A spear flew past him, close enough that he felt the wind on his cheek.
He swore and kept climbing.
He was less than a yard from the battlements when a soldier with blue eyes leaned over the edge and looked straight at him.
“Bah!” Roran shouted, and the soldier flinched and stepped back. Before the man had time to recover, Roran scrambled up the remaining rungs and hopped over the battlements to land on the walkway along the top of the wall.
The soldier he had scared stood several feet in front of him, holding a short archer’s sword. The man’s head was turned to the side as he shouted at a group of soldiers farther down the wall.
Roran’s shield was still on his back so he swung his hammer at the man’s wrist. Without the shield, Roran knew he would have difficulty fending off a trained swordsman; his safest course was to disarm his opponent as quickly as possible.
The soldier saw what he intended and parried the blow. Then he stabbed Roran in the belly.
Or rather, he tried to. Eragon’s spells stopped the tip of the blade a quarter inch from Roran’s gut. Roran grunted, surprised, then knocked aside the blade and brained the man with three rapid strikes.
He swore again. It was a bad beginning.
Up and down the wall, more of the Varden tried to climb over the battlements. Few made it. Clumps of soldiers waited at the top of most every ladder, and reinforcements were streaming onto the walkway from the stairs to the city.
Baldor joined him-he had used the same ladder as Roran-and together they ran toward a ballista manned by eight soldiers. The ballista was mounted near the base of one of the many towers that rose out of the wall, each of which stood about two hundred feet apart. Behind the soldiers and the tower, Roran saw the illusion of Saphira that the elves had created, flying over and around the wall, breathing fire on it.
The soldiers were smart; they grabbed their spears and poked at him and Baldor, keeping them at a distance. Roran tried to catch one of the spears, but the man wielding it was too fast, and Roran nearly got stabbed again. A moment more and he knew the soldiers would overwhelm him and Baldor.
Before that could happen, an Urgal pulled himself over the edge of the wall behind the soldiers, then lowered his head and charged, bellowing and swinging the ironbound club he carried.
The Urgal struck one man in the chest, breaking his ribs, and another on the hip, breaking his pelvis. Either injury ought to have incapacitated the soldiers, but as the Urgal bulled past them, the two men picked themselves off the stone as if nothing had happened and proceeded to stab the Urgal in the back.
A sense of doom settled upon Roran. “We’ll have to bash in their skulls or take off their heads if we’re going to stop them,” he growled to Baldor. Keeping his eyes on the soldiers, he shouted to the Varden behind them, “They can’t feel pain!”
Out over the city, the illusionary Saphira crashed into a tower. Everyone but Roran paused to look; he knew what the elves were doing.
Jumping forward, he slew one of the soldiers with a blow to the temple. He used his shield to shove the next soldier aside; then he was too close for their spears to be of any use, and he was able to make short work of them with his hammer.
Once he and Baldor had killed the rest of the soldiers around the ballista, Baldor looked at him with an expression of despair. “Did you see? Saphira-”
“She’s fine.”
“But-”
“Don’t worry about it. She’s fine.”
Baldor hesitated, then accepted Roran’s word, and they rushed at the next clump of soldiers.
Soon afterward, Saphira-the real Saphira-appeared over the southern part of the wall as she flew toward the citadel, prompting cheers of relief from the Varden.
Roran frowned. She was supposed to remain hidden for the whole of her flight. “Frethya. Frethya,” he said quickly under his breath. He remained visible. Blast it, he thought.
Turning, he said, “Back to the ladders!”
“Why?” demanded Baldor as he grappled with another soldier. Uttering a ferocious shout, he pushed the man off the wall, into the city.
“Stop asking questions! Move!”
Side by side, they fought their way through the line of soldiers that separated them from the ladders. It was bloody and difficult, and Baldor received a cut on his left calf, behind his greave, and a severe bruise on one of his shoulders, where a spear nearly pierced his mail shirt.
