Paolini, Christopher - Inheritance Trilogy, Book 2 - Eldest (v1.5) (84 page)

A group of twelve men, some soldiers, hurried out of the keep toward

Saphira. They were led by a tall man with the same dark skin as Nasuada,

only the third person Eragon had met with such a complexion. Halting

ten paces away, the man bowed—as did his followers—then said, “Wel-

come, Rider. I am Dahwar, son of Kedar. I am King Orrin’s seneschal.”

Eragon inclined his head. “And I, Eragon Shadeslayer, son of none.”

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“And I, Orik, Thrifk’s son.”

And I, Saphira, daughter of Vervada, said Saphira, using Eragon as her

mouthpiece.

Dahwar bowed again. “I apologize that no one of higher rank than my-

self is present to greet guests as noble as you, but King Orrin, Lady

Nasuada, and all the Varden have long since marched to confront Galba-

torix’s army.” Eragon nodded. He had expected as much. “They left or-

ders that if you came here seeking them, you should join them directly,

for your prowess is needed if we are to prevail.”

“Can you show us on a map how to find them?” asked Eragon.

“Of course, sir. While I have that fetched, would you care to step out

of the heat and partake of some refreshments?”

Eragon shook his head. “We have no time to waste. Besides, it is not I

who needs to see the map but Saphira, and I doubt she would fit in your

halls.”

That seemed to catch the seneschal off guard. He blinked and ran his

eyes over Saphira, then said, “Quite right, sir. In either case, our hospital-

ity is yours. If there is aught you and your companions desire, you have

but to ask.”

For the first time, Eragon realized that he could issue commands and

expect them to be followed. “We need a week’s worth of provisions. For

me, only fruit, vegetables, flour, cheese, bread—things like that. We also

need our waterskins refilled.” He was impressed that Dahwar did not

question his avoidance of meat. Orik added his requests then for jerky,

bacon, and other such products.

Snapping his fingers, Dahwar sent two servants running back into the

keep to collect the supplies. While everyone in the ward waited for the

men to return, he asked, “May I assume by your presence here, Shade-

slayer, that you completed your training with the elves?”

“My training shall never end so long as I’m alive.”

“I see.” Then, after a moment, Dahwar said, “Please excuse my imperti-

nence, sir, for I am ignorant of the ways of the Riders, but are you not

human? I was told you were.”

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“That he is,” growled Orik. “He was. . changed. And you should be glad

he was, or our predicament would be far worse than it is.” Dahwar was

tactful enough not to pursue the subject, but from his thoughts Eragon

concluded that the seneschal would have paid a handsome price for fur-

ther details—any information about Eragon or Saphira was valuable in

Orrin’s government.

The food, water, and map were soon brought by two wide-eyed pages.

At Eragon’s word, they deposited the items beside Saphira, looking terri-

bly frightened as they did, then retreated behind Dahwar. Kneeling on

the ground, Dahwar unrolled the map—which depicted Surda and the

neighboring lands—and drew a line northwest from Aberon to Cithrí. He

said, “Last I heard, King Orrin and Lady Nasuada stopped here for prov-

ender. They did not intend to stay, however, because the Empire is ad-

vancing south along the Jiet River and they wished to be in place to con-

front Galbatorix’s army when it arrives. The Varden could be anywhere

between Cithrí and the Jiet River. This is only my humble opinion, but I

would say the best place to look for them would be the Burning Plains.”

“The Burning Plains?”

Dahwar smiled. “You may know them by their old name, then, the

name the elves use: Du Völlar Eldrvarya.”

“Ah, yes.” Now Eragon remembered. He had read about them in one of

the histories Oromis assigned him. The plains—which contained huge

deposits of peat—lay along the eastern side of the Jiet River where

Surda’s border crossed it and had been the site of a skirmish between the

Riders and the Forsworn. During the fight, the dragons inadvertently lit

the peat with the flames from their mouths and the fire had burrowed

underground, where it remained smoldering ever since. The land had

been rendered uninhabitable by the noxious fumes that poured out of

the glowing vents in the charred earth.

