Eragon

by Christopher Paolini

  Eragon lay limply on Saphira, panting. Only now did he remember Brom saying, “Magic is affected by distance, just like an arrow or a spear. If you try to lift or move something a mile away, it’ll take more energy than if you were closer.” I won’t forget that again, he thought grimly.

  You shouldn’t have forgotten in the first place, Saphira inserted pointedly. First the dirt at Gil’ead and now this. Weren’t you paying attention to anything Brom told you? You’ll kill yourself if you keep this up.

  I paid attention, he insisted, rubbing his chin. It’s just been a while, and I haven’t had an opportunity to think back on it. I’ve never used magic at a distance, so how could I know it would be so difficult?

  She growled. Next thing I know you’ll be trying to bring corpses back to life. Don’t forget what Brom said about that, too.

  I won’t, he said impatiently. Saphira dipped toward the ground, searching for Murtagh and the horses. Eragon would have helped her, but he barely had the energy to sit up.

  Saphira settled in a small field with a jolt, and Eragon was puzzled to see the horses stopped and Murtagh kneeling, examining the ground. When Eragon did not dismount, Murtagh hurried over and inquired, “What’s wrong?” He sounded angry, worried, and tired at the same time.

  “. . . I made a mistake,” said Eragon truthfully. “The Urgals have entered the valley. I tried to confuse them, but I forgot one of the rules of magic, and it cost me a great deal.”

  Scowling, Murtagh jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “I just found some wolf tracks, but the footprints are as wide as both of my hands and an inch deep. There are animals around here that could be dangerous even to you, Saphira.” He turned to her. “I know you can’t enter the forest, but could you circle above me and the horses? That should keep these beasts away. Otherwise there may only be enough left of me to roast in a thimble.”

  “Humor, Murtagh?” asked Eragon, a quick smile coming to his face. His muscles trembled, making it hard for him to concentrate.

  “Only on the gallows.” Murtagh rubbed his eyes. “I can’t believe that the same Urgals have been following us the whole time. They would have to be birds to catch up with us.”

  “Saphira said they’re larger than any we’ve seen,” remarked Eragon.

  Murtagh cursed, clenching the pommel of his sword. “That explains it! Saphira, if you’re right, then those are Kull, elite of the Urgals. I should have guessed that the chieftain had been put in charge of them. They don’t ride because horses can’t carry their weight—not one of them is under eight feet tall—and they can run for days without sleep and still be ready for battle. It can take five men to kill one. Kull never leave their caves except for war, so they must expect a great slaughter if they are out in such force.”

  “Can we stay ahead of them?”

  “Who knows?” said Murtagh. “They’re strong, determined, and large in numbers. It’s possible that we may have to face them. If that happens, I only hope that the Varden have men posted nearby who’ll help us. Despite our skill and Saphira, we can’t hold off Kull.”

  Eragon swayed. “Could you get me some bread? I need to eat.” Murtagh quickly brought him part of a loaf. It was old and hard, but Eragon chewed on it gratefully. Murtagh scanned the valley walls, worry in his eyes. Eragon knew he was searching for a way out. “There’ll be one farther in.”

  “Of course,” said Murtagh with forced optimism, then slapped his thigh. “We must go.”

  “How is Arya?” asked Eragon.

  Murtagh shrugged. “The fever’s worse. She’s been tossing and turning. What do you expect? Her strength is failing. You should fly her to the Varden before the poison does any more damage.”

  “I won’t leave you behind,” insisted Eragon, gaining strength with each bite. “Not with the Urgals so near.”

  Murtagh shrugged again. “As you wish. But I’m warning you, she won’t live if you stay with me.”

  “Don’t say that,” insisted Eragon, pushing himself upright in Saphira’s saddle. “Help me save her. We can still do it. Consider it a life for a life—atonement for Torkenbrand’s death.”

  Murtagh’s face darkened instantly. “It’s not a debt owed. You—” He stopped as a horn echoed through the dark forest. “I’ll have more to say to you later,” he said shortly, stomping to the horses. He grabbed their reins and trotted away, shooting an angry glare at Eragon.

