Paolini, Christopher - Inheritance Trilogy, Book 2 - Eldest (v1.5) (13 page)

he leaned forward, glaring back into Tronjheim. “Barzûl knurlar! Where

are they? Arya said she would be right here. Ha! Elves’ only concept of

time is late and even later.”

“Have you dealt with them much?” asked Eragon, crouching. Saphira

watched with interest.

The dwarf laughed suddenly. “Eta. Only Arya, and then sporadically be-

cause she traveled so often. In seven decades, I’ve learned but one thing

about her: You can’t rush an elf. Trying is like hammering a file—it might

break, but it’ll never bend.”

“Aren’t dwarves the same?”

“Ah, but stone will shift, given enough time.” Orik sighed and shook his

head. “Of all the races, elves change the least, which is one reason I’m re-

luctant to go.”

“But we’ll get to meet Queen Islanzadí and see Ellesméra and who

knows what else? When was the last time a dwarf was invited into Du

Weldenvarden?”

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Orik frowned at him. “Scenery means nothing. Urgent tasks remain in

Tronjheim and our other cities, yet I must tramp across Alagaësia to ex-

change pleasantries and sit and grow fat as you are tutored. It could take

years!”

Years!... Still, if that’s what is required to defeat Shades and the Ra’zac,

I’ll do it.

Saphira touched his mind: I doubt Nasuada will let us stay in Ellesméra

for more than a few months. With what she told us, we’ll be needed fairly

soon.

“At last!” said Orik, pushing himself upright.

Approaching were Nasuada—slippers flashing beneath her dress, like

mice darting from a hole—Jörmundur, and Arya, who bore a pack like

Orik’s. She wore the same black leather outfit Eragon had first seen her

in, as well as her sword.

At that moment, it struck Eragon that Arya and Nasuada might not

approve of him joining the Ingeitum. Guilt and trepidation shot through

him as he realized that it had been his duty to consult Nasuada first. And

Arya! He cringed, remembering how angry she had been after his first

meeting with the Council of Elders.

Thus, when Nasuada stopped before him, he averted his eyes, ashamed.

But she only said, “You accepted.” Her voice was gentle, restrained.

He nodded, still looking down.

“I wondered if you would. Now once again, all three races have a hold

on you. The dwarves can claim your allegiance as a member of Dûrgrimst

Ingeitum, the elves will train and shape you—and their influence may be

the strongest, for you and Saphira are bound by their magic—and you

have sworn fealty to me, a human. . Perhaps it is best that we share your

loyalty.” She met his surprise with an odd smile, then pressed a small bag

of coins into his palm and stepped away.

Jörmundur extended a hand, which Eragon shook, feeling a bit dazed.

“Have a good trip, Eragon. Guard yourself well.”

“Come,” said Arya, gliding past them into the darkness of Farthen Dûr.

“It is time to leave. Aiedail has set, and we have far to go.”

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“Aye,” Orik agreed. He pulled out a red lantern from the side of his

pack.

Nasuada looked them over once more. “Very well. Eragon and Saphira,

you have the Varden’s blessings, as well as mine. May your journey be

safe. Remember, you carry the weight of our hopes and expectations, so

acquit yourselves honorably.”

“We will do our best,” promised Eragon.

Gripping Snowfire’s reins firmly, he started after Arya, who was already

several yards away. Orik followed, then Saphira. As Saphira passed

Nasuada, Eragon saw her pause and lightly lick Nasuada on the cheek.

Then she lengthened her stride, catching up with him.

As they continued north along the road, the gate behind them shrank

smaller and smaller until it was reduced to a pinprick of light—with two

lonely silhouettes where Nasuada and Jörmundur remained watching.

When they finally reached Farthen Dûr’s base, they found a pair of gi-

gantic doors—thirty feet tall—open and waiting. Three dwarf guards

bowed and moved away from the aperture. Through the doors was a

tunnel of matching proportions, lined with columns and lanterns for the

first fifty feet. After that it was as empty and silent as a mausoleum.

