Paolini, Christopher - Inheritance Trilogy, Book 2 - Eldest (v1.5) (19 page)

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jections and still had the yawë tattooed on my shoulder—which indicates

that I have devoted myself to the greater good of our race, as is the case

with your ring from Brom—my family refused to see me again.”

“But that was over seventy years ago,” he protested.

Arya looked away, concealing her face behind a veil of hair. Eragon

tried to imagine what it must have been like for her—ostracized from

her family and sent to live among two completely different races. No

wonder she’s so withdrawn, he realized. “Are there any other elves outside

of Du Weldenvarden?”

Still keeping her face covered, she said, “Three of us were sent forth

from Ellesméra. Fäolin and Glenwing always traveled with me when we

transported Saphira’s egg between Du Weldenvarden and Tronjheim.

Only I survived Durza’s ambush.”

“What were they like?”

“Proud warriors. Glenwing loved speaking to birds with his mind. He

would stand in the forest surrounded by a flock of songbirds and listen to

their music for hours. Afterward, he might sing us the prettiest melodies.”

“And Fäolin?” This time Arya refused to answer, though her hands

tightened on her bow. Undaunted, Eragon cast around for another sub-

ject. “Why do you dislike Gannel so much?”

She faced him suddenly and touched his cheek with soft fingers. Eragon

flinched with surprise. “That,” she said, “is a discussion for another time.”

Then she stood and calmly relocated herself across the courtyard.

Confused, Eragon stared at her back. I don’t understand, he said, leaning

against Saphira’s belly. She snorted, amused, then curled her neck and tail

around him and promptly fell asleep.

As the valley darkened, Eragon struggled to stay alert. He pulled out

Gannel’s necklace and examined it several times with magic, but found

only the priest’s guarding spell. Giving up, he replaced the necklace under

his tunic, pulled his shield over him, and settled down to wait through

the night.

At the first hint of light in the sky overhead—though the valley itself

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was still in shadow and would remain so until almost midday—Eragon

roused Saphira. The dwarves were already up, busy muffling their weap-

ons so they could creep through Tarnag with utter secrecy. Ûndin even

had Eragon tie rags around Saphira’s claws and Snowfire’s hooves.

When all was ready, Ûndin and his warriors assembled in a large block

around Eragon, Saphira, and Arya. The gates were carefully opened—no

sound came from the oiled hinges—and then they set out for the lake.

Tarnag seemed deserted, the vacant streets lined with houses where its

inhabitants lay oblivious and dreaming. The few dwarves they encoun-

tered gazed at them silently, then padded away like ghosts in the twilight.

At the gate to each tier, a guard waved them through without com-

ment. They soon left the buildings and found themselves crossing the

barren fields at Tarnag’s base. Beyond those, they reached the stone quay

that edged the still, gray water.

Waiting for them were two wide rafts tied alongside a pier. Three

dwarves squatted on the first raft, four on the second. They stood as

Ûndin came into view.

Eragon helped the dwarves hobble and blindfold Snowfire, then coax

the reluctant horse onto the second raft, where he was forced to his

knees and tied down. Meanwhile, Saphira slipped off the pier into the

lake. Only her head remained above the surface as she paddled through

the water.

Ûndin grasped Eragon’s arm. “Here is where we part. You have my best

men; they will protect you until you reach Du Weldenvarden.” Eragon

tried to thank him, but Ûndin shook his head. “No, it is not a matter for

gratitude. It is my duty. I am only shamed that your stay was darkened by

the hatred of Az Sweldn rak Anhûin.”

Eragon bowed, then boarded the first raft with Orik and Arya. The

mooring ropes were unknotted, and the dwarves pushed away from

shore with long poles. As dawn approached, the two rafts drifted toward

the mouth of the Az Ragni, Saphira swimming between them.

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DIAMONDS IN THE NIGHT

The Empire has violated my home.

