In all, he could recall only a handful of words being exchanged

during their journey.

Eragon had hoped to learn more about Arya while they traveled to-

gether, but the only information he had gleaned came simply as a result

of observation. He had not supped with her before and was startled to

see that she brought her own food and ate no meat. When he asked her

why, she said, “You will never again consume an animal’s flesh after you

have been trained, or if you do, it will be only on the rarest of occasions.”

“Why should I give up meat?” he scoffed.

“I cannot explain with words, but you will understand once we reach

Ellesméra.”

All that was forgotten now as he hurried to the threshold, eager to see

their destination. He found himself standing on a granite outcropping,

more than a hundred feet above a purple-hued lake, brilliant under the

eastern sun. Like Kóstha-mérna, the water reached from mountain to

mountain, filling the valley’s end. From the lake’s far side, the Az Ragni

flowed north, winding between the peaks until—in the far distance—it

rushed out onto the eastern plains.

To his right, the mountains were bare, save for a few trails, but to his

left. . to his left was the dwarf city Tarnag. Here the dwarves had re-

worked the seemingly immutable Beors into a series of terraces. The

lower terraces were mainly farms—dark curves of land waiting to be

planted—dotted with squat halls, which as best he could tell were built

entirely of stone. Above those empty levels rose tier upon tier of inter-

locking buildings until they culminated in a giant dome of gold and

white. It was as if the entire city was nothing more than a line of steps

leading to the dome. The cupola glistened like polished moonstone, a

milky bead floating atop a pyramid of gray slate.

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Orik anticipated Eragon’s question, saying, “That is Celbedeil, the great-

est temple of dwarfdom and home of Dûrgrimst Quan—the Quan clan—

who act as servants and messengers to the gods.”

Do they rule Tarnag? asked Saphira. Eragon repeated the query.

“Nay,” said Arya, stepping past them. “Though the Quan are strong,

they are small in numbers, despite their power over the afterlife. . and

gold. It is the Ragni Hefthyn—the River Guard—who control Tarnag.

We will stay with their clan chief, Ûndin, while here.”

As they followed the elf off the outcropping and through the gnarled

forest that blanketed the mountain, Orik whispered to Eragon, “Mind her

not. She has been arguing with the Quan for many a year. Every time she

visits Tarnag and speaks with a priest, it produces a quarrel fierce enough

to scare a Kull.”

“Arya?”

Orik nodded grimly. “I know little of it, but I’ve heard she disagrees

strongly with much that the Quan practice. It seems that elves do not

hold with ‘muttering into the air for help.’ ”

Eragon stared at Arya’s back as they descended, wondering if Orik’s

words were true, and if so, what Arya herself believed. He took a deep

breath, pushing the matter from his mind. It felt wonderful to be back in

the open, where he could smell the moss and ferns and trees of the forest,

where the sun was warm on his face and bees and other insects swarmed

pleasantly.

The path took them down to the edge of the lake before rising back

toward Tarnag and its open gates. “How have you hidden Tarnag from

Galbatorix?” asked Eragon. “Farthen Dûr I understand, but this. . I’ve

never seen anything like it.”

Orik laughed softly. “Hide it? That would be impossible. No, after the

Riders fell, we were forced to abandon all our cities aboveground and re-

treat into our tunnels in order to escape Galbatorix and the Forsworn.

They would often fly through the Beors, killing anyone who they en-

countered.”

“I thought that dwarves always lived underground.”

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Orik’s thick eyebrows met in a frown. “Why should we? We may have

an affinity for stone, but we like the open air as much as elves or humans.

However, it has only been in the last decade and a half, ever since Mor-

zan died, that we have dared return to Tarnag and other of our ancient

dwellings. Galbatorix may be unnaturally powerful, but even he would

not attack an entire city alone. Of course, he and his dragon could cause

us no end of trouble if they wanted, but these days they rarely leave

Urû’baen, even for short trips. Nor could Galbatorix bring an army here

without first defeating Buragh or Farthen Dûr.”

Which he nearly did, commented Saphira.

Cresting a small mound, Eragon jolted with surprise as an animal

crashed through the underbrush and onto the path. The scraggly creature

looked like a mountain goat from the Spine, except that it was a third

larger and had giant ribbed horns that curled around its cheeks, making

an Urgal’s seem no bigger than a swallow nest. Odder still was the saddle

lashed across the goat’s back and the dwarf seated firmly on it, aiming a

half-drawn bow into the air.

“Hert dûrgrimst? Fild rastn?” shouted the strange dwarf.

“Orik Thrifkz menthiv oen Hrethcarach Eragon rak Dûrgrimst Ingei-

tum,” answered Orik. “Wharn, az vanyali-carharûg Arya. Né oc Ûndinz

grimstbelardn.” The goat stared warily at Saphira. Eragon noted how

bright and intelligent its eyes were, though its face was rather droll with

its frosty beard and somber expression. It reminded him of Hrothgar, and

he almost laughed, thinking how very dwarfish the animal was.

“Azt jok jordn rast,” came the reply.

With no discernible command on the dwarf’s part, the goat leaped

forward, covering such an extraordinary distance it seemed to take flight

for a moment. Then rider and steed vanished between the trees.

“What was that?” asked Eragon, amazed.

Orik resumed walking. “A Feldûnost, one of the five animals unique to

these mountains. A clan is named after each one. However, Dûrgrimst

Feldûnost is perhaps the bravest and most revered of the clans.”

“Why so?”

“We depend upon Feldûnost for milk, wool, and meat. Without their

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sustenance, we could not live in the Beors. When Galbatorix and his trai-

torous Riders were terrorizing us, it was Dûrgrimst Feldûnost who risked

themselves—and still do—to tend the herds and fields. As such, we are

all in their debt.”