The soldiers’ immunity to pain meant that killing them was the only sure way to stop them, and killing them was no easy task. Also, it meant that Roran dared not show mercy. More than once, he thought he had killed a soldier, only to have the wounded man rear up and strike at him while he was engaged with another opponent. And there were so many soldiers on the walkway, he began to fear that he and Baldor would never make it off.
When they reached the nearest ladder, he said, “Here! Stay here.”
If Baldor was puzzled, he did not show it. They held off the soldiers by themselves until another two men climbed up the ladder and joined them, then a third, and at last Roran began to feel as if they had a good chance of pushing back the soldiers and capturing that segment of the wall.
Even though the attack had been devised as only a distraction, Roran saw no reason to treat it as such. If they were going to risk their lives, they might as well get something out of it. They needed to clear the walls anyway.
Then they heard Thorn roar with rage, and the red dragon appeared above the tops of the buildings, winging his way toward the citadel. Roran saw a figure he thought was Murtagh on his back, crimson sword in hand.
“What does it mean?” shouted Baldor between sword strokes.
“It means the game is up!” Roran replied. “Brace yourself; these bastards are in for a surprise!”
He had barely finished speaking when the voices of the elves sounded above the noise of the battle, eerie and beautiful as they sang in the ancient language.
Roran ducked under a spear and poked the end of his hammer into a soldier’s belly, knocking the wind from the man’s lungs. The soldiers might not be able to feel pain, but they still had to breathe. As the soldier struggled to recover, Roran slipped past his guard and crushed his throat with the rim of his shield.
He was about to attack the next man when he felt the stone tremble beneath his feet. He retreated until his back was pressed against the battlements, then widened his stance for balance.
One of the soldiers was foolish enough to rush him at that very moment. As the man ran toward him, the trembling grew stronger, then the top of the wall rippled, like a blanket being tossed, and the onrushing soldier, as well as most of his companions, fell and remained prone, helpless to rise as the earth continued to shake.
From the other side of the wall tower that separated them from Uru’baen’s main gate came a sound like a mountain breaking. Fan-shaped jets of water sprayed into the air, and then with a great noise, the wall over the gate shuddered and began to crumble inward.
And still the elves sang.
As the motion beneath his feet subsided, Roran sprang forward and killed three of the soldiers before they were able to stand. The rest turned and fled back down the stairs that led into the city.
Roran helped Baldor to his feet, then shouted, “After them!” He grinned, tasting blood. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad start after all.
THAT WHICH DOES NOT KILL …
“Stop,” said Elva.
Eragon froze with his foot in the air. The girl waved him back, and he retreated.
“Jump to there,” said Elva. She pointed at a spot a yard in front of him. “By the scrollwork.”
He crouched, then hesitated as he waited for her to tell him whether it was safe.
She stamped her foot and made a sound of exasperation. “It won’t work if you don’t mean it. I can’t tell if something is going to hurt you unless you actually intend to put yourself in danger.” She gave him a smile that he found less than reassuring. �
��Don’t worry; I won’t let anything happen to you.”
Still doubtful, he flexed his legs again and was just about to spring forward when-
“Stop!”
He cursed and waved his arms as he tried to keep from falling onto the section of floor that would trigger the spikes hidden both above and below.
The spikes were the third trap Eragon and his companions had encountered in the long hallway leading to the golden doors. The first had been a set of hidden pits. The second had been blocks of stone in the ceiling that would have squished them flat. And now the spikes, much like those that had killed Wyrden in the tunnels beneath Dras-Leona.
They had seen Murtagh enter the hallway through the open sally port, but he had made no effort to pursue them without Thorn. After watching for a few seconds, he had disappeared into one of the side rooms where Arya and Blodhgarm had broken the gears and wheels used to open and close the stronghold’s main gate.
It might take Murtagh an hour to fix the mechanisms, or it might take him minutes. Either way, they dared not dawdle.