So thought Roran as he listened to the anguished moans of the men in-

jured during the previous night’s battle with the Ra’zac and soldiers. Ro-

ran shuddered with fear and rage until his whole body was consumed

with feverish chills that left his cheeks burning and his breath short. And

he was sad, so very sad. . as if the Ra’zac’s deeds had destroyed the inno-

cence of his childhood haunts.

Leaving the healer, Gertrude, tending to the wounded, Roran contin-

ued toward Horst’s house, noting the makeshift barriers that filled the

gaps between buildings: the boards, the barrels, the piles of rocks, and the

splintered frames of the two wagons destroyed by the Ra’zac’s explosives.

It all seemed pitifully fragile.

The few people who moved through Carvahall were glassy-eyed with

shock, grief, and exhaustion. Roran was tired too, more than he could

ever remember being. He had not slept since the night before last, and his

arms and back ached from the fighting.

He entered Horst’s house and saw Elain standing by the open doorway

to the dining room, listening to the steady burn of conversation that

emanated from within. She beckoned him over.

After they had foiled the Ra’zac’s counterattack, the prominent mem-

bers of Carvahall had sequestered themselves in an attempt to decide

what action the village should take and if Horst and his allies should be

punished for initiating the hostilities. The group had been in deliberation

most of the morning.

Roran peeked into the room. Seated around the long table were Birgit,

Loring, Sloan, Gedric, Delwin, Fisk, Morn, and a number of others. Horst

presided at the head of the table.

“. . and I say that it was stupid and reckless!” exclaimed Kiselt, propping

himself upright on his bony elbows. “You had no cause to endanger—”

Morn waved a hand. “We’ve been over this before. Whether what has

been done should have been done is beside the point. I happen to agree

with it—Quimby was my friend as much as anyone’s, and I shudder to

think what those monsters would do with Roran—but. . but what I want

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to know is how we can escape this predicament.”

“Easy, kill the soldiers,” barked Sloan.

“And then what? More men will follow until we drown in a sea of

crimson tunics. Even if we surrender Roran, it’ll do no good; you heard

what the Ra’zac said—they’ll kill us if we protect Roran and enslave us if

we don’t. You may feel differently, but, as for myself, I would rather die

than spend my life as a slave.” Morn shook his head, his mouth set in a

flat grim line. “We cannot survive.”

Fisk leaned forward. “We could leave.”

“There’s nowhere to go,” retorted Kiselt. “We’re backed against the

Spine, the soldiers have blocked the road, and beyond them is the rest of

the Empire.”

“It’s all your fault,” cried Thane, stabbing a shaking finger at Horst.

“They will torch our houses and murder our children because of you.

You!”

Horst stood so quickly, his chair toppled over backward. “Where is

your honor, man? Will you let them eat us without fighting back?”

“Yes, if it means suicide otherwise.” Thane glared around the table, then

stormed out past Roran. His face was contorted by pure, unadulterated

fear.

Gedric spotted Roran then and waved him in. “Come, come, we’ve

been waiting for you.”

Roran clasped his hands in the small of his back as scores of hard eyes

inspected him. “How can I help?”

“I think,” said Gedric, “we’ve all agreed that it would accomplish noth-

ing to give you to the Empire at this point. Whether we would if that

wasn’t the case is neither here nor there. The only thing we can do is

prepare for another attack. Horst will make spearheads—and other

weapons if he has time—and Fisk has agreed to construct shields. Fortu-

nately, his carpentry shop didn’t burn. And someone needs to oversee our

defenses. We would like it to be you. You’ll have plenty of assistance.”

Roran nodded. “I’ll do my best.”

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Beside Morn, Tara stood, towering over her husband. She was a large

woman, with gray-streaked black hair and strong hands that were just as

capable of twisting off a chicken’s head as separating a pair of brawlers.

She said, “Make sure you do, Roran, else we’ll have more funerals.” Then

she turned to Horst. “Before we go any further, there are men to bury.

And there are children who should be sent to safety, maybe to Cawley’s

farm on Nost Creek. You should go as well, Elain.”

