Paolini, Christopher - Inheritance Trilogy, Book 2 - Eldest (v1.5) (89 page)

“How’d you know it was me? I was shielding myself.”

Every consciousness feels different, explained Saphira. Just like no two

voices sound exactly the same.

“Ah.”

Eragon asked, “What brings you here?”

Orik shrugged. “It struck me you might appreciate a spot of company

in this grim night. Especially since Arya’s otherwise engaged and you

don’t have Murtagh with you for this battle.”

And I wish I did, thought Eragon. Murtagh had been the only human

who matched Eragon’s skill with a sword, at least before the Agaetí

Blödhren. Sparring with him had been one of Eragon’s few pleasures dur-

ing their time together. I would have enjoyed fighting with you again, old

friend.

Remembering how Murtagh was killed—dragged underground by Ur-

gals in Farthen Dûr—forced Eragon to confront a sobering truth: No mat-

571

ter how great a warrior you were, as often as not, pure chance dictated

who lived and who died in war.

Orik must have sensed his mood, for he clapped Eragon on the shoul-

der and said, “You’ll be fine. Just imagine how the soldiers out there feel,

knowing they have to face you before long!”

Gratitude made Eragon smile again. “I’m glad you came.”

The tip of Orik’s nose reddened, and he glanced down, rolling his bow

between gnarled hands. “Ah, well,” he grumbled, “Hrothgar wouldn’t

much like it if I let something happen to you. Besides, we’re foster broth-

ers now, eh?”

Through Eragon, Saphira asked, What about the other dwarves? Aren’t

they under your command?

A twinkle sprang into Orik’s eyes. “Why, yes, so they are. And they’ll

be joining us before long. Seeing as Eragon’s a member of Dûrgrimst

Ingeitum, it’s only right we fight the Empire together. That way, the two

of you won’t be so vulnerable; you can concentrate on finding Galba-

torix’s magicians instead of defending yourselves from constant attacks.”

“A good idea. Thank you.” Orik grunted an acknowledgment. Then Er-

agon asked, “What do you think about Nasuada and the Urgals?”

“She made the right choice.”

“You agree with her!”

“I do. I don’t like it any more than you, but I do.”

Silence enveloped them after that. Eragon sat against Saphira and stared

out at the Empire, trying to prevent his growing anxiety from over-

whelming him. Minutes dragged by. To him, the interminable waiting be-

fore a battle was as stressful as the actual fighting. He oiled Saphira’s sad-

dle, polished rust off his hauberk, and then resumed familiarizing himself

with the minds of Du Vrangr Gata, anything to pass the time.

Over an hour later, he paused as he sensed two beings approaching

from across the no-man’s-land. Angela? Solembum? Puzzled and alarmed,

he woke Orik—who had dozed off—and told him what he had discov-

ered.

572

The dwarf frowned and drew his war ax from his belt. “I’ve only met

the herbalist a few times, but she didn’t seem like the sort who would

betray us. She’s been welcome among the Varden for decades.”

“We should still find out what she was doing,” said Eragon.

Together they picked their way through the camp to intercept the duo

as they approached the fortifications. Angela soon trotted into the light,

Solembum at her heels. The witch was muffled in a dark, full-length

cloak that allowed her to blend into the mottled landscape. Displaying a

surprising amount of alacrity, strength, and flexibility, she clambered over

the many rows of breastwork the dwarves had engineered, swinging from

pole to pole, leaping over trenches, and finally running helter-skelter

down the steep face of the last rampart to stop, panting, by Saphira.

Throwing back the hood of her cloak, Angela flashed them a bright

smile. “A welcoming committee! How thoughtful of you.” As she spoke,

the werecat shivered along his length, fur rippling. Then his outline

blurred as if seen through cloudy water, resolving once more into the

nude figure of a shaggy-haired boy. Angela dipped her hand into a leather

purse at her belt and passed a child’s tunic and breeches back to Solem-

bum, along with the small black dagger he fought with.

“What were you doing out there?” asked Orik, peering at them with a

suspicious gaze.

