Paolini, Christopher - Inheritance Trilogy, Book 2 - Eldest (v1.5) (21 page)

forge.

Roran watched him go, then shook his head and went inside. He found

Elain sitting on the floor with a row of children, sharpening a pile of

spearheads with files and whetstones. Roran gestured to Elain. Once they

were in another room, he told her what had just occurred.

Elain swore harshly—startling him, for he had never heard her use such

language—then asked, “Is there cause for Thane to declare a feud?”

“Possibly,” admitted Roran. “They both insulted each other, but Al-

briech’s oaths were the strongest. . However, Thane did strike first. You

could declare a feud yourself.”

“Nonsense,” asserted Elain, wrapping a shawl around her shoulders.

“This is a dispute for arbitrators to resolve. If we must pay a fine, so be it,

as long as bloodshed is avoided.” She headed out the front door, a finished

spear in hand.

Troubled, Roran located bread and meat in the kitchen, then helped

the children sharpen spearheads. Once Felda, one of the mothers, arrived,

Roran left the children in her care and slogged back through Carvahall to

the main road.

As he squatted in the mud, a shaft of sunlight burst underneath the

clouds and illuminated the folds of rain so each drop flashed with crystal-

line fire. Roran stared, awestruck, ignoring the water streaming down his

face. The rift in the clouds widened until a shelf of massive thunderheads

hung over the western three-quarters of Palancar Valley, facing a strip of

pure blue sky. Because of the billowy roof above and the angle of the

sun, the rain-drenched landscape was lit brilliantly on one side and

painted with rich shadows on the other, giving the fields, bushes, trees,

river, and mountains the most extraordinary colors. It was as if the entire

world had been transformed into a sculpture of burnished metal.

Just then, movement caught Roran’s eye, and he looked down to see a

soldier standing on the road, his mail shining like ice. The man gaped

with amazement at Carvahall’s new fortifications, then turned and fled

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back into the golden mist.

“Soldiers!” shouted Roran, jolting to his feet. He wished that he had his

bow, but he had left it inside to protect it from the elements. His only

comfort was that the soldiers would have an even harder time keeping

their weapons dry.

Men and women ran from their houses, gathered along the trench, and

peered out through the wall of overlapping pines. The long branches

wept beads of moisture, translucent cabochons that reflected the rows of

anxious eyes.

Roran found himself standing beside Sloan. The butcher held one of

Fisk’s makeshift shields in his left hand, and in his right a cleaver curved

like a half-moon. His belt was festooned with at least a dozen knives, all

of them large and honed to a razor edge. He and Roran exchanged brisk

nods, then refocused on where the soldier had disappeared.

Less than a minute later, the disembodied voice of a Ra’zac slithered

out of the mist: “By continuing to defend Carvahall, you proclaim your

choice and ssseal your doom. You ssshall die!”

Loring responded: “Show your maggot-riddled faces if you dare, you

lily-livered, bandy-legged, snake-eyed wretches ! We’ll crack your skulls

open and fatten our hogs on your blood!”

A dark shape floated toward them, followed by the dull thump of a

spear embedding itself in a door an inch from Gedric’s left arm.

“Take cover!” shouted Horst from the middle of the line. Roran knelt

behind his shield and peered through a hairline gap between two of the

boards. He was just in time, for a half-dozen spears hurtled over the wall

of trees and buried themselves among the cowering villagers.

From somewhere in the mist came an agonized scream.

Roran’s heart jumped with a painful flutter. He panted for breath,

though he had not moved, and his hands were slick with sweat. He heard

the faint sound of shattering glass on the northern edge of Carvahall. .

then the bellow of an explosion and crashing timbers.

Spinning around, he and Sloan sped through Carvahall, where they

found a team of six soldiers dragging away the splintered remains of sev-

eral trees. Beyond them, pale and wraithlike in the glittering shards of

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rain, sat the Ra’zac on their black horses. Without slowing, Roran fell

upon the first man, jabbing his spear. His first and second stabs were de-

flected by an upraised arm, then Roran caught the soldier on the hip, and

when he stumbled, in his throat.