  Eragon closed his eyes as Saphira took flight. He wished that he could lie on a soft bed and forget all their troubles. Saphira, he said at last, cupping his ears to warm them, what if we did take Arya to the Varden? Once she was safe, we could fly back to Murtagh and help him out of here.

  The Varden wouldn’t let you, said Saphira. For all they know, you might be returning to inform the Urgals of their hiding place. We aren’t arriving under the best conditions to gain their trust. They’ll want to know why we’ve brought an entire company of Kull to their very gates.

  We’ll just have to tell them the truth and hope they believe us, said Eragon.

  And what will we do if the Kull attack Murtagh?

  Fight them, of course! I won’t let him and Arya be captured or killed, said Eragon indignantly.

  There was a touch of sarcasm in her words. How noble. Oh, we would fell many of the Urgals—you with magic and blade, whilst my weapons would be tooth and claw—but it would be futile in the end. They are too numerous. . . . We cannot defeat them, only be defeated.

  What, then? he demanded. I’ll not leave Arya or Murtagh to their mercy.

  Saphira waved her tail, the tip whistling loudly. I’m not asking you to. However, if we attack first, we may gain the advantage.

  Have you gone crazy? They’ll . . . Eragon’s voice trailed off as he thought about it. They won’t be able to do a thing, he concluded, surprised.

  Exactly, said Saphira. We can inflict lots of damage from a safe height.

  Let’s drop rocks on them! proposed Eragon. That should scatter them.

  If their skulls aren’t thick enough to protect them. Saphira banked to the right and quickly descended to the Beartooth River. She grasped a mid-sized boulder with her strong talons while Eragon scooped up several fist-sized rocks. Laden with the stones, Saphira glided on silent wings until they were over the Urgal host. Now! she exclaimed, releasing the boulder. There were muffled cracks as the missiles plummeted through the forest top, smashing branches. A second later howls echoed through the valley.

  Eragon smiled tightly as he heard the Urgals scramble for cover. Let’s find more ammunition, he suggested, bending low over Saphira. She growled in agreement and returned to the riverbed.

  It was hard work, but they were able to hinder the Urgals’ progress—though it was impossible to stop them altogether. The Urgals gained ground whenever Saphira went for stones. Despite that, their efforts allowed Murtagh to stay ahead of the advancing column.

  The valley darkened as the hours slipped by. Without the sun to provide warmth, the sharp bite of frost crept into the air and the ground mist froze on the trees, coating them white. Night animals began to creep from their dens to peer from shadowed hideouts at the strangers trespassing on their land.

  Eragon continued to examine the mountainsides, searching for the waterfall that would signify the end of their journey. He was painfully aware that every passing minute brought Arya closer to death. “Faster, faster,” he muttered to himself, looking down at Murtagh. Before Saphira scooped up more rocks, he said, Let’s take a respite and check on Arya. The day is almost over, and I’m afraid her life is measured in hours, if not minutes.

  Arya’s life is in Fate’s hands now. You made your choice to stay with Murtagh; it’s too late to change that, so stop agonizing over it. . . . You’re making my scales itch. The best thing we can do right now is to keep bombarding the Urgals. Eragon knew she was right, yet her words did nothing to calm his anxiety. He resumed his search for the waterfall, but whatever lay before them was hidden by a thick mountain ridge.
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  True darkness began to fill the valley, settling over the trees and mountains like an inky cloud. Even with her keen hearing and delicate sense of smell, Saphira could no longer locate the Urgals through the dense forest. There was no moon to help them; it would be hours before it rose above the mountains.

  Saphira made a long, gentle left turn and glided around the mountain ridge. Eragon vaguely sensed it pass by them, then squinted as he saw a faint white line ahead. Could that be the waterfall? he wondered.

  He looked at the sky, which still held the afterglow of sunset. The mountains’ dark silhouettes curved together and formed a rough bowl that closed off the valley. The head of the valley isn’t much farther! he exclaimed, pointing at the mountains. Do you think that the Varden know we’re coming? Maybe they’ll send men out to help us.

  I doubt they’ll assist us until they know if we are friend or foe, Saphira said as she abruptly dropped toward the ground. I’m returning to Murtagh—we should stay with him now. Since I can’t find the Urgals, they could sneak up on him without us knowing.

