Inheritance i-4

by Christopher Paolini

  She put down the topmost papers and leaned on her arms. “You’ve proven that you can fight. You’ve proven that you can follow orders … when it pleases you, that is.” He resisted the urge to hunch his shoulders as he remembered the bitter, white-hot bite of the whip cutting into his back after he had been disciplined for defying Captain Edric’s orders. “You’ve proven that you can lead a raiding party. So, Roran Stronghammer, let us see if you are capable of something more, shall we?”

  He swallowed. “Yes, my Lady.”

  “Good. I am promoting you to captain for the time being. If you succeed in Aroughs, you may consider the title permanent, at least until you demonstrate that you are deserving of either greater or lesser honors.” Returning her gaze to the table, she began to sort through a morass of scrolls, evidently searching for something hidden underneath.

  “Thank you.”

  Nasuada responded with a faint, noncommittal sound.

  “How many men will I have under my command at Aroughs?” he asked.

  “I gave Brigman a thousand warriors to capture the city. Of those, no more than eight hundred remain who are still fit for duty.”

  Roran nearly swore out loud. So few.

  As if she had heard him, Nasuada said in a dry voice, “We were led to believe that Aroughs’s defenses would be easier to overwhelm than has been the case.”

  “I see. May I take two or three men from Carvahall with me? You said once that you would let us serve together if we-”

  “Yes, yes”-she waved a hand-“I know what I said.” She pursed her lips, considering. “Very well, take whomever you want, just so long as you leave within the hour. Let me know how many are going with you, and I’ll see to it that the appropriate number of horses are waiting along the way.”

  “May I take Carn?” he asked, naming the magician he had fought alongside on several occasions.

  She paused and stared at the wall for a moment, her eyes unfocused. Then, to his relief, she nodded and resumed digging in the jumble of scrolls. “Ah, here we are.” She pulled out a tube of parchment tied with a leather thong. “A map of Aroughs and its environs, as well as a larger map of Fenmark Province. I suggest you study them both most carefully.”

  She handed him the tube, which he slipped inside his tunic. “And here,” she said, giving him a rectangle of folded parchment sealed with a blob of red wax, “is your commission, and”-a second rectangle, thicker than the first-“here are your orders. Show them to Brigman, but don’t let him keep them. If I remember correctly, you’ve never learned to read, have you?”

  He shrugged. “What for? I can count and figure as well as any man. My father said that teaching us to read made no more sense than teaching a dog to walk on his hind legs: amusing, but hardly worth the effort.”

  “And I might agree, had you stayed a farmer. But you didn’t, and you’re not.” She motioned toward the pieces of parchment he held. “For all you know, one of those might be a writ ordering your execution. You are of limited use to me like this, Stronghammer. I cannot send you messages without others having to read them to you, and if you need to report to me, you will have no choice but to trust one of your underlings to record your words accurately. It makes you easy to manipulate. It makes you untrustworthy. If you hope to advance any further in the Varden, I suggest you find someone to teach you. Now begone; there are other matters that demand my attention.”

  She snapped her fingers, and one of the pages ran over to her. Placing a hand on the boy’s shoulder, she bent down to his level and said, “I want you to fetch Jormundur directly here. You’ll find him somewhere along the market street, where those three houses-” In the midst of her instructions, she stopped and raised an eyebrow as she noticed that Roran had not budged. “Is there something else, Stronghammer?” she asked.

  “Yes. Before I leave, I’d like to see Eragon.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Most of the wards he gave me before the battle are gone now.”

  Nasuada frowned, then said to the page, “On the market street, where those three houses were burned. Do you know the place I mean? Right, off you go, then.” She patted the boy on the back and stood upright as he ran out of the room. “It would be better if you didn’t.”

  Her statement confused Roran, but he kept quiet, expecting that she would explain herself. She did, but in a roundabout way: “Did you notice how tired Eragon was during my audience with the werecats?”

  “He could barely stay on his feet.”