Sloan howled like an enraged beast, threw his cleaver, and split one of

the men’s helms, crushing his skull. Two soldiers charged him with

drawn swords. Sloan sidestepped, laughing now, and blocked their attacks

with his shield. One soldier swung so hard, his blade stuck in the shield’s

rim. Sloan yanked him closer and gored him through the eye with a carv-

ing knife from his belt. Drawing a second cleaver, the butcher circled his

other opponent with a maniacal grin. “Shall I gut and hamstring you?” he

demanded, almost prancing with a terrible, bloody glee.

Roran lost his spear to the next two men he faced. He barely managed

to drag out his hammer in time to stop a sword from shearing off his leg.

The soldier who had torn the spear from Roran’s grip now cast the

weapon at him, aiming for his breast. Roran dropped his hammer, caught

the shaft in midair—which astounded him as much as the soldiers—spun

it around, and drove the spear through the armor and ribs of the man

who had launched it. Left weaponless, Roran was forced to retreat before

the remaining soldier. He stumbled over a corpse, cutting his calf on a

sword as he fell, and rolled to avoid a two-handed blow from the soldier,

scrabbling frantically in the ankle-deep mud for something, anything he

could use for a weapon. A hilt bruised his fingers, and he ripped it from

the muck and slashed at the soldier’s sword hand, severing his thumb.

The man stared dumbly at the glistening stump, then said, “This is what

comes from not shielding myself.”

“Aye,” agreed Roran, and beheaded him.

The last soldier panicked and fled toward the impassive specters of the

Ra’zac while Sloan bombarded him with a stream of insults and foul

names. When the soldier finally pierced the shining curtain of rain, Roran

watched with a thrill of horror as the two black figures bent down from

their steeds on either side of the man and gripped the nape of his neck

with twisted hands. The cruel fingers tightened, and the man shrieked

desperately and convulsed, then went limp. The Ra’zac placed the corpse

behind one of their saddles before turning their horses and riding away.

Roran shuddered and looked at Sloan, who was cleaning his blades.

“You fought well.” He had never suspected that the butcher contained

such ferocity.

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Sloan said in a low voice, “They’ll never get Katrina. Never, even if I

must skin the lot of them, or fight a thousand Urgals and the king to

boot. I’d tear the sky itself down and let the Empire drown in its own

blood before she suffers so much as a scratch.” He clamped his mouth

shut then, jammed the last of his knives into his belt, and began dragging

the three broken trees back into position.

While he did, Roran rolled the dead soldiers through the trampled

mud, away from the fortifications. Now I have killed five. At the comple-

tion of his labor, he straightened and glanced around, puzzled, for all he

heard was silence and the hissing rain. Why has no one come to help us?

Wondering what else might have occurred, he returned with Sloan to

the scene of the first attack. Two soldiers hung lifelessly on the slick

branches of the tree wall, but that was not what held their attention.

Horst and the other villagers knelt in a circle around a small body. Roran

caught his breath. It was Elmund, son of Delwin. The ten-year-old boy

had been struck in his side by a spear. His parents sat in the mud beside

him, their faces as blank as stone.

Something has to be done, thought Roran, dropping to his knees and

leaning against his spear. Few children survived their first five or six years.

But to lose your firstborn son now, when everything indicated that he

should grow tall and strong to take his father’s place in Carvahall—it was

enough to crush you. Katrina... the children... they all have to be protected.

But where?... Where?... Where?... Where!

133

DOWN THE RUSHING MERE-WASH

On the first day from Tarnag, Eragon made an effort to learn the names

of Ûndin’s guards. They were Ama, Tríhga, Hedin, Ekksvar, Shrrgnien—

which Eragon found unpronounceable, though he was told it meant

Wolfheart—Dûthmér, and Thorv.