A shiver crawled down Eragon’s left side as he recalled his premonition:

banks of warriors colliding upon an orange and yellow field, accompanied

by the harsh screams of gore-crows and the whistle of black arrows. He

shivered again. Fate is converging upon us, he said to Saphira. Then, ges-

turing at the map: Have you seen enough?

I have.

In short order, he and Orik packed the supplies, remounted Saphira,

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and from her back thanked Dahwar for his service. As Saphira was about

to take off again, Eragon frowned; a note of discord had entered the

minds he was monitoring. “Dahwar, two grooms in the stables have got-

ten into an argument and one of them, Tathal, intends to commit mur-

der. You can stop him, though, if you send men right away.”

Dahwar widened his eyes in an expression of astonishment, and even

Orik twisted round to look at Eragon. The seneschal asked, “How do you

know this, Shadeslayer?”

Eragon merely said, “Because I am a Rider.”

Then Saphira unfurled her wings, and everyone on the ground ran back

to avoid being battered by the rush of air as she flapped downward and

soared into the sky. As Borromeo Castle dwindled behind them, Orik

said, “Can you hear my thoughts, Eragon?”

“Do you want me to try? I haven’t, you know.”

“Try.”

Frowning, Eragon concentrated his attention on the dwarf’s conscious-

ness and was surprised to find Orik’s mind well protected behind thick

mental barriers. He could sense Orik’s presence, but not his thoughts and

feelings. “Nothing.”

Orik grinned. “Good. I wanted to make sure I hadn’t forgotten my old

lessons.”

By unspoken consent, they did not stop for the night, but rather forged

onward through the blackened sky. Of the moon and stars they saw no

sign, no flash or pale gleam to breach the oppressive gloom. The dead

hours bloated and sagged and, it seemed to Eragon, clung to each second

as if reluctant to surrender to the past.

When the sun finally returned—bringing with it its welcome light—

Saphira landed by the edge of a small lake so Eragon and Orik could

stretch their legs, relieve themselves, and eat breakfast without the con-

stant movement they experienced on her back.

They had just taken off again when a long, low brown cloud appeared

on the edge of the horizon, like a smudge of walnut ink on a sheet of

white paper. The cloud grew wider and wider as Saphira approached it,

until by late morning it obscured the entire land beneath a pall of foul

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vapors.

They had reached the Burning Plains of Alagaësia.

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THE BURNING PLAINS

Eragon coughed as Saphira descended through the layers of smoke, an-

gling toward the Jiet River, which was hidden behind the haze. He

blinked and wiped back tears. The fumes made his eyes smart.

Closer to the ground, the air cleared, giving Eragon an unobstructed

view of their destination. The rippling veil of black and crimson smoke

filtered the sun’s rays in such a way that everything below was bathed in

a lurid orange. Occasional rents in the besmirched sky allowed pale bars

of light to strike the ground, where they remained, like pillars of translu-

cent glass, until they were truncated by the shifting clouds.

The Jiet River lay before them, as thick and turgid as a gorged snake, its

crosshatched surface reflecting the same ghastly hue that pervaded the

Burning Plains. Even when a splotch of undiluted light happened to fall

upon the river, the water appeared chalky white, opaque and opales-

cent—almost as if it were the milk of some fearsome beast—and seemed

to glow with an eerie luminescence all its own.

Two armies were arrayed along the eastern banks of the oozing water-

way. To the south were the Varden and the men of Surda, entrenched

behind multiple layers of defense, where they displayed a fine panoply of

woven standards, ranks of proud tents, and the picketed horses of King

Orrin’s cavalry. Strong as they were, their numbers paled in comparison

to the size of the force assembled in the north. Galbatorix’s army was so

large, it measured three miles across on its leading edge and how many in

length it was impossible to tell, for the individual men melded into a

shadowy mass in the distance.

