Paolini, Christopher - Inheritance Trilogy, Book 2 - Eldest (v1.5) (91 page)

agon proceeded to the next catapult and, in short order, disabled the re-

mainder of the engines.

Returning to himself, Eragon became aware of dozens of the Varden

collapsing around Saphira; one of Du Vrangr Gata had been over-

whelmed. He uttered a dreadful curse and flung himself back along the

trail of magic as he searched for the man who cast the fatal spell, entrust-

ing the welfare of his body to Saphira and his guards.

For over an hour, Eragon hunted Galbatorix’s magicians, but to little

avail, for they were wily and cunning and did not directly attack him.

Their reticence puzzled Eragon until he tore from the mind of one spell-

caster—moments before he committed suicide—the thought,... ordered

not to kill you or the dragon... not to kill you or the dragon.

That answers my question, he said to Saphira, but why does Galbatorix

still want us alive? We’ve made it clear we support the Varden.

Before she could respond, Nasuada appeared before them, her face

streaked with filth and gore, her shield covered with dents, blood sheet-

ing down her left leg from a wound on her thigh. “Eragon,” she gasped. “I

need you, both of you, to fight, to show yourselves and embolden the

men. . to frighten the soldiers.”

Her condition shocked Eragon. “Let me heal you first,” he cried, afraid

she might faint. I should have put more wards around her.

“No! I can wait, but we are lost unless you stem the tide of soldiers.”

Her eyes were glazed and empty, blank holes in her face. “We need. . a

Rider.” She swayed in her saddle.

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Eragon saluted her with Zar’roc. “You have one, my Lady.”

“Go,” she said, “and may what gods there are watch over you.”

Eragon was too high on Saphira’s back to strike his enemies below, so

he dismounted and positioned himself by her right paw. To Orik and

Garzhvog, he said, “Protect Saphira’s left side. And whatever you do,

don’t get in our way.”

“You will be overrun, Firesword.”

“No,” said Eragon, “I won’t. Now take your places!” As they did, he put

his hand on Saphira’s leg and looked her in one clear-cut sapphire eye.

Shall we dance, friend of my heart?

We shall, little one.

Then he and she merged their identities to a greater degree than ever

before, vanquishing all differences between them to become a single en-

tity. They bellowed, leaped forward, and forged a path to the front line.

Once there, Eragon could not tell from whose mouth emanated the rav-

enous jet of flame that consumed a dozen soldiers, cooking them in their

mail, nor whose arm it was that brought Zar’roc down in an arc, cleaving

a soldier’s helm in half.

The metallic scent of blood clogged the air, and curtains of smoke

wafted over the Burning Plains, alternately concealing and revealing the

knots, clumps, ranks, and battalions of thrashing bodies. Overhead, the

carrion birds waited for their meal and the sun climbed in the firmament

toward noon.

From the minds of those around them, Eragon and Saphira caught

glimpses of how they appeared. Saphira was always noticed first: a great

ravening creature with claws and fangs dyed red, who slew all in her path

with swipes of her paws and lashes of her tail and with billowing waves

of flame that engulfed entire platoons of soldiers. Her brilliant scales glit-

tered like stars and nearly blinded her foes with their reflected light.

Next they saw Eragon running alongside Saphira. He moved faster than

the soldiers could react and, with strength beyond men, splintered shields

with a single blow, rent armor, and clove the swords of those who op-

posed him. Shot and dart cast at him fell to the pestilent ground ten feet

away, stopped by his wards.

It was harder for Eragon—and, by extension, Saphira—to fight his own

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race than it had been to fight the Urgals in Farthen Dûr. Every time he

saw a frightened face or looked into a soldier’s mind, he thought, This

could be me. But he and Saphira could afford no mercy; if a soldier stood

before them, he died.

Three times they sallied forth and three times Eragon and Saphira slew

every man in the Empire’s first few ranks before retreating to the main

body of the Varden to avoid being surrounded. By the end of their last

attack, Eragon had to reduce or eliminate certain wards around Arya,

Orik, Nasuada, Saphira, and himself in order to keep the spells from ex-

hausting him too quickly. For though his strength was great, so too were

the demands of battle.