  “Exactly. He’s spread too thin, Roran. He can’t protect you, me, Saphira, Arya, and who knows who else and still do what he has to. He needs to husband his strength for when he will have to fight Murtagh and Galbatorix. And the closer we get to Uru’baen, the more important it is that he be ready to face them at any given moment, night or day. We can’t allow all of these other worries and distractions to weaken him. It was noble of him to heal the child’s cat lip, but his doing so could have cost us the war!

  “You fought without the advantage of wards when the Ra’zac attacked your village in the Spine. If you care about your cousin, if you care about defeating Galbatorix, you must learn to fight without them again.”

  When she finished, Roran bowed his head. She was right. “I’ll depart at once.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  “By your leave …”

  Turning, Roran strode toward the door. Just as he crossed the threshold, Nasuada called out, “Oh, and Stronghammer?”

  He looked back, curious.

  “Try not to burn down Aroughs, would you? Cities are rather hard to replace.”

  DANCING WITH SWORDS

  Eragon drummed his heels against the side of the boulder he was sitting on, bored and impatient to be gone.

  He, Saphira, and Arya-as well as Blodhgarm and the other elves-were lounging on the bank next to the road that ran eastward from the city of Belatona: eastward through fields of ripe, verdant crops; over a wide stone bridge that arched across the Jiet River; and then around the southernmost point of Leona Lake. There the road branched, one fork turning to the right, toward the Burning Plains and Surda, the other turning north, toward Dras-Leona and eventually Uru’baen.

  Thousands of men, dwarves, and Urgals milled about before Belatona’s eastern gate, as well as within the city itself, arguing and shouting as the Varden tried to organize itself into a cohesive unit. In addition to the ragtag blocks of warriors on foot, there was King Orrin’s cavalry-a mass of prancing, snorting horses. And strung out behind the fighting part of the army was the supply train: a mile-and-a-half-long line of carts, wagons, and wheeled pens, flanked by the vast herds of horned cattle the Varden had brought from Surda and supplemented by what animals they had been able to appropriate from farmers along their path. From the herds and the supply train came the lowing of oxen, the braying of mules and donkeys, the honking of geese, and the whinnies and neighs of draft horses.

  It was enough to make Eragon want to plug his ears.

  You would think we would be better at this, considering how many times we’ve done it before, he commented to Saphira as he hopped down off the boulder.

  She sniffed. They ought to put me in charge; I could scare them intoposition in less than an hour, and then we wouldn’t have to waste so much time waiting.

  The thought amused him. Yes, I’m sure you could.… Be careful what you say, though, or Nasuada might just make you do it.

  Then Eragon’s mind turned to Roran, whom he had not seen since the night he had healed Horst and Elain’s child, and he wondered how his cousin was doing and worried about leaving him so far behind.

  “Blasted fool thing to do,” Eragon muttered, remembering how Roran had left without letting him renew his wards.

  He’s an experienced hunter, Saphira pointed out. He will not be so foolish as to allow his prey to claw him.

  I know, but sometimes it can’t be helped.… He had best be careful, that’s all. I don’t want him to come back a crippl
e or, worse, wrapped in a shroud.

  A grim mood descended upon Eragon, then he shook himself and bounced up and down on his feet, restless and eager to do something physical before spending the next few hours sitting on Saphira. He welcomed the opportunity to fly with her, but he disliked the prospect of being tethered to the same twelve or so miles for the whole day, circling vulture-like over the slow-moving troops. On their own, he and Saphira could have reached Dras-Leona by late that very afternoon.

  He trotted away from the road to a relatively flat stretch of grass. There, ignoring the looks from Arya and the rest of the elves, he drew Brisingr and assumed the on-guard position Brom had first taught him so long ago. He inhaled slowly and settled into a low stance, feeling the texture of the ground through the soles of his boots.

  With a short, hard exclamation, he swept the sword up around his head and brought it down in a slanting blow that would have halved any man, elf, or Urgal, regardless of their armor. He stopped the sword less than an inch above the ground and held it there, the blade trembling ever so slightly in his grip. Against the backdrop of the grass, the blue of the metal appeared vivid, almost unreal.