It looked exactly like Farthen Dûr’s western entrance, but Eragon knew

that this tunnel was different. Instead of burrowing through the mile-

thick base to emerge outside, it proceeded underneath mountain after

mountain, all the way to the dwarf city Tarnag.

“Here is our path,” said Orik, lifting the lantern.

He and Arya crossed over the threshold, but Eragon held back, sud-

denly uncertain. While he did not fear the dark, neither did he welcome

being surrounded by eternal night until they arrived at Tarnag. And once

he entered the barren tunnel, he would again be hurling himself into the

unknown, abandoning the few things he had grown accustomed to

among the Varden in exchange for an uncertain destiny.

What is it? asked Saphira.

Nothing.

He took a breath, then strode forward, allowing the mountain to swal-

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low him in its depths.

81

HAMMER AND TONGS

Three days after the Ra’zac’s arrival, Roran found himself pacing uncon-

trollably along the edge of his camp in the Spine. He had heard nothing

since Albriech’s visit, nor was it possible to glean information by observ-

ing Carvahall. He glared at the distant tents where the soldiers slept, then

continued pacing.

At midday Roran had a small, dry lunch. Wiping his mouth with the

back of his hand, he wondered, How long are the Ra’zac willing to wait? If

it was a test of patience, he was determined to win.

To pass the time, he practiced his archery on a rotting log, stopping

only when an arrow shattered on a rock embedded in the trunk. After

that nothing else remained to do, except to resume striding back and

forth along the bare track that stretched from a boulder to where he

slept.

He was still pacing when footsteps sounded in the forest below. Grab-

bing his bow, Roran hid and waited. Relief rushed through him when

Baldor’s face bobbed into view. Roran waved him over.

As they sat, Roran asked, “Why hasn’t anyone come?”

“We couldn’t,” said Baldor, wiping sweat off his brow. “The soldiers

have been watching us too closely. This was the first opportunity we had

to get away. I can’t stay long either.” He turned his face toward the peak

above them and shuddered. “You’re braver than I, staying here. Have you

had any trouble with wolves, bears, mountain cats?”

“No, no, I’m fine. Did the soldiers say anything new?”

“One of them bragged to Morn last night that their squad was hand-

picked for this mission.” Roran frowned. “They haven’t been too quiet. .

At least two or three of them get drunk each night. A group of them tore

up Morn’s common room the first day.”

“Did they pay for the damage?”

“’Course not.”

Roran shifted, staring down at the village. “I still have trouble believing

that the Empire would go to these lengths to capture me. What could I

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give them? What do they think I can give them?”

Baldor followed his gaze. “The Ra’zac questioned Katrina today. Some-

one mentioned that the two of you are close, and the Ra’zac were curious

if she knew where you’d gone.”

Roran refocused on Baldor’s open face. “Is she all right?”

“It would take more than those two to scare her,” reassured Baldor. His

next sentence was cautious and probing. “Perhaps you should consider

turning yourself in.”

“I’d sooner hang myself and them with me!” Roran started up and

stalked over his usual route, still tapping his leg. “How can you say that,

knowing how they tortured my father?”

Catching his arm, Baldor said, “What happens if you remain in hiding

and the soldiers don’t give up and leave? They’ll assume we lied to help

you escape. The Empire doesn’t forgive traitors.”

Roran shrugged off Baldor. He spun around, tapping his leg, then

abruptly sat. If don’t show myself, the Ra’zac will blame the people at

hand. If I attempt to lead the Ra’zac away... Roran was not a skilled

enough woodsman to evade thirty men and the Ra’zac. Eragon could do it,

but not me. Still, unless the situation changed, it might be the only choice

available to him.

He looked at Baldor. “I don’t want anyone to be hurt on my behalf. I’ll

wait for now, and if the Ra’zac grow impatient and threaten someone. .

Well then, I’ll think of something else to do.”

“It’s a nasty situation all around,” offered Baldor.

“One I intend to survive.”

