Inheritance i-4

by Christopher Paolini

  Come, Eragon, said Umaroth as the dragon-headed man set the last of the Eldunari who were to travel with them upon the pile. You must cast a spell now. The words are as follows-

  Eragon frowned as he listened. “What is the … twist in the second line? What am I supposed to twist, the air?”

  Umaroth’s explanation left Eragon even more confused. Umaroth attempted again, but Eragon still could not understand the concept. Other, older Eldunari joined in the conversation, but their explanations made even less sense, for they came mainly as a torrent of overlapping images, sensations, and strange, esoteric comparisons that left Eragon hopelessly bewildered.

  Somewhat to his relief, Saphira and Glaedr seemed similarly puzzled, although Glaedr said, I think I understand, but it is like trying to catch hold of a frightened fish; whenever I think I have it, it slips out between my teeth.

  At last Umaroth said, This is a lesson for another time. You know what the spell is supposed to do, if not how. That will have to suffice. Take from us the strength needed and cast it, and then let us be off.

  Nervous, Eragon fixed the words of the spell in his mind to avoid making mistakes, and then he began to speak. As he uttered the lines, he drew upon the reserves of the Eldunari, and his skin tingled as an enormous rush of energy poured through him, like a river of water both hot and cold.

  The air around the uneven pile of Eldunari rippled and shimmered; then the pile seemed to fold in on itself and it winked out of sight. A gust of wind tousled Eragon’s hair, and a soft, dull thud echoed throughout the chamber.

  Astonished, Eragon watched as Saphira pushed her head forward and swung it through the spot where the Eldunari had just been. They had disappeared, completely and utterly, as if they had never existed, and yet he and she could still feel the dragons’ minds close at hand.

  Once you leave the vault, said Umaroth, the entrance to this pocket of space will remain at a fixed distance above and behind you at all times, save when you are in a confined area or when a person’s body should happen to pass through that space. The entrance is no larger than a pinprick, but it is more deadly than any sword; it would cut right through your flesh were you to touch it.

  Saphira sniffed. Even your scent has gone.

  “Who discovered how to do this?” Eragon asked, amazed.

  A hermit who lived on the northern coast of Alagaesia twelve hundred years ago, Umaroth replied. It is a valuable trick if you want to hide something in plain sight, but dangerous and difficult to do correctly. The dragon was silent for a moment thereafter, and Eragon could feel him gathering his thoughts. Then Umaroth said, There is one more thing you and Saphira need to know. The moment you pass through thegreat arch behind you-the Gate of Vergathos-you will begin to forget about Cuaroc and the eggs hidden here, and by the time you reach the stone doors at the end of the tunnel, all memory of them will have vanished from your minds. Even we Eldunari will forget about the eggs. If we succeed in killing Galbatorix, the gate will restore our memories, but until then, we must remain ignorant of them. Umaroth seemed to rumble. It is … unpleasant, I know, but we cannot allow Galbatorix to learn of the eggs.

  Eragon disliked the idea, but he could not think of a reasonable alternative.

  Thank you for telling us, said Saphira, and Eragon added his thanks to hers.

  Then the great metal warrior, Cuaroc, picked up his shield from the floor, drew his sword, and walked over to his ancient throne and sat thereon. After laying his naked blade across his knees and leaning his shield against the side of the throne, he placed his hands flat upon his thighs and grew as still as a statue, save for the dancing sprites of his crimson eyes, which gazed out over the eggs.

  Eragon shivered as he turned his back on the throne. There was something haunting about the sight of the lone figure at the far side of the chamber. Knowing that Cuaroc and the other Eldunari who were staying behind might have to remain there by themselves for another hundred years-or longer-made it difficult for Eragon to leave.

  Farewell, he said with his mind.

  Farewell, Shadeslayer, five whispers answered. Farewell, Brightscales. Luck be with you.

  Then Eragon squared his shoulders, and together he and Saphira strode through the Gate of Vergathos and thus departed the Vault of Souls.