  Eragon inhaled again and lunged forward, stabbing the air as if it were a deadly enemy. One by one, he practiced the basic moves of sword fighting, focusing not so much on speed or strength but on precision.

  When he was pleasantly warm from his skill work, he glanced round at his guards, who stood in a semicircle some distance away. “Will one of you cross swords with me for a few minutes?” he asked, raising his voice.

  The elves looked at one another, their expressions unreadable; then the elf Wyrden stepped forward. “I will, Shadeslayer, if it pleases you. However, I would ask that you wear your helm while we spar.”

  “Agreed.”

  Eragon returned Brisingr to its sheath, then ran to Saphira and clambered up her side, cutting the pad of his left thumb on one of her scales as he did so. He was wearing his mail tunic, and his greaves and bracers too, but he had stowed his helm in one of the saddlebags, so that it would not roll off Saphira and become lost in the grass.

  As he retrieved the helm, he saw the casket that contained Glaedr’s heart of hearts wrapped in a blanket and nestled at the bottom of the saddlebag. He reached down and touched the knotted bundle, silently paying tribute to what remained of the majestic golden dragon, then closed the saddlebag and swung down from Saphira’s back.

  Eragon donned his arming cap and helm as he strode back to the greensward. He licked the blood off his thumb, then pulled on his gauntlets, hoping that the cut would not bleed too much into the glove. Using slight variations of the same spell, he and Wyrden placed thin barriers-invisible, save for the faint, rippling distortion they caused in the air-over the edges of their swords, so they could not cut anything. They also lowered the wards that protected them from physical danger.

  Then he and Wyrden took up positions opposite each other, bowed, and raised their blades. Eragon stared into the elf’s black, unblinking eyes, even as Wyrden stared at him. Keeping his gaze fixed on his opponent, Eragon felt his way forward and tried to inch around Wyrden’s right side, where the right-handed elf would have more difficulty defending himself.

  The elf slowly turned, crushing the grass beneath his heels as he kept his front oriented toward Eragon. After a few more steps, Eragon stopped. Wyrden was too alert and too experienced for Eragon to flank him; he would never catch the elf off balance. Unless, of course, I can distract him.

  But before he could decide how to proceed, Wyrden feinted toward Eragon’s right leg, as if to skewer him in the knee, then in midstroke, changed directions, twisting his wrist and arm to slash Eragon across his chest and neck.

  Fast as the elf was, Eragon was faster still. As he spotted the shift in Wyrden’s posture that betrayed his intentions, Eragon retreated a half step while bending his elbow and whipping his sword up past his face.

  “Ha!” shouted Eragon as he caught Wyrden’s sword on Brisingr. The blades produced a piercing clang as they collided.

  With an effort, Eragon shoved Wyrden back, then leaped after him, battering him with a series of furious blows.

  For several minutes, they fought upon the sward. Eragon landed the first touch-a light rap on Wyrden’s hip-and the second as well, but thereafter, their duel was more equally matched, as the elf got the measure of him and began to anticipate his patterns of attack and defense. Eragon rarely had the opportunity to test himself against anyone as fast or strong as Wyrden, so he enjoyed the contest with the elf.

  His pleasure, however, vanished when Wyrden landed four touches in quick succession: one on Eragon’s right shoulder, two on his ribs, and a wicked draw cut across his abdomen. The blows smarted, but Eragon’s pride smarted even more. It worried him that the elf had been able to slip past his guard so easily. If they had been fighting in earnest, Eragon knew that he would have been able to defeat Wyrden in their first few exchanges, but that thought was of little comfort.

  You shouldn’t let him hit you so much, observed Saphira.

  Yes, I realize that, he growled.

  Do you want me to knock him over for you?

  No … not today.

  His mood soured, Eragon lowered his blade and thanked Wyrden for sparring. The elf bowed and said, “You’re welcome, Shadeslayer,” then returned to his place among his comrades.

  Eragon planted Brisingr in the ground between his boots-something he never would have done with a sword made of ordinary steel-and rested his hands on the pommel while he watched the men and animals jostling within the confines of the road that led from the vast stone city. The turbulence within the ranks had diminished substantially, and he guessed that it would not be long before the horns signaled the Varden to advance.

