Only then did he realize that something was crammed into his mouth, stretching his jaw painfully wide, and that he was hanging by his wrists from a chain mounted in the ceiling. He tried to move and found that his ankles were shackled and secured to a metal loop in the floor.
As he twisted in place, he saw Arya next to him, trussed and suspended in the same manner. Like him, she was gagged with a ball of cloth in her mouth and a rag tied around her head to hold it in place.
She was already awake and watching him, and he saw she was relieved at his return to consciousness.
Why hasn’t she escaped already? he wondered. Then: What happened? His thoughts felt thick and slow, as if he were drunk with exhaustion.
He looked down and saw that he had been stripped of his weapons and armor; he was clad only in his leggings. The belt of Beloth the Wise was gone, as was the necklace the dwarves had given him that prevented anyone from scrying him.
Looking up, he saw that the elf ring Aren was missing from his hand.
A touch of panic gripped him. Then he reassured himself with the knowledge that he was not helpless, not so long as he could work magic. Because of the cloth in his mouth, he would have to cast a spell without uttering it aloud, which was somewhat more dangerous than the normal method-for if his thoughts strayed during the process, he might accidentally select the wrong words-but not so dangerous as casting a spell without any use of the ancient language at all, which was perilous indeed. In any event, it would take only a small amount of energy for him to free himself, and he was confident he could do it without too much trouble.
He closed his eyes and gathered his resources in preparation. As he did, he heard Arya rattling her chain and making muffled noises.
Glancing over, he saw her shaking her head at him. He raised his eyebrows in a wordless inquiry: what is it? But she was unable to do anything more than grunt and continue to shake her head.
Frustrated, Eragon cautiously pushed out his mind toward her-alert for the slightest hint of intrusion from anyone else-but to his alarm, he felt only a soft, indistinct pressure surrounding him, as if bales of wool were packed around his mind.
Panic began to well up inside of him again, despite his efforts to control it.
He was not drugged. Of that, he was sure. But he did not know what else besides a drug could prevent him from touching Arya’s mind. If it was magic, it was magic unlike any he was familiar with.
He and Arya stared at each other for a moment; then a stir of motion drew Eragon’s eye upward and he saw lines of blood running down her forearms from where the manacles around her wrists had scraped away the skin.
Rage engulfed him. He grabbed the chain above him and yanked on it as hard as he could. The links held, but he refused to give up. In a frenzy of anger, he pulled on it again and again, without regard for the harm he was causing himself.
At last he stopped and hung limply while hot blood dripped from his wrists onto the back of his neck and shoulders.
Determined to escape, he delved into the flow of energy within his body and, directing the spell at his shackles, he mentally shouted, Kverst malmr du huildrs edtha, mar frema ne thon eka threyja!
He screamed into his gag as every nerve in his body seared with pain. Unable to maintain his concentration, he lost his grip on the spell, and the enchantment ended.
The pain vanished at once, but it left him devoid of breath, with his heart pounding as heavily as if he had just jumped off a cliff. The experience was similar to the seizures he had suffered before the dragons healed the scar on his back during the Agaeti Blodhren.
As he slowly recovered, he saw Arya gazing at him with a concerned expression. She must have tried a spell herself. Then: How could this have happened? The two of them bound and helpless, Wyrden dead, the herbalist captured or slain, and Solembum most likely lying hurt somewhere in the underground maze, if the black-clad warriors had not already killed the werecat. Eragon could not understand it. He, Arya, Wyrden, and Angela had been as capable and dangerous a group as any in Alagaesia. And yet they had failed, and he and Arya were at the mercy of their enemies.
If we can’t escape … He shied away from the thought; it did not bear dwelling on. More than anything, he wished he could contact Saphira, if only to be assured that she was still safe and to take comfort in her companionship. Though Arya was with him, he felt incredibly alone, and that unnerved him most of all.