  Eragon loosened Zar’roc in its sheath, wondering if he was strong enough to fight. Saphira landed to the left of the Beartooth River, then crouched expectantly. The waterfall rumbled in the distance. He comes, she said. Eragon strained his ears and caught the sound of pounding hooves. Murtagh ran out of the forest, driving the horses before him. He saw them but did not slow.

  Eragon jumped off Saphira, stumbling a bit as he matched Murtagh’s pace. Behind him Saphira went to the river so she could follow them without being hindered by the trees. Before Eragon could relay his news, Murtagh said, “I saw you dropping rocks with Saphira—ambitious. Have the Kull stopped or turned back?”

  “They’re still behind us, but we’re almost to the head of the valley. How’s Arya?”

  “She hasn’t died,” Murtagh said harshly. His breath came in short bursts. His next words were deceptively calm, like those of a man concealing a terrible passion. “Is there a valley or gorge ahead that I can leave through?”

  Apprehensive, Eragon tried to remember if he had seen any breaks in the mountains around them; he had not thought about Murtagh’s dilemma for a while. “It’s dark,” he began evasively, dodging a low branch, “so I might have missed something, but . . . no.”

  Murtagh swore explosively and came to an abrupt stop, dragging on the horses’ reins until they halted as well. “Are you saying that the only place I can go is to the Varden?”

  “Yes, but keep running. The Urgals are almost upon us!”

  “No!” said Murtagh angrily. He stabbed a finger at Eragon. “I warned you that I wouldn’t go to the Varden, but you went ahead and trapped me between a hammer and an anvil! You’re the one with the elf’s memories. Why didn’t you tell me this was a dead end?”

  Eragon bristled at the barrage and retorted, “All I knew was where we had to go, not what lay in between. Don’t blame me for choosing to come.”

  Murtagh’s breath hissed between his teeth as he furiously spun away. All Eragon could see of him was a motionless, bowed figure. His own shoulders were tense, and a vein throbbed on the side of his neck. He put his hands on his hips, impatience rising.

  Why have you stopped? asked Saphira, alarmed.

  Don’t distract me. “What’s your quarrel with the Varden? It can’t be so terrible that you must keep it hidden even now. Would you rather fight the Kull than reveal it? How many times will we go through this before you trust me?”

  There was a long silence.

  The Urgals! reminded Saphira urgently.

  I know, said Eragon, pushing back his temper. But we have to resolve this.

  Quickly, quickly.

  “Murtagh,” said Eragon earnestly, “unless you wish to die, we must go to the Varden. Don’t let me walk into their arms without knowing how they will react to you. It’s going to be dangerous enough without unnecessary surprises.”

  Finally Murtagh turned to Eragon. His breathing was hard and fast, like that of a cornered wolf. He paused, then said with a tortured voice, “You have a right to know. I . . . I am the son of Morzan, first and last of the Forsworn.”

  THE HORNS OF

  A DILEMMA

  Eragon was speechless. Disbelief roared through his mind as he tried to reject Murtagh’s words. The Forsworn never had any children, least of all Morzan. Morzan! The man who betrayed the Riders to Galbatorix and remained the king’s favorite servant for the rest of his life. Could it be true?

  Saphira’s own shock reached him a second later. She crashed through trees and brush as she barreled from the river to his side, fangs bared, tail raised threateningly. Be ready for anything, she warned. He may be able to use magic.

  “You are his heir?” asked Eragon, surreptitiously reaching for Zar’roc. What could he want with me? Is he really working for the king?

  “I didn’t choose this!” cried Murtagh, anguish twisting his face. He ripped at his clothes with a desperate air, tearing off his tunic and shirt to bare his torso. “Look!” he pleaded, and turned his back to Eragon.

  Unsure, Eragon leaned forward, straining his eyes in the darkness. There, against Murtagh’s tanned and muscled skin, was a knotted white scar that stretched from his right shoulder to his left hip—a testament to some terrible agony.