Ready? he asked Saphira after a brief respite. She growled an affirma-

tive.

A cloud of arrows whistled toward Eragon the instant he dove back

into combat. Fast as an elf, he dodged the bulk of them—since his magic

no longer protected him from such missiles—caught twelve on his shield,

and stumbled as one struck his belly and one his side. Neither shaft

pierced his armor, but they knocked the wind out of him and left bruises

the size of apples. Don’t stop! You’ve dealt with worse pain than this be-

fore, he told himself.

Rushing a cluster of eight soldiers, Eragon darted from one to the next,

knocking aside their pikes and jabbing Zar’roc like a deadly bolt of light-

ning. The fighting had dulled his reflexes, though, and one soldier man-

aged to drive his pike through Eragon’s hauberk, slicing his left triceps.

The soldiers cringed as Saphira roared.

Eragon took advantage of the distraction to fortify himself with energy

stored within the ruby in Zar’roc’s pommel and then to kill the three re-

maining soldiers.

Sweeping her tail over him, Saphira knocked a score of men out of his

way. In the lull that followed, Eragon looked over at his throbbing arm

and said, “Waíse heill.” He also healed his bruises, relying upon Zar’roc’s

ruby, as well as the diamonds in the belt of Beloth the Wise.

Then the two of them pressed onward.

Eragon and Saphira choked the Burning Plains with mountains of their

enemies, and yet the Empire never faltered or fell back. For every man

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they killed, another stepped forth to take his place. A sense of hopeless-

ness engulfed Eragon as the mass of soldiers gradually forced the Varden

to retreat toward their own camp. He saw his despair mirrored in the

faces of Nasuada, Arya, King Orrin, and even Angela when he passed

them in battle.

All our training and we still can’t stop the Empire, raged Eragon. There

are just too many soldiers! We can’t keep this up forever. And Zar’roc and

the belt are almost depleted.

You can draw energy from your surroundings if you have to.

I won’t, not unless I kill another of Galbatorix’s magicians and can take

it from the soldiers. Otherwise, I’ll just be hurting the rest of the Varden,

since there are no plants or animals here I can use to support us.

As the long hours dragged by, Eragon grew sore and weary and—

stripped of many of his arcane defenses—accumulated dozens of minor

injuries. His left arm went numb from the countless blows that ham-

mered his mangled shield. A scratch on his forehead kept blinding him

with rivulets of hot, sweat-mixed blood. He thought one of his fingers

might be broken.

Saphira fared no better. The soldiers’ armor tore the inside of her

mouth, dozens of swords and arrows cut her unprotected wings, and a

javelin punctured one of her own plates of armor, wounding her in the

shoulder. Eragon saw the spear coming and tried to deflect it with a spell

but was too slow. Whenever Saphira moved, she splattered the ground

with hundreds of drops of blood.

Beside them, three of Orik’s warriors fell, and two of the Kull.

And the sun began its descent toward evening.

As Eragon and Saphira prepared for their seventh and final assault, a

trumpet sounded in the east, loud and clear, and King Orrin shouted,

“The dwarves are here! The dwarves are here!”

Dwarves? Eragon blinked and glanced around, confused. He saw noth-

ing but soldiers. Then a jolt of excitement raced through him as he un-

derstood. The dwarves! He climbed onto Saphira and she jumped into the

air, hanging for a moment on her tattered wings as they surveyed the bat-

tlefield.

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It was true—a great host marched out of the east toward the Burning

Plains. At its head strode King Hrothgar, clad in gold mail, his jeweled

helm upon his brow, and Volund, his ancient war hammer, gripped in his

iron fist. The dwarf king raised Volund in greeting when he saw Eragon

and Saphira.