“Oh, this and that.”

“I think you better tell us,” said Eragon.

Her face hardened. “Is that so? Don’t you trust Solembum and me?”

The werecat bared his pointed teeth.

“Not really,” admitted Eragon, but with a small smile.

“That’s good,” said Angela. She patted him on the cheek. “You’ll live

longer. If you must know, then, I was doing my best to help defeat the

Empire, only my methods don’t involve yelling and running around with

a sword.”

“And what exactly are your methods?” growled Orik.

Angela paused to roll up her cloak into a tight bundle, which she stored

in her purse. “I’d rather not say; I want it to be a surprise. You won’t have

573

to wait long to find out. It’ll start in a few hours.”

Orik tugged on his beard. “What will start? If you can’t give us a

straight answer, we’ll have to take you to Nasuada. Maybe she can wring

some sense out of you.”

“It’s no use dragging me off to Nasuada,” said Angela. “She gave me

permission to cross lines.”

“So you say,” challenged Orik, ever more belligerent.

“And so I say,” announced Nasuada, walking up to them from behind,

as Eragon knew she would. He also sensed that she was accompanied by

four Kull, one of whom was Garzhvog. Scowling, he turned to face them,

making no attempt to hide his anger at the Urgals’ presence.

“My Lady,” muttered Eragon.

Orik was not as composed; he jumped back with a mighty oath, grasp-

ing his war ax. He quickly realized that they were not under attack and

gave Nasuada a terse greeting. But his hand never left the haft of his

weapon and his eyes never left the hulking Urgals. Angela seemed to

have no such inhibitions. She paid Nasuada the respect due to her, then

addressed the Urgals in their own harsh language, to which they an-

swered with evident delight.

Nasuada drew Eragon off to the side so they could have a measure of

privacy. There, she said, “I need you to put aside your feelings for a mo-

ment and judge what I am about to tell you with logic and reason. Can

you do that?” He nodded, stiff-faced. “Good. I’m doing everything I can to

ensure we don’t lose tomorrow. It doesn’t matter, though, how well we

fight, or how well I lead the Varden, or even if we rout the Empire if

you, ” she poked him in the chest, “are killed. Do you understand?” He

nodded again. “There’s nothing I can do to protect you if Galbatorix re-

veals himself; if he does, you will face him alone. Du Vrangr Gata poses

no more of a threat to him than they do to you, and I’ll not have them

eradicated without reason.”

“I have always known,” said Eragon, “that I would face Galbatorix alone

but for Saphira.”

A sad smile touched Nasuada’s lips. She looked very tired in the flicker-

ing torchlight. “Well, there’s no reason to invent trouble where none ex-

ists. It’s possible Galbatorix isn’t even here.” She did not seem to believe

574

her own words, though. “In any case, I can at least keep you from dying

from a sword in the gut. I heard what the dwarves intend to do, and I

thought I could improve upon the concept. I asked Garzhvog and three

of his rams to be your guards, so long as they agreed—which they have—

to let you examine their minds for treachery.”

Eragon went rigid. “You can’t expect me to fight with those monsters.

Besides, I already accepted the dwarves’ offer to defend Saphira and me.

They would take it poorly if I rejected them in favor of Urgals.”

“Then they can both guard you,” retorted Nasuada. She searched his

face for a long time, looking for what he could not tell. “Oh, Eragon. I’d

hoped you could see past your hate. What else would you do in my posi-

tion?” She sighed when he remained silent. “If anyone has cause to hold a

grudge against the Urgals, it is I. They killed my father. Yet I cannot al-

low that to interfere with deciding what’s best for the Varden. . At least

ask Saphira’s opinion before you say yea or nay. I can order you to accept

the Urgals’ protection, but I would rather not.”

You’re being foolish, observed Saphira without prompting.

Foolish to not want Kull watching my back?

No, foolish to refuse help, no matter where it comes from, in our present

situation. Think. You know what Oromis would do, and you know what he

would say. Don’t you trust his judgment?

He can’t be right about everything, said Eragon.

