Paolini, Christopher - Inheritance Trilogy, Book 2 - Eldest (v1.5) (88 page)

pain and suffering and deserve no more mercy than a rabid dog. There is

no need for you to waste time over what is surely a trap. Just give the

word and I and every last one of your warriors will be more than willing

to kill these foul creatures for you.”

“In this,” said Jörmundur, “I agree with Eragon. If you won’t listen to us,

Nasuada, at least listen to him.”

First Nasuada said to Eragon in a murmur low enough that no one else

could hear, “Your training is indeed unfinished if you are so blinded.”

Then she raised her voice, and in it Eragon heard the same adamantine

notes of command that her father had possessed: “You all forget that I

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fought in Farthen Dûr, the same as you, and that I saw the savagery of

the Urgals. . However, I also saw our own men commit acts just as hei-

nous. I shall not denigrate what we have endured at the Urgals’ hands,

but neither shall I ignore potential allies when we are so greatly outnum-

bered by the Empire.”

“My Lady, it’s too dangerous for you to meet with a Kull.”

“Too dangerous?” Nasuada raised an eyebrow. “While I am protected

by Eragon, Saphira, Elva, and all the warriors around me? I think not.”

Eragon gritted his teeth with frustration. Say something, Saphira. You

can convince her to abandon this harebrained scheme.

No, I won’t. Your mind is clouded on this issue.

You can’t agree with her! exclaimed Eragon, aghast. You were there in

Yazuac with me; you know what the Urgals did to the villagers. And what

about when we left Teirm, my capture at Gil’ead, and Farthen Dûr? Every

time we’ve encountered Urgals, they’ve tried to kill us or worse. They’re

nothing more than vicious animals.

The elves believed the same thing about dragons during Du Fyrn

Skulblaka.

At Nasuada’s behest, her guards tied back the front and side panels of

the pavilion, leaving it open for all to see and allowing Saphira to crouch

low next to Eragon. Then Nasuada seated herself in her high-backed

chair, and Jörmundur and the other commanders arranged themselves in

two parallel rows so that anyone who sought an audience with her had to

walk between them. Eragon stood at her right hand, Elva by her left.

Less than five minutes later, a great roar of anger erupted from the

eastern edge of the camp. The storm of jeers and insults grew louder and

louder until a single Kull entered their view, walking toward Nasuada

while a mob of the Varden peppered him with taunts. The Urgal—or

ram, as Eragon remembered they were called—held his head high and

bared his yellow fangs, but did not otherwise react to the abuse directed

at him. He was a magnificent specimen, eight and a half feet tall, with

strong, proud—if grotesque—features, thick horns that spiraled all the

way around, and a fantastic musculature that made it seem he could kill a

bear with a single blow. His only clothing was a knotted loincloth, a few

plates of crude iron armor held together with scraps of mail, and a curved

metal disk nestled between his two horns to protect the top of his head.

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His long black hair was in a queue.

Eragon felt his lips tighten in a grimace of hate; he had to struggle to

keep from drawing Zar’roc and attacking. Yet despite himself, he could

not help but admire the Urgal’s courage in confronting an entire army of

enemies alone and unarmed. To his surprise, he found the Kull’s mind

strongly shielded.

When the Urgal stopped before the eaves of the pavilion, not daring to

come any closer, Nasuada had her guards shout for quiet to settle the

crowd. Everyone looked at the Urgal, wondering what he would do next.

The Urgal lifted his bulging arms toward the sky, inhaled a mighty

breath, and then opened his maw and bellowed at Nasuada. In an instant,

a thicket of swords pointed at the Kull, but he paid them no attention

and continued his ululation until his lungs were empty. Then he looked

at Nasuada, ignoring the hundreds of people who, it was obvious, longed

to kill him, and growled in a thick, guttural accent, “What treachery is

this, Lady Nightstalker? I was promised safe passage. Do humans break

their word so easily?”

Leaning toward her, one of Nasuada’s commanders said, “Let us punish

him, Mistress, for his insolence. Once we have taught him the meaning of

respect, then you can hear his message, whatever it is.”