Despite the agony in his wrists, he resumed pulling on the chain, convinced that if he just kept at it long enough, he could work it loose from the ceiling. He tried twisting it, thinking it would be easier to break that way, but the fetters around his ankles kept him from turning very far to either side.
The sores on his wrist eventually forced him to stop. They burned like fire, and he was afraid he might end up cutting into muscle if he continued. Also, he worried he might lose too much blood, as the sores were already bleeding heavily, and he did not know how long he and Arya would have to hang there, waiting.
It was impossible to tell what time it was, but he guessed that they had been captives for only a few hours at the most, given that he did not feel the need to eat, drink, or relieve himself. That would change, though, and then their discomfort would only increase.
The pain in Eragon’s wrists made every minute seem unbearably long. Occasionally, he and Arya would stare at each other and try to communicate, but their efforts always failed. Twice his sores crusted over enough that he risked yanking on the chain again, but to no avail. For the most part, he and Arya endured.
Then, when Eragon had begun to wonder if anyone was ever going to come, he heard the clang of iron bells from somewhere in the tunnels and passageways, and the doors on either side of the black altar swung open on silent hinges. Eragon’s muscles tensed in anticipation. He fixed his eyes on the openings, as did Arya.
A seemingly endless minute passed.
With a brash, jarring toll, the bells sounded again, filling the chamber with a swarm of angry echoes. Through the doorways marched three novitiates: young men garbed in golden cloth, each carrying a metal frame hung with bells. Behind them followed twenty-four men and women, not one of whom possessed a full set of limbs. Unlike their predecessors, the cripples wore robes of dark leather, tailored to match their individual infirmities. And last of all, six oiled slaves carried in a bier, upon which, propped upright, rested an armless, legless, toothless, seemingly sexless figure: the High Priest of Helgrind. From its head rose a three-foot-high crest, which only made the creature appear even more misshapen.
The priests and novitiates positioned themselves around the edge of the patterned disk on the floor, while the slaves gently lowered the bier onto the altar at the head of the room. Then the three perfect, handsome young men shook the bells once more, creating a discordant crash, and the leather-clad priests chanted a short phrase so quickly that Eragon was not sure what they said, though it had the sound of ritual. Amongst the crush of words, he caught the names of the three peaks of Helgrind: Gorm, Ilda, and Fell Angvara.
The High Priest gazed at him and Arya with eyes like chips of obsidian. “Welcome to the halls of Tosk,” it said, and its withered mouth distorted the words. “Twice now you have invaded our inner sanctums, Dragon Rider. You shall not have the opportunity to do so again.… Galbatorix would have us spare your lives and send you to Uru’baen. He believes he can force you to serve him. He dreams of resurrecting the Riders and restoring the race of dragons. I say his dreams are folly. You are too dangerous, and we do not want to see the dragons resurgent. It is commonly believed that we worship Helgrind. That is a lie we tell others to conceal the true nature of our religion. It is not Helgrind that we revere-it is the Old Ones who made their lair within and to whom we sacrificed our flesh and blood. The Ra’zac are our gods, Dragon Rider-the Ra’zac and the Lethrblaka.”
Dread crept through Eragon like a sickness.
The High Priest spat at him, and spittle drooled from its slack lower lip. “T
here is no torture horrible enough for your crime, Rider. You killed our gods, you and that accursed dragon of yours. For that, you must die.”
Eragon struggled against his bonds and tried to shout through his gag. If he could talk, he could stall for time by telling them what the Ra’zac’s last words had been, perhaps, or by threatening them with Saphira’s vengeance. But their captors showed no inclination to remove his gag.
In a hideous gesture, the High Priest smiled, showing its gray gums. “You will never escape, Rider. The crystals here were enchanted to trap any who might try to desecrate our temple or steal our treasures, even one such as you. Nor is there anyone to rescue you. Two of your companions are dead-yes, even that meddlesome witch-and Murtagh knows nothing of your presence here. Today is the day of your doom, Eragon Shadeslayer.” Then the High Priest tilted back its head and uttered a gruesome, gurgling whistle.