That’s no argument.... Search yourself, Eragon, and tell me whether I

speak the truth. You know the correct path. I would be disappointed if you

could not bring yourself to embrace it.

Saphira and Nasuada’s cajoling only made Eragon more reluctant to

agree. Still, he knew he had no choice. “All right, I’ll let them guard me,

but only if I find nothing suspicious in their minds. Will you promise

that, after this battle, you won’t make me work with an Urgal again?”

Nasuada shook her head. “I can’t do that, not when it might hurt the

Varden.” She paused and said, “Oh, and Eragon?”

“Yes, my Lady?”

“In the event of my death, I have chosen you as my successor. If that

575

should happen, I suggest you rely upon Jörmundur’s advice—he has more

experience than the other members of the Council of Elders—and I

would expect you to place the welfare of those underneath you before

all else. Am I clear, Eragon?”

Her announcement caught him by surprise. Nothing meant more to her

than the Varden. Offering it to him was the greatest act of trust she

could make. Her confidence humbled and touched him; he bowed his

head. “I would strive to be as good a leader as you and Ajihad have been.

You honor me, Nasuada.”

“Yes, I do.” Turning away from him, she rejoined the others.

Still overwhelmed by Nasuada’s revelation, and finding his anger tem-

pered by it, Eragon slowly walked back to Saphira. He studied Garzhvog

and the other Urgals, trying to gauge their mood, but their features were

so different from those he was accustomed to, he could discern nothing

more than the broadest of emotions. Nor could he find any empathy

within himself for the Urgals. To him, they were feral beasts that would

kill him as soon as not and were incapable of love, kindness, or even true

intelligence. In short, they were lesser beings.

Deep within his mind, Saphira whispered, I’m sure Galbatorix is of the

same opinion.

And for good reason, he growled, intending to shock her. Suppressing his

revulsion, he said out loud, “Nar Garzhvog, I am told that the four of you

agreed to allow me within your minds.”

“That is so, Firesword. Lady Nightstalker told us what was required.

We are honored to have the chance to battle alongside such a mighty

warrior, and one who has done so much for us.”

“What do you mean? I have killed scores of your kin.” Unbidden, ex-

cerpts from one of Oromis’s scrolls rose in Eragon’s memory. He remem-

bered reading that Urgals, both male and female, determined their rank in

society through combat, and that it was this practice, above all else, that

had led to so many conflicts between Urgals and other races. Which

meant, he realized, that if they admired his feats in battle, then they may

have accorded him the same status as one of their war chiefs.

“By killing Durza, you freed us from his control. We are in your debt,

Firesword. None of our rams will challenge you, and if you visit our halls,

you and the dragon, Flametongue, will be welcomed as no outsiders ever

576

before.”

Of all the responses Eragon had expected, gratitude was the last, and it

was the one he was least prepared to deal with. Unable to think of any-

thing else, he said, “I won’t forget.” He switched his gaze to the other Ur-

gals, then returned it to Garzhvog and his yellow eyes. “Are you ready?”

“Aye, Rider.”

As Eragon reached toward Garzhvog’s consciousness, it reminded him

of how the Twins invaded his mind when he first entered Farthen Dûr.

That observation was swept away as he immersed himself in the Urgal’s

identity. The very nature of his search—looking for malevolent intent

perhaps hidden somewhere in Garzhvog’s past—meant Eragon had to

examine years of memories. Unlike the Twins, Eragon avoided causing

deliberate pain, but he was not overly gentle. He could feel Garzhvog

flinch with occasional pangs of discomfort. Like dwarves and elves, the

mind of an Urgal possessed different elements than a human mind. Its

structure emphasized rigidity and hierarchy—a result of the tribes the

Urgals organized themselves into—but it felt rough and raw, brutal and

cunning: the mind of a wild animal.

Though he made no effort to learn more about Garzhvog as an individ-

ual, Eragon could not help absorbing pieces of the Urgal’s life. Garzhvog

did not resist. Indeed, he seemed eager to share his experiences, to con-