  “See that?” demanded Murtagh bitterly. He talked quickly now, as if relieved to have his secret finally revealed. “I was only three when I got it. During one of his many drunken rages, Morzan threw his sword at me as I ran by. My back was laid open by the very sword you now carry—the only thing I expected to receive as inheritance, until Brom stole it from my father’s corpse. I was lucky, I suppose—there was a healer nearby who kept me from dying. You must understand, I don’t love the Empire or the king. I have no allegiance to them, nor do I mean you harm!” His pleas were almost frantic.

  Eragon uneasily lifted his hand from Zar’roc’s pommel. “Then your father,” he said in a faltering voice, “was killed by . . .”

  “Yes, Brom,” said Murtagh. He pulled his tunic back on with a detached air.

  A horn rang out behind them, prompting Eragon to cry, “Come, run with me.” Murtagh shook the horses’ reins and forced them into a tired trot, eyes fixed straight ahead, while Arya bounced limply in Snowfire’s saddle. Saphira stayed by Eragon’s side, easily keeping pace with her long legs. You could walk unhindered in the riverbed, he said as she was forced to smash through a dense web of branches.

  I’ll not leave you with him.

  Eragon was glad for her protection. Morzan’s son! He said between strides, “Your tale is hard to believe. How do I know you aren’t lying?”

  “Why would I lie?”

  “You could be—”

  Murtagh interrupted him quickly. “I can’t prove anything to you now. Keep your doubts until we reach the Varden. They’ll recognize me quickly enough.”

  “I must know,” pressed Eragon. “Do you serve the Empire?”

  “No. And if I did, what would I accomplish by traveling with you? If I were trying to capture or kill you, I would have left you in prison.” Murtagh stumbled as he jumped over a fallen log.

  “You could be leading the Urgals to the Varden.”

  “Then,” said Murtagh shortly, “why am I still with you? I know where the Varden are now. What reason could I have for delivering myself to them? If I were going to attack them, I’d turn around and join the Urgals.”

  “Maybe you’re an assassin,” stated Eragon flatly.

  “Maybe. You can’t really know, can you?”

  Saphira? Eragon asked simply.

  Her tail swished over his head. If he wanted to harm you, he could have done it long ago.

  A branch whipped Eragon’s neck, causing a line of blood to appear on his skin. The waterfall was growing louder. I want you to watch Murtagh closely when we get to the Varden. He may do something foolish, and I don’t want him killed by accident.

  I’ll do my best, she said as she shouldered
her way between two trees, scraping off slabs of bark. The horn sounded behind them again. Eragon glanced over his shoulder, expecting Urgals to rush out of the darkness. The waterfall throbbed dully ahead of them, drowning out the sounds of the night.

  The forest ended, and Murtagh pulled the horses to a stop. They were on a pebble beach directly to the left of the mouth of the Beartooth River. The deep lake Kóstha-mérna filled the valley, blocking their way. The water gleamed with flickering starlight. The mountain walls restricted passage around Kóstha-mérna to a thin strip of shore on either side of the lake, both no more than a few steps wide. At the lake’s far end, a broad sheet of water tumbled down a black cliff into boiling mounds of froth.

  “Do we go to the falls?” asked Murtagh tightly.

  “Yes.” Eragon took the lead and picked his way along the lake’s left side. The pebbles underfoot were damp and slime covered. There was barely enough room for Saphira between the sheer valley wall and the lake; she had to walk with two feet in the water.

  They were halfway to the waterfall when Murtagh warned, “Urgals!”

  Eragon whirled around, rocks spraying from under his heel. By the shore of Kóstha-mérna, where they had been only minutes before, hulking figures streamed out of the forest. The Urgals massed before the lake. One of them gestured at Saphira; guttural words drifted over the water. Immediately the horde split and started around both sides of the lake, leaving Eragon and Murtagh without an escape route. The narrow shore forced the bulky Kull to march single file.

  “Run!” barked Murtagh, drawing his sword and slapping the horses on their flanks. Saphira took off without warning and wheeled back toward the Urgals.

  “No!” cried Eragon, shouting with his mind, Come back! but she continued, heedless to his pleas. With an agonizing effort, he tore his gaze from her and plunged forward, wrenching Zar’roc from its sheath.