Between the mortal foes was an empty span of perhaps two miles. This

land, and the land that the armies camped on, was pocked with countless

ragged orifices in which danced green tongues of fire. From those sickly

torches billowed plumes of smoke that dimmed the sun. Every scrap of

vegetation had been scorched from the parched soil, except for growths

of black, orange, and chartreuse lichen that, from the air, gave the earth a

scabbed and infected appearance.

It was the most forbidding vista Eragon had clapped eyes upon.

Saphira emerged over the no-man’s-land that separated the grim armies,

and now she twisted and dove toward the Varden as fast as she dared, for

so long as they remained exposed to the Empire, they were vulnerable to

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attacks from enemy magicians. Eragon extended his awareness as far as he

could in every direction, hunting for hostile minds that could feel his

probing touch and would react to it—the minds of magicians and those

trained to fend off magicians.

What he felt instead was the sudden panic that overwhelmed the

Varden’s sentinels, many of whom, he realized, had never before seen

Saphira. Fear made them ignore their common sense, and they released a

flock of barbed arrows that arched up to intercept her.

Raising his right hand, Eragon cried, “Letta orya thorna!” The arrows

froze in place. With a flick of his wrist and the word “Gánga,” he redi-

rected them, sending the darts boring toward the no-man’s-land, where

they could bury themselves in the barren soil without causing harm. He

missed one arrow, though, which was fired a few seconds after the first

volley.

Eragon leaned as far to his right as he could and, faster than any normal

human, plucked the arrow from the air as Saphira flew past it.

Only a hundred feet above the ground, Saphira flared her wings to slow

her steep descent before alighting first on her hind legs and then her front

legs as she came to a running stop among the Varden’s tents.

“Werg,” growled Orik, loosening the thongs that held his legs in place.

“I’d rather fight a dozen Kull than experience such a fall again.” He let

himself hang off one side of the saddle, then dropped to Saphira’s foreleg

below and, from there, to the ground.

Even as Eragon dismounted, dozens of warriors with awestruck expres-

sions gathered around Saphira. From within their midst strode a big bear

of a man whom Eragon recognized: Fredric, the Varden’s weapon master

from Farthen Dûr, still garbed in his hairy ox-hide armor. “Come on, you

slack-jawed louts!” roared Fredric. “Don’t stand here gawking; get back to

your posts or I’ll have the lot of you chalked up for extra watches!” At

his command, the men began to disperse with many a grumbled word

and backward glance. Then Fredric drew nearer and, Eragon could tell,

was startled by the change in Eragon’s countenance. The bearded man did

his best to conceal the reaction by touching his brow and saying, “Wel-

come, Shadeslayer. You’ve arrived just in time. . I can’t tell you how

ashamed I am you were attacked. The honor of every man here has been

blackened by this mistake. Were the three of you hurt?”

“No.”

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Relief spread across Fredric’s face. “Well, there’s that to be grateful for.

I’ve had the men responsible pulled from duty. They’ll each be whipped

and reduced in rank. . Will that punishment satisfy you, Rider?”

“I want to see them,” said Eragon.

Sudden concern emanated from Fredric; it was obvious he feared that

Eragon wanted to enact some terrible and unnatural retribution on the

sentinels. Fredric did not voice his concern, however, but said, “If you’d

follow me, then, sir.”

He led them through the camp to a striped command tent where

twenty or so miserable-looking men were divesting themselves of their

arms and armor under the watchful eye of a dozen guards. At the sight of

Eragon and Saphira, the prisoners all went down on one knee and re-

mained there, gazing at the ground. “Hail, Shadeslayer!” they cried.

Eragon said nothing, but walked along the line of men while he studied

their minds, his boots sinking through the crust of the baked earth with

an ominous crunch. At last he said, “You should be proud that you re-

acted so quickly to our appearance. If Galbatorix attacks, that’s exactly

what you should do, though I doubt arrows would prove any more effec-