From the dark doorway to the left of the altar, there appeared four bare-chested slaves. On their shoulders, they bore a platform with two large, shallow, cuplike protrusions in the middle. Within the protrusions lay a pair of oval objects, each about a foot and a half long and half a foot thick. The objects were blue black and pitted like sandstone.
Time seemed to slow for Eragon. They can’t be …, he thought. Saphira’s egg had been smooth, however, and veined like marble. Whatever these objects were, they were not dragon eggs. The alternatives frightened him even more.
“Since you killed the Old Ones,” said the High Priest, “it is only fitting that you provide the food for their rebirth. You do not deserve such a great honor, but it will please the Old Ones, and in all things we strive to satisfy their desires. We are their faithful servants, and they our masters cruel and implacable: the three-faced god-the hunters of men, the eaters of flesh, and the drinkers of blood. To them, we offer up our bodies in hope of revelation into the mysteries of this life and in hope of absolution for our transgressions. As Tosk wrote, so shall it be.”
In unison, the leather-clad priests repeated: “As Tosk wrote, so shall it be.”
The High Priest nodded. “The Old Ones have always nested on Helgrind, but in the time of my grandfather’s father, Galbatorix stole their eggs and killed their young, and he forced them to swear fealty to him lest he eradicate their line entirely. He hollowed out the caves and tunnels they have used ever since, and to us, to their devoted acolytes, he gave charge of their eggs-to watch and to hold and to care for until they were needed. This we have done, and none may fault us for our service.
“But we pray that someday Galbatorix shall be overthrown, for none should bind the Old Ones to their will. It is an abomination.” The deformed creature licked its lips, and to his disgust, Eragon saw that part of its tongue was missing: carved away by a knife. “You, too, we wish gone, Rider. The dragons were the Old Ones’ greatest enemies. Without them, and without Galbatorix, there would be no one to stop the Old Ones from feasting where and how they will.”
As the High Priest spoke, the four slaves bearing the platform walked forth and carefully lowered it from their shoulders onto the patterned disk, setting it down several paces in front of Eragon and Arya. Once they finished, they bowed their heads and retreated through the doorway from which they had come.
“Who could ask for anything more than to feed a god with the marrow of their bones?” asked the High Priest. “Rejoice, both of you, for today you receive the blessing of the Old Ones, and by your sacrifice, the record of your sins shall be washed clean and you shall enter the afterlife as pure as a newly born child.”
Then the High Priest and its followers raised their faces toward the ceiling and began to intone a strange, oddly accented song that Eragon had trouble understanding. He wondered if it was in the dialect of Tosk. At times, he heard what he thought were words in the ancient language-mangled and misused, but still the ancient language.
When the grotesque congregation finished, ending with another chorus of “As Tosk wrote, so shall it be,” the three novitiates shook the bells in an ecstasy of religious fervor, and the resulting clamor seemed loud enough to bring down the ceiling.
Still shaking the bells, the novitiates filed out of the room. The four-and-twenty lesser priests departed next, and then, bringing up the rear of the procession, their limbless master, transported upon its bier by the six oiled slaves.
The door closed behind them with an ominous boom, and Eragon heard a heavy bar fall into place on the other side.
He turned to look at Arya. The expression in her eyes was that of despair, and he knew she had no more idea of how to escape than he did.
He gazed upward again and pulled on the chain that held him, using as much of his strength as he dared. The sores on his wrists again tore open, and they sprinkled him with drops of blood.
In front of them, the leftmost egg began to rock back and forth ever so slightly, and from it came a faint tapping, like the rapping of a tiny hammer.
A profound sense of horror suffused Eragon. Of all the ways he could imagine dying, being eaten alive by a Ra’zac was by far the worst. He yanked on the chain with renewed determination, biting his gag to help him withstand the agony in his arms. The resulting pain caused his vision to flicker.
Next to him, Arya thrashed and twisted as well, both of them fighting in deadly silence to free themselves.
And still the tap-tap-tapping continued on the blue-black shell.