Eragon howled at the top of his lungs and returned the gesture, bran-

dishing Zar’roc in the air. A surge of renewed vigor made him forget his

wounds and feel fierce and determined again. Saphira added her voice to

his, and the Varden looked to her with hope, while the Empire’s soldiers

hesitated with fear.

“What did you see?” cried Orik as Saphira dropped back to earth. “Is it

Hrothgar? How many warriors did he bring?”

Ecstatic with relief, Eragon stood in his stirrups and shouted, “Take

heart, King Hrothgar is here! And it looks like every single dwarf is be-

hind him! We’ll crush the Empire!” After the men stopped cheering, he

added, “Now take your swords and remind these flea-bitten cowards why

they should fear us. Charge!”

Just as Saphira leaped toward the soldiers, Eragon heard a second cry,

this one from the west: “A ship! A ship is coming up the Jiet River!”

“Blast it,” he snarled. We can’t let a ship land if it’s bringing reinforce-

ments for the Empire. Contacting Trianna, he said, Tell Nasuada that

Saphira and I will take care of this. We’ll sink the ship if it’s from Galba-

torix.

As you wish, Argetlam, replied the sorceress.

Without hesitation, Saphira took flight, circling high over the trampled,

smoking plain. As the relentless clamor of combat faded from his ears,

Eragon took a deep breath, feeling his mind clear. Below, he was sur-

prised by how scattered both armies had become. The Empire and the

Varden had disintegrated into a series of smaller groups contending

against one another over the entire breadth and width of the Burning

Plains. It was into this confused tumult that the dwarves inserted them-

selves, catching the Empire from the side—as Orrin had done earlier with

his cavalry.

Eragon lost sight of the battle when Saphira turned to her left and

soared through the clouds in the direction of the Jiet River. A gust of

wind blew the peat smoke out of their way and unveiled a large three-

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masted ship riding upon the orange water, rowing against the current

with two banks of oars. The ship was scarred and damaged and flew no

colors to declare its allegiance. Nevertheless, Eragon readied himself to

destroy the vessel. As Saphira dove toward it, he lifted Zar’roc overhead

and loosed his savage war cry.

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CONVERGENCE

Roran stood at the prow of the Dragon Wing and listened to the oars

swish through the water. He had just finished a stint rowing and a cold,

jagged ache permeated his right shoulder. Will I always have to deal with

this reminder of the Ra’zac? He wiped the sweat from his face and ignored

the discomfort, concentrating instead on the river ahead, which was ob-

scured by a bank of sooty clouds.

Elain joined him at the railing. She rested a hand on her swollen belly.

“The water looks evil,” she said. “Perhaps we should have stayed in

Dauth, rather than drag ourselves in search of more trouble.”

He feared she spoke the truth. After the Boar’s Eye, they had sailed east

from the Southern Isles back to the coast and then up the mouth of the

Jiet River to Surda’s port city of Dauth. By the time they made landfall,

their stores were exhausted and the villagers sickly.

Roran had every intention of staying in Dauth, especially after they re-

ceived an enthusiastic welcome from its governor, Lady Alarice. But that

was before he was told about Galbatorix’s army. If the Varden were de-

feated, he would never see Katrina again. So, with the help of Jeod, he

convinced Horst and many of the other villagers that if they wanted to

live in Surda, safe from the Empire, they had to row up the Jiet River and

assist the Varden. It was a difficult task, but in the end Roran prevailed.

And once they told Lady Alarice about their quest, she gave them all the

supplies they wanted.

Since then, Roran often wondered if he made the right choice. By now

everyone hated living on the Dragon Wing. People were tense and short-

tempered, a situation only aggravated by the knowledge they were sailing

toward a battle. Was it all selfishness on my part? wondered Roran. Did I

really do this for the benefit of the villagers, or only because it will bring me

one step closer to finding Katrina?

“Perhaps we should have,” he said to Elain.

Together they watched as a thick layer of smoke gathered overhead,

darkening the sky, obscuring the sun, and filtering the remaining light so

that everything below was colored a nauseating hue of orange. It pro-

duced an eerie twilight the likes of which Roran had never imagined. The