Eragon longed to remain silent, but he knew his duty to Nasuada and

the Varden, so he bent down and said in Nasuada’s ear, “Don’t take of-

fense. This is how they greet their war chiefs. The proper response is to

then butt heads, but I don’t think you want to try that.”

“Did the elves teach you this?” she murmured, never taking her eyes off

the waiting Kull.

“Aye.”

“What else did they teach you of the Urgals?”

“A great deal,” he admitted reluctantly.

Then Nasuada said to the Kull and also to her men beyond, “The

Varden are not liars like Galbatorix and the Empire. Speak your mind;

you need fear no danger while we hold council under the conditions of

truce.”

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The Urgal grunted and raised his bony chin higher, baring his throat;

Eragon recognized it as a gesture of friendship. To lower one’s head was a

threat in their race, for it meant that an Urgal intended to ram you with

his horns. “I am Nar Garzhvog of the Bolvek tribe. I speak for my peo-

ple.” It seemed as if he chewed on each word before spitting it out. “Ur-

gals are hated more than any other race. Elves, dwarves, humans all hunt

us, burn us, and drive us from our halls.”

“Not without good reason,” pointed out Nasuada.

Garzhvog nodded. “Not without reason. Our people love war. Yet how

often are we attacked just because you find us as ugly as we find you?

We have thrived since the fall of the Riders. Our tribes are now so large,

the harsh land we live in can no longer feed us.”

“So you made a pact with Galbatorix.”

“Aye, Lady Nightstalker. He promised us good land if we killed his

enemies. He tricked us, though. His flame-haired shaman, Durza, bent

the minds of our war chiefs and forced our tribes to work together, as is

not our way. When we learned this in the dwarves’ hollow mountain, the

Herndall, the dams who rule us, sent my brood mate to Galbatorix to ask

why he used us so.” Garzhvog shook his ponderous head. “She did not re-

turn. Our finest rams died for Galbatorix, then he abandoned us like a

broken sword. He is drajl and snake-tongued and a lack-horned betrayer.

Lady Nightstalker, we are fewer now, but we will fight with you if you

let us.”

“What is the price?” asked Nasuada. “Your Herndall must want some-

thing in return.”

“Blood. Galbatorix’s blood. And if the Empire falls, we ask that you

give us land, land for breeding and growing, land to avoid more battles in

the future.”

Eragon guessed Nasuada’s decision by the set of her face, even before

she spoke. So apparently did Jörmundur, for he leaned toward her and

said in an undertone, “Nasuada, you can’t do this. It goes against nature.”

“Nature can’t help us defeat the Empire. We need allies.”

“The men will desert before they’ll fight with Urgals.”

“That can be worked around. Eragon, will they keep their word?”

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“Only so long as we share a common enemy.”

With a sharp nod, Nasuada again lifted her voice: “Very well, Nar

Garzhvog. You and your warriors may bivouac along the eastern flank of

our army, away from the main body, and we shall discuss the terms of

our pact.”

“Ahgrat ukmar,” growled the Kull, clapping his fists to his brow. “You

are a wise Herndall, Lady Nightstalker.”

“Why do you call me that?”

“Herndall?”

“No, Nightstalker.”

Garzhvog made a ruk-ruk sound in his throat that Eragon interpreted as

laughter. “Nightstalker is the name we gave your sire because of how he

hunted us in the dark tunnels under the dwarf mountain and because of

the color of his hide. As his cub, you are worthy of the same name.” With

that he turned on his heel and strode out of the camp.

Standing, Nasuada proclaimed, “Anyone who attacks the Urgals shall be

punished as if he attacked a fellow human. See that word of this is posted

in every company.”

No sooner had she finished than Eragon noticed King Orrin approach-

ing at a quick pace, his cape flapping around him. When he was close

enough, he cried, “Nasuada! Is it true you met with an Urgal? What do

you mean by it, and why wasn’t I alerted sooner? I don’t—”

He was interrupted as a sentry emerged from the ranks of gray tents,

shouting, “A horseman approaches from the Empire!”