  RETURN

  Eragon frowned as he stepped out of the tunnel into the early-afternoon sunlight that bathed the clearing before the Rock of Kuthian.

  He felt as if he had forgotten something important. He tried to remember what, but nothing came to mind, only a sense of emptiness that unsettled him. Had it to do with … no, he could not recall. Saphira, did you … he started to say, then trailed off.

  What?

  Nothing. I just thought … Never mind; it doesn’t matter.

  Behind them, the doors to the tunnel swung shut with a hollow boom, and the lines of glyphs upon them faded away, and the rough, mossy spire once again appeared to be a solid piece of stone.

  Come, said Umaroth, let us be away. The day grows long, and many leagues lie between here and Uru’baen.

  Eragon glanced around the clearing, still feeling as if he was missing something; then he nodded and climbed into Saphira’s saddle.

  As he tightened the straps around his legs, the eerie chatter of a shadow bird sounded among the heavy-boughed fir trees to the right. He looked, but the creature was nowhere to be seen. He made a face. He was glad to have visited Vroengard, but he was equally glad to be leaving. The island was an unfriendly place.

  Shall we? asked Saphira.

  Let’s, he said with a sense of relief.

  With a sweep of her wings, Saphira jumped into the air and took flight over the grove of apple trees at the other side of the clearing. She rose quickly above the floor of the bowl-shaped valley, circling the ruins of Doru Araeba as she climbed. Once she was high enough to soar over the mountains, she turned east and set off for the mainland and Uru’baen, leaving behind the remains of the Riders’ once-glorious stronghold.

  THE CITY OF SORROWS

  The sun was still near its zenith when the Varden arrived at Uru’baen.

  Roran heard the cries from the men at the head of his column as they crested a ridge. Curious, he looked up from the heels of the dwarf in front of him, and when he arrived at the top of the ridge, he paused to take in the view, as had each of the warriors before him.

  The land sloped gently downward for several miles, flattening out into a broad plain dotted with farms, mills, and grand stone estates that reminded him of the ones near Aroughs. Some five miles away, the plain arrived at the outer walls of Uru’baen.

  Unlike those of Dras-Leona, the walls of the capital were long enough to encompass the whole of the city. They were taller, too; even from a distance, Roran could see that they dwarfed those of both Dras-Leona and Aroughs. He guessed that they stood at least three hundred feet tall. Upon the wide battlements, he spotted ballistae and catapults mounted at regular intervals.

  The sight worried him. The machines would be difficult to take down-no doubt they were protected from magical attacks-and he knew from experience just how deadly such weapons could be.

  Behind the walls was an odd mixture of human-built structures and those he guessed the elves had made. The most prominent of the elven buildings were six tall, graceful towers-made of a malachite-green stone-which were scattered in an arc throughout what he assumed was the oldest part of the city. Two of the towers were missing their roofs, and he thought he saw the stumps of two more partially buried among the jumble of houses below.

  What interested him most, however, was not the wall or the buildings, but the fact that much of the city lay shadowed underneath a huge stone shelf, which must have been over half a mile wide and five hundred feet thick at its narrowest. The overhang formed one end of a massive, sloping hill that stretched off to the northeast for several miles. Atop the craggy lip of the shelf stood another wall, like that which surrounded the city, and several thick watchtowers.

>   At the back of the cavelike recess underneath the shelf was an enormous citadel adorned with a profusion of towers and parapets. The citadel rose high above the rest of the city, high enough that it almost scraped the underside of the shelf. Most intimidating of all was the gate set within the front of the fortress: a great, gaping cavern that looked large enough for Saphira and Thorn to walk through side by side.

  Roran’s gut tightened. If the gate was any indication, Shruikan was big enough to wipe out their whole army by himself. Eragon and Saphira had better hurry up, he thought. And the elves too. From what he had seen, the elves might be able to hold their own against the king’s black dragon, but even they would be hard-pressed to kill him.