“Try a little bit farther out,” said Elva.
Eragon grimaced, but did as she suggested.
“Stop!”
This time he would have fallen had Elva not grabbed the back of his tunic.
“Even farther,” she said. Then, “Stop! Farther.”
“I can’t,” he growled, his frustration increasing. “Not without a running start.” But with a running start, it would be impossible to stop himself in time, should Elva determine that the jump was dangerous. “What now? If the spikes go all the way to the doors, we’ll never reach them.” They had already thought of using magic to float over the trap, but even the smallest spell would set it off, or so Elva claimed, and they had no choice but to trust her.
“Maybe the trap is meant for a walking dragon,” said Arya. “If it’s only a yard or two long, Saphira or Thorn could step right over without ever realizing it was there. But if it’s a hundred feet long, it would be sure to catch them.”
Not if I jump, said Saphira. A hundred feet is an easy distance.
Eragon exchanged concerned glances with Arya and Elva. “Just make sure you don’t let your tail touch the floor,” he said. “And don’t go too far, or you might run into another trap.”
Yes, little one.
Saphira crouched and gathered herself in, lowering her head until it was only a foot or so above the stone. Then she dug her claws into the floor and leaped down the hallway, opening her wings just enough to give herself a bit of lift.
To Eragon’s relief, Elva remained silent.
When Saphira had gone two full lengths of her body, she folded her wings and dropped to the floor with a resounding clatter.
Safe, she said. Her scales scraped on the floor as she turned around. She jumped back, and Eragon and the others moved out of the way to give her room to land on her return. Well? she said. Who’s first?
It took her four trips to ferry them all across the bed of spikes. Then they continued forward at a swift trot, Arya and Elva again in the lead. They encountered no more traps until they were three-quarters of the way to the gleaming doors, at which point Elva shuddered and raised her small hand. They immediately stopped.
“Something will cut us in two if we continue,” she said. “I’m not sure where it will come from … the walls, I think.”
Eragon frowned. That meant that whatever would cut them had enough weight or strength behind it to overcome their wards-hardly an encouraging prospect.
“What if we-” he started to say, then stopped as twenty black-robed humans, men and women alike, filed out of a side passageway and formed a line in front of them, blocking the way.
Eragon felt a blade of thought stab into his mind as the enemy magicians began to chant in the ancient language. Opening her jaws, Saphira raked the spellcasters with a torrent of crackling flame, but it passed harmlessly around them. One of the banners along the wall caught fire, and scraps of smoldering fabric fell to the floor.
Eragon defended himself, but he did not attack in turn; it would take too long to subdue the magicians one by one. Moreover, their chanting concerned him: if they were willing to cast spells before they had seized control of his mind-as well as those of his companions-then they no longer cared if they lived or died, only that they stopped the intruders.
He dropped to one knee next to Elva. She was speaking to one of the spellcasters, saying something about the man’s daughter.
“Are they standing over the trap?” he asked, keeping his voice low.
She nodded, never pausing in her speech.
Reaching out, he slapped the palm of his hand against the floor.
He had expected something to happen, but still he recoiled when a horizontal sheet of metal-thirty feet long and four inches thick-shot out of each wall with a terrible screech. The plates of metal caught the magicians between them and cut them in two, like a pair of giant tin snips, then just as quickly retreated back into their hidden slots.
The suddenness of it shocked Eragon. He averted his eyes from the shambles before them. What a horrible way to die.
Next to him, Elva gurgled, then slumped forward in a faint. Arya caught her before her head hit the floor. Cradling her with one arm, Arya began to murmur to her in the ancient language.
Eragon consulted with the other elves about how best to bypass the trap. They decided that the safest way would be to jump over it, as they had with the bed of spikes.
Four of them climbed onto Saphira, and she was just about to spring forward when Elva cried out in a weak voice: “Stop! Don’t!”