Baldor departed soon afterward, leaving Roran alone with his thoughts

on his endless path. He covered mile after mile, grinding a rut into the

earth under the weight of his ruminations. When chill dusk arrived, he

removed his boots—for fear of wearing them out—and proceeded to pad

barefoot.

Just as the waxing moon rose and subsumed the night shadows in

beams of marble light, Roran noticed a disturbance in Carvahall. Scores of

lanterns bobbed through the darkened village, winking in and out as they

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floated behind houses. The yellow specks clustered in the center of Car-

vahall, like a cloud of fireflies, then streamed haphazardly toward the

edge of town, where they were met by a hard line of torches from the

soldiers’ camp.

For two hours, Roran watched the opposing sides face each other—the

agitated lanterns milling helplessly against the stolid torches. Finally, the

lambent groups dispersed and filtered back into the tents and houses.

When nothing else of interest occurred, Roran untied his bedroll and

slipped under the blankets.

Throughout the next day, Carvahall was consumed with unusual activ-

ity. Figures strode between houses and even, Roran was surprised to see,

rode out into Palancar Valley toward various farms. At noon he saw two

men enter the soldiers’ camp and disappear into the Ra’zac’s tent for al-

most an hour.

So involved was he with the proceedings, Roran barely moved the en-

tire day.

He was in the middle of dinner when, as he had hoped, Baldor reap-

peared. “Hungry?” asked Roran, gesturing.

Baldor shook his head and sat with an air of exhaustion. Dark lines un-

der his eyes made his skin look thin and bruised. “Quimby’s dead.”

Roran’s bowl clattered as it struck the ground. He cursed, wiping cold

stew off his leg, then asked, “How?”

“A couple of soldiers started bothering Tara last night.” Tara was

Morn’s wife. “She didn’t really mind, except the men got in a fight over

who she was supposed to serve next. Quimby was there—checking a

cask Morn said had turned—and he tried to break them up.” Roran nod-

ded. That was Quimby, always interfering to make sure others behaved

properly. “Only thing is, a soldier threw a pitcher and hit him on the

temple. Killed him instantly.”

Roran stared at the ground with his hands on his hips, struggling to re-

gain control over his ragged breathing. He felt as if Baldor had knocked

the wind out of him. It doesn’t seem possible.... Quimby, gone? The farmer

and part-time brewer was as much a part of the landscape as the moun-

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tains surrounding Carvahall, an unquestioned presence that shaped the

fabric of the village. “Will the men be punished?”

Baldor held up his hand. “Right after Quimby died, the Ra’zac stole his

body from the tavern and hauled it out to their tents. We tried to get it

back last night, but they wouldn’t talk with us.”

“I saw.”

Baldor grunted, rubbing his face. “Dad and Loring met with the Ra’zac

today and managed to convince them to release the body. The soldiers,

however, won’t face any consequences.” He paused. “I was about to leave

when Quimby was handed over. You know what his wife got? Bones.”

“Bones!”

“Every one of them was nibbled clean—you could see the bite marks—

and most had been cracked open for the marrow.”

Disgust gripped Roran, as well as profound horror for Quimby’s fate. It

was well known that a person’s spirit could never rest until his body was

given a proper burial. Revolted by the desecration, he asked, “What, who,

ate him then?”

“The soldiers were just as appalled. It must have been the Ra’zac.”

“Why? To what end?”

“I don’t think,” said Baldor, “that the Ra’zac are human. You’ve never

seen them up close, but their breath is foul, and they always cover their

faces with black scarves. Their backs are humped and twisted, and they

speak to each other with clicks. Even their men seem to fear them.”

“If they aren’t human, then what kind of creatures can they be?” de-

manded Roran. “They’re not Urgals.”

“Who knows?”

Fear now joined Roran’s revulsion—fear of the supernatural. He saw it

echoed on Baldor’s face as the young man clasped his hands. For all the

stories of Galbatorix’s misdeeds, it was still a shock to have the king’s evil

roosted among their homes. A sense of history settled on Roran as he re-

alized he was involved with forces he had previously been acquainted

with only through songs and stories. “Something should be done,” he