In an instant, King Orrin forgot his argument and joined Nasuada as she

hurried toward the vanguard of the army, followed by at least a hundred

people. Rather than stay among the crowd, Eragon pulled himself onto

Saphira and let her carry him to their destination.

When Saphira halted at the ramparts, trenches, and rows of sharpened

poles that protected the Varden’s leading edge, Eragon saw a lone soldier

riding at a furious clip across the bleak no-man’s-land. Above him, the

birds of prey swooped low to discover if the first course of their feast had

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arrived.

The soldier reined in his black stallion some thirty yards from the

breastwork, keeping as much distance as possible between him and the

Varden. He shouted, “By refusing King Galbatorix’s generous terms of

surrender, you choose death as your fate. No more shall we negotiate.

The hand of friendship has turned into the fist of war! If any of you still

hold regard for your rightful sovereign, the all-knowing, all-powerful

King Galbatorix, then flee! None may stand before us once we set forth

to cleanse Alagaësia of every miscreant, traitor, and subversive. And

though it pains our lord—for he knows that most of these rebellious acts

are instigated by bitter and misguided leaders—we shall gently chastise

the unlawful territory known as Surda and return it to the benevolent

rule of King Galbatorix, he who sacrifices himself day and night for the

good of his people. So flee, I say, or suffer the doom of your herald.”

With that the soldier untied a canvas sack and flourished a severed

head. He threw it into the air and watched it fall among the Varden, then

turned his stallion, dug in his spurs, and galloped back toward the dark

mass of Galbatorix’s army.

“Shall I kill him?” asked Eragon.

Nasuada shook her head. “We will have our due soon enough. I won’t

violate the sanctity of envoys, even if the Empire has.”

“As you—” He yelped with surprise and clutched Saphira’s neck to

keep from falling as she reared above the ramparts, planting her front legs

upon the chartreuse bank. Opening her jaws, Saphira uttered a long, deep

roar, much like Garzhvog had done, only this roar was a defiant challenge

to their enemies, a warning of the wrath they had roused, and a clarion

call to all who hated Galbatorix.

The sound of her trumpeting voice frightened the stallion so badly, he

jinked to the right, slipped on the heated ground, and fell on his side. The

soldier was thrown free of the horse and landed in a gout of fire that

erupted at that very instant. He uttered a single cry so horrible, it made

Eragon’s scalp prickle, then was silent and still forevermore.

The birds began to descend.

The Varden cheered Saphira’s accomplishment. Even Nasuada allowed

herself a small smile. Then she clapped her hands and said, “They will at-

tack at dawn, I think. Eragon, gather Du Vrangr Gata and prepare your-

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self for action. I will have orders for you within the hour.” Taking Orrin

by the shoulder, she guided him back toward the center of the com-

pound, saying, “Sire, there are decisions we must make. I have a certain

plan, but it will require. .”

Let them come, said Saphira. The tip of her tail twitched like that of a

cat stalking a rabbit. They will all burn.

570

WITCH’S BREW

Night had fallen on the Burning Plains. The roof of opaque smoke cov-

ered the moon and stars, plunging the land into profound darkness that

was broken only by the sullen glow of the sporadic peat fires, and by the

thousands of torches each army lit. From Eragon’s position near the fore

of the Varden, the Empire looked a dense nest of uncertain orange lights

as large as any city.

As Eragon buckled the last piece of Saphira’s armor onto her tail, he

closed his eyes to maintain better contact with the magicians from Du

Vrangr Gata. He had to learn to locate them at a moment’s notice; his life

would depend on communicating with them in a quick and timely man-

ner. In turn, the magicians had to learn to recognize the touch of his mind

so they did not block him when he needed their assistance.

Eragon smiled and said, “Hello, Orik.” He opened his eyes to see Orik

clambering up the low knuckle of rock where he and Saphira sat. The

dwarf, who was fully armored, carried his Urgal-horn bow in his left

hand.

Hunkering beside Eragon, Orik wiped his brow and shook his head.