Saphira flicked her tail but remained where she was.
Elva slid out of Arya’s grasp, staggered a few feet away, leaned over, and was sick. She wiped her mouth on the back of her hand, then stared at the mangled bodies that lay before them, as if fixing them in her memory.
Still staring at them, she said, “There is another trigger, halfway across, in the air. If you jump”-she clapped her hands together, a loud, sharp sound, and made an ugly face-“blades come out from high on the walls, as well as lower.”
A thought began to bother Eragon. “Why would Galbatorix try to kill us? … If you weren’t here,” he said, looking at Elva, “Saphira might be dead right now. Galbatorix wants her alive, so why this?” He gestured at the bloody floor. “Why the spikes and the blocks of stone?”
“Perhaps,” said the elf woman Invidia, “he expected the pits to capture us before we reached the rest of the traps.”
“Or perhaps,” said Blodhgarm in a grim voice, “he knows that Elva is with us and what she is capable of.”
The girl shrugged. “What of it? He can’t stop me.”
A chill crept through Eragon. “No, but if he knows of you, then he might be scared, and if he’s scared-”
Then he might really be trying to kill us, Saphira finished.
Arya shook her head. “It doesn’t matter. We still have to find him.”
They spent a minute discussing how to get past the blades, whereupon Eragon said, “What if I used magic to transport us over there, the way Arya sent Saphira’s egg to the Spine?” He gestured toward the area past the bodies.
It would require too much energy, said Glaedr.
Better to conserve our strength for when we face Galbatorix, Umaroth added.
Eragon gnawed on his lip. He looked back over his shoulder and was alarmed to see, far behind them, Murtagh running from one side of the hallway to the other. We don’t have long.
“Maybe we could put something into the walls, to keep the blades from coming out.”
“The blades are sure to be protected from magic,” Arya pointed out. “Besides, we don’t have anything with us that could hold them back. A knife? A piece of armor? The plates of metal are too big and heavy. They would tear past whatever was in front of them as if it were not there.”
Silence fell upon them.
Then Blodhgarm licked his fangs and said, “Not n
ecessarily.” He turned and placed his sword on the floor in front of Eragon, then motioned for the elves under his command to do the same.
Eleven blades in total they laid before Eragon. “I can’t ask you to do this,” he said. “Your swords-”
Blodhgarm interrupted with a raised hand, his fur glossy in the soft light of the lanterns. “We fight with our minds, Shadeslayer, not our bodies. If we encounter soldiers, we can take what weapons we need from them. If our swords are of more use here and now, then we would be foolish to retain them merely for reasons of sentiment.”
Eragon inclined his head. “As you wish.”
To Arya, Blodhgarm said, “It should be an even number, if we are to have the best chance of success.”
She hesitated, then drew her own thin-bladed sword and placed it among the others. “Consider carefully what you are about to do, Eragon,” she said. “These are storied weapons all. It would be a shame to destroy them and gain nothing by it.”
He nodded, then frowned, concentrating as he recalled his lessons with Oromis. Umaroth, he said, I’ll need your strength.
What is ours is yours, the dragon replied.
The illusion that hid the slots from which the sheets of metal slid out was too well constructed for Eragon to pierce. This was as he expected-Galbatorix was not one to overlook such a detail. On the other hand, the enchantments responsible for the illusion were easy enough to detect, and by them he was able to determine the exact placement and dimensions of the openings.
He could not tell exactly how far back the sheets of metal lay within the slots. He hoped it was at least an inch or two from the outer surface of the wall. If they were closer, his idea would fail, for the king was sure to have protected the metal against outside tampering.
Summoning the words he needed, Eragon cast the first of the twelve spells he intended to use. One of the elves’ swords-Laufin’s, he thought-disappeared with a faint breath of wind, like a tunic being swung through the air. A half second later, a solid thud emanated from the wall to their left.
Inheritance i-4 Page 64