“I won’t leave Horst,” said Elain calmly.

Tara bristled. “This is no place for a woman five months pregnant.

You’ll lose the child running around like you have.”

“It would do me far more harm to worry in ignorance than remain here.

I have borne my sons; I will stay, as I know you and every other wife in

Carvahall will.”

Horst came around the table and, with a tender expression, took Elain’s

hand. “Nor would I have you anywhere but at my side. The children

should go, though. Cawley will care for them well, but we must make

sure that the route to his farm is clear.”

“Not only that,” rasped Loring, “none of us, not one blasted man jack

can have a thing to do with the families down the valley, ’side from Caw-

ley, of course. They can’t help us, and we don’t want those desecrators to

trouble ’em.”

Everyone agreed that he was right, then the meeting ended and the at-

tendees dispersed throughout Carvahall. Before long, however, they re-

congregated—along with most of the village—in the small cemetery be-

hind Gertrude’s house. Ten white-swathed corpses were arranged beside

their graves, a sprig of hemlock on each of their cold chests and a silver

amulet around each of their necks.

Gertrude stood forth and recited the men’s names: “Parr, Wyglif, Ged,

Bardrick, Farold, Hale, Garner, Kelby, Melkolf, and Albem.” She placed

black pebbles over their eyes, then raised her arms, lifted her face to the

sky, and began the quavering death lay. Tears seeped from the corners of

her closed eyes as her voice rose and fell with the immemorial phrases,

sighing and moaning with the village’s sorrow. She sang of the earth and

the night and of humanity’s ageless sorrow from which none escape.

After the last mournful note faded into silence, family members praised

the feats and traits of those they had lost. Then the bodies were buried.

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As Roran listened, his gaze lit upon the anonymous mound where the

three soldiers had been interred. One killed by Nolfavrell, and two by me.

He could still feel the visceral shock of muscle and bone giving. . crunch-

ing. . pulping under his hammer. His bile rose and he had to struggle not

to be sick in full view of the village. I am the one who destroyed them. Ro-

ran had never expected or wanted to kill, and yet he had taken more

lives than anyone else in Carvahall. It felt as if his brow was marked with

blood.

He left as soon as possible—not even stopping to speak with Katrina—

and climbed to a point where he could survey Carvahall and consider

how best to protect it. Unfortunately, the houses were too far apart to

form a defensive perimeter by just fortifying the spaces between build-

ings. Nor did Roran think it would be a good idea to have soldiers fight-

ing up against the walls of people’s houses and trampling their gardens.

The Anora River guards our western flank, he thought, but as for the rest of

Carvahall, we couldn’t even keep a child out of it.... What can we build in

a few hours that will be a strong enough barrier?

He jogged into the middle of the village and shouted, “I need everyone

who is free to help cut down trees!” After a minute, men began to trickle

out of the houses and through the streets. “Come on, more! We all have

to help!” Roran waited as the group around him continued to grow.

One of Loring’s sons, Darmmen, shouldered to his side. “What’s your

plan?”

Roran raised his voice so they could all hear. “We need a wall around

Carvahall; the thicker the better. I figure if we get some big trees, lay

them on their sides, and sharpen the branches, the Ra’zac will have a

pretty hard time getting over them.”

“How many trees do you think it’ll take?” asked Orval.

Roran hesitated, trying to gauge Carvahall’s circumference. “At least

fifty. Maybe sixty to do it properly.” The men swore and began to argue.

“Wait!” Roran counted the number of people in the crowd. He arrived at

forty-eight. “If you each fell a tree in the next hour, we’ll be almost done.

Can you do that?”

“What do you take us for?” retorted Orval. “The last time I took an

hour on a tree, I was ten!”

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Darmmen spoke up: “What about brambles? We could drape them

over the trees. I don’t know anyone who can climb through a knot of

thorny vines.”

Roran grinned. “That’s a great idea. Also, those of you with sons, have