  In the meantime, he was still restless.

  He looked over at Arya, where she stood next to Saphira, and a smile gradually spread across his face. Resting Brisingr on his shoulder, he sauntered over and motioned toward her sword. “Arya, what about you? We’ve only sparred together that one time in Farthen Dur.” His grin widened, and he flourished Brisingr. “I’ve gotten a bit better since then.”

  “So you have.”

  “What say you, then?”

  She cast a critical glance toward the Varden, then shrugged. “Why not?”

  As they walked to the level patch of grass, he said, “You won’t be able to best me quite so easily as before.”

  “I am sure you are right.”

  Arya prepared her sword, then they faced each other, some thirty feet apart. Feeling confident, Eragon advanced swiftly, already knowing where he was going to strike: at her left shoulder.

  Arya held her ground and made no attempt to evade him. When he was less than four yards away, she smiled at him, a warm, brilliant smile that so enhanced her beauty, Eragon faltered, his thoughts dissolving into a muddle.

  A line of steel flashed toward him.

  He belatedly lifted Brisingr to deflect the blow. A jolt ran up his arm as the tip of the sword glanced off something solid-hilt, blade, or flesh he was not sure, but whatever it was, he knew that he had misjudged the distance and that his response had left him open to attack.

  Before he could do much more than slow his forward momentum, another impact dashed his sword arm to the side; then a knot of pain formed in his midsection as Arya stabbed him, knocking him to the ground.

  Eragon grunted as he landed on his back and the air rushed out of him. He gaped at the sky and tried to inhale, but his abdomen was cramped as hard as a stone, and he could not draw air into his lungs. A constellation of crimson spots appeared before his eyes, and for a few uncomfortable seconds, he feared he would lose consciousness. Then his muscles released, and with a loud gasp, he resumed breathing.

  Once his head cleared, he slowly got back to his feet, using Brisingr for support. He leaned on the sword, standing hunched like an old man while he waited for the ache in his stomach to subside.

  “You chea
ted,” he said between gritted teeth.

  “No, I exploited a weakness in my opponent. There is a difference.”

  “You think … that is a weakness?”

  “When we fight, yes. Do you wish to continue?”

  He answered by yanking Brisingr out of the sod, marching back to where he had started, and raising his sword.

  “Good,” said Arya. She mirrored his pose.

  This time Eragon was much more wary as he closed with her, and Arya did not stay in the same place. With careful steps, she advanced, her clear green eyes never leaving him.

  She twitched, and Eragon flinched.

  He realized he was holding his breath and forced himself to relax.

  Another step forward, then he swung with all his speed and might.

  She blocked his cut to her ribs and replied with a jab toward his exposed armpit. The blunted edge of her sword slid across the back of his free hand, scraping against the mail sewn onto his gauntlet as he slapped the blade away. At that moment, Arya’s torso was exposed, but they were too close for Eragon to effectively slash or stab.

  Instead, he lunged forward and struck at her breastbone with the pommel of his sword, thinking to knock her to the ground, as she had done to him.

  She twisted out of the way, and the pommel went through the space where she had been as Eragon stumbled forward.

  Without knowing quite how it had happened, he found himself standing motionless with one of Arya’s arms wrapped around his neck and the cool, slippery surface of her spell-bound blade pressed against the side of his jaw.

  From behind him, Arya whispered into his right ear, “I could have removed your head as easily as plucking an apple from a tree.”

  Then she released her hold and shoved him away. Angry, he whirled around and saw that she was already waiting for him, her sword at the ready and her expression determined.

  Giving in to his anger, Eragon sprang after her.

  Four blows they exchanged, each more terrible than the last. Arya struck first, chopping at his legs. He parried and slashed crosswise at her waist, but she skipped out of reach of Brisingr’s glittering, sunlit edge. Without giving her an opportunity to retaliate, he followed up with a looping underhand cut, which she blocked with deceptive ease. Then she stepped forward and, with a touch as light as a hummingbird’s wing, drew her sword across his belly.