Each raft had a small cabin in the center. Eragon preferred to spend his

time seated on the edge of the logs, watching the Beor Mountains scroll

by. Kingfishers and jackdaws flitted along the clear river, while blue her-

ons stood stiltlike on the marshy bank, which was planked with splotches

of light that fell through the boughs of hazel, beech, and willow. Occa-

sionally, a bullfrog would croak from a bed of ferns.

When Orik settled beside him, Eragon said, “It’s beautiful.”

“That it is.” The dwarf quietly lit his pipe, then leaned back and puffed.

Eragon listened to the creak of wood and rope as Tríhga steered the raft

with the long paddle at the aft. “Orik, can you tell me why Brom joined

the Varden? I know so little about him. For most of my life, he was just

the town storyteller.”

“He never joined the Varden; he helped found it.” Orik paused to tap

some ashes into the water. “After Galbatorix became king, Brom was the

only Rider still alive, outside of the Forsworn.”

“But he wasn’t a Rider, not then. His dragon was killed in the fighting at

Doru Araeba.”

“Well, a Rider by training. Brom was the first to organize the friends

and allies of the Riders who had been forced into exile. It was he who

convinced Hrothgar to allow the Varden to live in Farthen Dûr, and he

who obtained the elves’ assistance.”

They were silent for a while. “Why did Brom relinquish the leader-

ship?” asked Eragon.

Orik smiled wryly. “Perhaps he never wanted it. It was before Hrothgar

adopted me, so I saw little of Brom in Tronjheim. . He was always off

fighting the Forsworn or engaged in one plot or another.”

“Your parents are dead?”

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“Aye. The pox took them when I was young, and Hrothgar was kind

enough to welcome me into his hall and, since he has no children of his

own, to make me his heir.”

Eragon thought of his helm, marked with the Ingeitum symbol. Hroth-

gar has been kind to me as well.

When the afternoon twilight arrived, the dwarves hung a round lantern

at each corner of the rafts. The lanterns were red, which Eragon remem-

bered was to preserve night vision. He stood by Arya and studied the lan-

terns’ pure, motionless depths. “Do you know how these are made?” he

asked.

“It was a spell we gave the dwarves long ago. They use it with great

skill.”

Eragon reached up and scratched his chin and cheeks, feeling the

patches of stubble that had begun to appear. “Could you teach me more

magic while we travel?”

She looked at him, her balance perfect on the undulating logs. “It is not

my place. A teacher is waiting for you.”

“Then tell me this, at least,” he said. “What does the name of my sword

mean?”

Arya’s voice was very soft. “Misery is your sword. And so it was until

you wielded it.”

Eragon stared with aversion at Zar’roc. The more he learned about his

weapon, the more malevolent it seemed, as if the blade could cause mis-

fortune of its own free will. Not only did Morzan kill Riders with it, but

Zar’roc’s very name is evil. If Brom had not given it to him, and if not for

the fact that Zar’roc never dulled and could not be broken, Eragon would

have thrown it into the river at that very moment.

Before it grew any darker, Eragon swam out to Saphira. They flew to-

gether for the first time since leaving Tronjheim and soared high above

the Az Ragni, where the air was thin and the water below was only a

purple streak.

Without the saddle, Eragon gripped Saphira tightly with his knees, feel-

ing her hard scales rub the scars from their first flight.

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As Saphira tilted to the left, rising on an updraft, he saw three brown

specks launch themselves from the mountainside below and ascend rap-

idly. At first Eragon took them to be falcons, but as they neared, he real-

ized that the animals were almost twenty feet long, with attenuated tails

and leathery wings. In fact, they looked like dragons, though their bodies

were smaller, thinner, and more serpentine than Saphira’s. Nor did their

scales glitter, but were dappled green and brown.

Excited, Eragon pointed them out to Saphira. Could they be dragons? he

asked.

I don’t know. She floated in place, inspecting the newcomers as they

spiraled around them. The creatures seemed puzzled by Saphira. They

darted toward her, only to hiss and swoop overhead at the last moment.