  All that and more Roran took in as he paused on the ridge. Then he tugged on Snowfire’s reins. Behind him, the white stallion snorted and followed as Roran resumed his weary march, following the winding road as it descended to the lowlands.

  He could have ridden-was supposed to ride, actually, as captain of his battalion-but after his trip to Aroughs and back, he had come to loathe sitting in a saddle.

  As he walked, he tried to figure out how best to attack the city. The pocket of stone Uru’baen sat nestled within would prevent assaults from the sides and the rear and would interfere with attacks from above, which was surely why the elves had chosen to settle in that location to begin with.

  If we could somehow break off the overhang, we could crush the citadel and most of the city, he thought, but he deemed that unlikely, as the stone was too thick. Still, we might be able to take the wall at the top of the hill. Then we could drop stones and pour boiling oil onto those below. It wouldn’t be easy, though. Uphill fighting, and those walls … Maybe the elves could manage it. Or the Kull. They might enjoy it.

  The Ramr River was several miles north of Uru’baen, too far to be of any help. Saphira could dig a ditch large enough to divert it, but even she would need weeks to complete such a project, and the Varden did not have weeks’ worth of food. They had only a few days left. After that, they would have to starve or disband.

  Their only option was to attack before the Empire did. Not that Roran believed Galbatorix would attack. So far the king had seemed content to allow the Varden to come to him. Why should he risk his neck? The longer he waits, the weaker we grow.

  Which meant a frontal assault-a brazen fool’s charge over open ground toward walls too thick to breach and too tall to climb while archers and war machines shot at them the whole time. Just imagining it made a sweat break out on his brow. They would die in droves. He cursed. We’ll dash ourselves to pieces, and all the while Galbatorix will sit laughing in his throne room.… If we can get close to the walls, the soldiers won’t be able to hit us with their foul contraptions, but then we’ll be vulnerable to pitch and oil and rocks being dropped on our heads.

  Even if they managed to breach the walls, they would still have the whole of Galbatorix’s army to overcome. More important than the defenses of the city, then, would be the character and quality of the men the Varden would face. Would they fight to their last breath? Could they be frightened? Would they break and flee if pushed hard enough? What manner of oaths and spells bound them?

  The Varden’s spies had reported that Galbatorix had placed an earl by the name of Lord Barst in command of the troops within Uru’baen. Roran had never heard of Barst before, but the information seemed to dismay Jormundur, and the men in Roran’s battalion had shared enough stories to persuade him of Barst’s villainy. Supposedly, Barst had been lord of a rather large estate near Gil’ead, which the invasion of the elves had forced him to abandon. His vassals had lived in mortal fear of him, for Barst had a tendency to resolve disputes and punish criminals in the harshest manner possible, often choosing to simply execute those he believed were in the wrong. Of itself, that was hardly notable; many a lord throughout the Empire had a reputation for brutality. Barst, however, was not only ruthless but strong-impressively strong-and cunning to boot. In everything Roran had heard about Barst, the man’s intelligence had been clear. Barst might be a bastard, but he was a smart bastard, and Roran knew it would be a mistake to underestimate him. Galbatorix would not have chosen a weakling or a dullard to command his men.

  And then there were Thorn and Murtagh. Galbatorix might not stir from his stronghold, but the red dragon and his Rider were sure to defend the city. Eragon and Saphira will have to lure them away. Otherwise, we’ll never make it over the walls. Roran frowned. That would be a problem. Murtagh was stronger than Eragon now. Eragon would need the help of the elves to kill him.

  Once again, Roran felt bitter anger and resentment welling up inside him. He hated that he was at the mercy of those who could use magic. At least when it came to strength and cunning, a man might make up for a lack of one with a surfeit of the other. But there was no making up for the absence of magic.

  Frustrated, he scooped up a pebble from the ground and, as Eragon had taught him, said, “Stenr risa.” The pebble remained motionless.

  The pebble always remained motionless.

  He snorted and tossed it by the side of the road.