It’s no use, Eragon realized. The chain would not give. As soon as he accepted the fact, it became obvious that it would be impossible to avoid being hurt far worse than he already was. The only question was whether his injuries would be forced upon him or whether they would be of his own choosing. If nothing else, I have to save Arya.
He studied the iron bands around his wrists. If I can break my thumbs, I might be able to pull my hands out. Then at least I could fight. Maybe I could grab a piece of the Ra’zac’s shell and use it as a knife. With something to cut, he could free his legs as well, though the thought was so terrifying, he ignored it for the time being. All I would have to do is crawl out of the circle of stones. He would be able to use magic then, and he could stop the pain and the bleeding. What he was considering would only take a few minutes, but he knew they would be the longest minutes of his life.
He drew in a breath in preparation. Left hand first.
Before he could start, Arya screamed.
He spun toward her and uttered a wordless exclamation as he saw the mangled fingers of her right hand. Her skin was pushed up like a glove toward her nails, and the white of bone showed amid crimson muscle. Arya sagged and appeared to lose consciousness for a moment; then she recovered and pulled on her arm once more. Eragon cried out with her as her hand slid through the metal cuff, tearing off skin and flesh. Her arm fell to her side, hiding the hand from his sight, though he could see the blood splattering on the floor by her feet.
Tears blurred his eyes, and he shouted her name into his gag, but she seemed not to hear him.
As she braced herself to repeat the process, the door to the right of the altar opened, and one of the golden-robed novitiates slipped into the chamber. Seeing him, Arya hesitated, though Eragon knew she would pull her other hand out of the manacle at the slightest hint of danger.
The young man looked askance at Arya, then cautiously made his way to the center of the patterned disk, casting apprehensive glances at the egg that was rocking back and forth. The youth was slight, with large eyes and delicate features; it seemed obvious to Eragon that he had been chosen for his position because of his appearance.
“Here,” whispered the youth. “I brought these.” From within his robes, he produced a file, a chisel, and a wooden mallet. “If I help, you have to take me with you. I can’t stand it here any longer. I hate it. It’s horrible! Promise you’ll take me with you!”
Even before he finished speaking, Eragon was nodding his assent. As the young man started toward him, though, Eragon growled and motioned with his head in Arya’s direction
. It took a few seconds before the novitiate understood.
“Oh, yes,” murmured the young man, and went over to Arya instead. Eragon ground his teeth through the gag in anger over the youth’s slowness.
The harsh scrape of the file soon drowned out the tapping from within the wobbling egg.
Eragon watched as best he could while their would-be rescuer sawed on a section of chain above Arya’s left hand. Keep the file on the same link, you fool! Eragon raged. The novitiate looked as if he had never used a file before, and Eragon doubted that the youth had the strength or endurance to cut through even a small amount of metal.
Arya hung limply while the novitiate worked, her long hair covering her face. She trembled at regular intervals, and the fall of blood from her ruined hand continued unabated.
To Eragon’s dismay, the file did not seem to be leaving a mark on the chain. Whatever magics protected the metal, they were too strong for something as simple as a file to overcome.
The novitiate huffed, appearing petulant at his lack of progress. He paused and wiped his brow, then, frowning, attacked the chain once again, elbows flailing, chest heaving, the sleeves of his robe flapping wildly.
Don’t you realize it’s not going to work? thought Eragon. Try the chisel on the shackles around her ankles instead.
The young man continued as he was.
A sharp crack echoed through the chamber, and Eragon saw a thin fissure appear at the top of the dark, pitted egg. The fissure lengthened, and a web of hairline fractures spread outward from it.
Then the second egg began to wobble as well, and from it came another tap-tap-tapping, which joined with the first to form a maddening rhythm.
The novitiate went pale, then dropped the file and backed away from Arya, shaking his head. “I’m sorry.… I’m sorry. It’s too late.” His face crumpled, and tears rolled from his eyes. “I’m sorry.”
Inheritance i-4 Page 30