  His wife and unborn child were with the Varden, and yet there was nothing he could do to kill either Murtagh or Galbatorix. He clenched his fists and imagined breaking things. Bones, mostly.

  Maybe we should flee. It was the first time the thought had occurred to him. He knew there were lands to the east beyond Galbatorix’s reach-fertile plains where none but nomads lived. If the other villagers came with him and Katrina, they could start anew, free of the Empire and Galbatorix. The idea made him sick to consider, however. He would be abandoning Eragon, his men, and the land that he called home. No. I won’t allow our child to be born into a world where Galbatorix still holds sway. Better to die than to live in fear.

  Of course, that still did not solve the problem of how to capture Uru’baen. Always before, there had been a weakness he could exploit. In Carvahall, it had been the Ra’zac’s failure to understand that the villagers would fight. When he wrestled the Urgal Yarbog, it had been the creature’s horns. In Aroughs, it had been the canals. But here at Uru’baen, he saw no weaknesses, no place where he could turn his opponents’ strength against them.

  If we had the supplies, I would wait and starve them out. That would be the best way. Anything else is madness. But as he knew, war was a catalog of madness.

  Magic is the only way, he finally concluded. Magic and Saphira. If we can kill Murtagh, then either she or the elves will have to help us past the walls.

  He scowled, a sour taste in his mouth, and quickened his stride. The faster they made camp, the better. His feet were sore from walking, and if he was going to die in a senseless charge, then at least he wanted a hot meal and a good night’s sleep beforehand.

  The Varden set up their tents a mile from Uru’baen, by a small stream that fed the Ramr River. Then the men, dwarves, and Urgals began constructing defenses, a process that would continue until night and then resume in the morning. In fact, as long as they stayed in one location, they would continue to work on reinforcing their perimeter. The warriors detested the labor, but it kept them busy and, moreover, it might save their lives.

  Everyone thought the orders came from the shadow-Eragon. Roran knew they actually came from Jormundur. He had come to respect the older warrior since Nasuada’s abduction and Eragon’s departure. Jormundur had been fighting the Empire nearly his whole life, and he had a deep understanding of tactics and logistics. He and Roran got along well; they were both men of steel, not magic.

  And then there was King Orrin, with whom-after the initial defenses had been established-Roran found himself arguing. Orrin never failed to irritate him; if anyone was going to get them killed, it was him. Roran knew that offending a king was not the healthiest thing to do, but the fool wanted to send a messenger to the front gates of Uru’baen and issue a formal challenge, the way they had at Dras-Leona and Belatona.

  “Do you want to provoke Galbatorix?”
Roran growled. “If we do that, he might respond!”

  “Well, of course,” said King Orrin, drawing himself upright. “It’s only proper that we announce our intentions and provide him with the opportunity to parley for peace.”

  Roran stared; then he turned away in disgust and said to Jormundur, “Can’t you make him see reason?”

  The three of them were gathered in Orrin’s pavilion, where the king had summoned them.

  “Your Majesty,” said Jormundur, “Roran is right. It would be best to wait to contact the Empire.”

  “But they can see us,” protested Orrin. “We’re camped right outside their walls. It would be … rude not to send an envoy to state our position. You are both commoners; I would not expect you to understand. Royalty demands certain courtesies, even if we are at war.”

  An urge to strike the king swept through Roran. “Are you so puffed up as to believe Galbatorix considers you an equal? Bah! We’re insects to him. He cares nothing for your courtesy. You forget, Galbatorix was a commoner like us before he overthrew the Riders. His ways are not your ways. There is no one like him in the world, and you think to predict him? You think to placate him? Bah!”

  Orrin’s face colored, and he threw aside his goblet of wine, dashing it against the rug upon the ground. “You go too far, Stronghammer. No man has the right to insult me like that.”

  “I have the right to do whatever I want,” growled Roran. “I’m not one of your subjects. I don’t answer to you. I’m a free man, and I’ll insult anyone I choose, whenever I choose, however I choose-even you. It would be a mistake to send that messenger, and I-”