Inheritance i-4

by Christopher Paolini

  Eragon smiled. It had worked. If he had tried to send the sword through the sheet of metal, the reaction would have been substantially more dramatic.

  Speaking faster than before, he cast the rest of the spells, embedding six swords within each wall, each sword five feet from the next. The elves watched him intently as he spoke; if the loss of their weapons upset them, they did not show it.

  When he had finished, Eragon knelt by Arya and Elva-who were both once more holding the Dauthdaert-and said, “Get ready to run.”

  Saphira and the elves tensed. Arya had Elva climb onto her back while still maintaining her hold on the green lance; then Arya said, “Ready.”

  Reaching forward, Eragon again slapped the floor.

  A jarring crash sounded from each wall, and threads of dust fell from the ceiling, blossoming into hazy plumes.

  The moment he saw that the swords had held, Eragon dashed forward. He had barely taken two steps when Elva screamed, “Faster!”

  Roaring with the effort, he forced his feet to strike the ground even harder. To his right, Saphira ran past, head and tail low, a dark shadow at the edge of his vision.

  Just as he reached the far side of the trap, he heard the snap of breaking steel and then the cringe-inducing shriek of metal scraping against metal.

  Behind him, someone shouted.

  He twisted as he flung himself away from the noise, and he saw that everyone had crossed the space in time, save the silver-haired elf woman Yaela, who had been caught between the last six inches of the two pieces of metal. The space around her flared blue and yellow, as if the air itself was burning, and her face contorted with pain.

  “Flauga!” shouted Blodhgarm, and Yaela flew out from between the sheets of metal, which snapped together with a ringing clang. Then they retreated into the walls with the same terrible shrieking that had accompanied their appearance.

  Yaela had landed on her hands and knees close to Eragon. He helped her to her feet; to his surprise, she seemed unharmed. “Are you hurt?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “No, but … my wards are gone.” She lifted her hands and stared at them with an expression close to wonder. “I’ve not been without wards since … since I was younger than you are now. Somehow the blades stripped them from me.”

  “You’re lucky to be alive,” said Eragon. He frowned.

  Elva shrugged. “We would have all died, except for him”-she pointed at Blodhgarm-“if I hadn’t told you to move faster.”

  Eragon grunted.

  They continued on their way, expecting with every step to find another trap. But the rest of the hallway proved to be free of obstacles, and they reached the doors at the end without further incident.

  Eragon looked up at the shining expanse of gold. Embossed across the doors was a life-sized oak tree, the leaves of which formed an arching canopy that joined with the roots below to inscribe a great circle about the trunk. Sprouting from either side of the trunk’s midsection were two thick bundles of branches, which divided the space within the circle into quarters. In the top-left quarter was a carving of an army of spear-bearing elves marching through a thick forest. In the top-right quarter were humans building castles and forging swords. In the bottom left, Urgals-Kull, mostly-burning down a village and killing the inhabitants. In the bottom right, dwarves mining caves filled with gems and veins of ore. Amid the roots and branches of the oak, Eragon spotted werecats and the Ra’zac, as well as a few small strange-looking creatures that he failed to recognize. And coiled in the very center of the bole of the tree was a dragon that held the end of its tail in its mouth, as if biting itself. The doors were beautifully crafted. Under different circumstances, Eragon would have been content to sit and study them for most of a day.

  As it was, the sight of the shining doors filled him with dread as he contemplated what might lie on the other side. If it was Galbatorix, then their lives were about to change forever and nothing would ever be the same-not for them, and not for the rest of Alagaesia.

  I’m not ready, Eragon said to Saphira.

  When will we ever be ready? she replied. She flicked out her tongue, tasting the air. He could feel her nervous anticipation. Galbatorix and Shruikan must be killed, and we are the only ones who might be able to do it.

  What if we can’t?

  Then we can’t, and what will be will be.

  He nodded and took a long breath. I love you, Saphira.

  I love you too, little one.

  Eragon stepped forward. “Now what?” he asked, trying to hide his uneasiness. “Should we knock?”

  “First, let’s see if it’s open,” said Arya.

  They arranged themselves in a formation suitable for battle. Then Arya, with Elva next to her, grasped a handle set within the left-hand door and prepared to pull.

  As she did, a column of shimmering air appeared around Blodhgarm and each of his ten spellcasters. Eragon shouted with alarm, and Saphira released a short hiss, as if she had stepped upon something sharp. The elves seemed unable to move within the columns: even their eyes remained motionless, fixed upon whatever they had been looking at when the spell took effect.

  With a heavy clank, a door in the wall to the left slid open, and the elves began to move toward it, like a procession of statues gliding across ice.

  Arya lunged toward them, barbed spear extended before her, in an attempt to cut through the enchantments binding the elves, but she was too slow, and she could not catch them.

  “Letta!” shouted Eragon. Stop! The simplest spell he could think of that might help. However, the magic that imprisoned the elves proved too strong for him to break, and they disappeared within the dark opening, the door slamming shut behind them.

  Dismay swept through Eragon. Without the elves …

  Arya pounded on the door with the butt of the Dauthdaert, and she even tried to find the seam between the door and the wall with the tip of the blade-as she had with the sally port-but the wall seemed solid, immovable.

  When she turned around, her expression was one of cold fury. Umaroth, she said. I need your help to open this wall.

  No, said the white dragon. Galbatorix is sure to have hidden yourcompanions well. Trying to find them will only waste energy and place us in even greater danger.

  Arya’s slanting eyebrows drew closer as she scowled. Then we play into his hand, Umaroth-elda. He wants to divide us and make us weaker. If we continue without them, it will be that much easier for Galbatorix to defeat us.

  Yes, little one. But think you not also that the Egg-breaker might want us to pursue them? He might want us to forget him in our anger and concern, and thus to rush blindly into another of his traps.

  Why would he go to so much trouble? He could have captured Eragon, Saphira, you, and the rest of the Eldunari, even as he captured Blodhgarm and the others, but he didn’t.

  Perhaps because he wants us to exhaust ourselves before we confront him or before he attempts to break us.

  Arya lowered her head for a moment, and when she looked up, her fury had vanished-at least on the surface-replaced by her usual controlled watchfulness. What, then, should we do, Ebrithil?

  We hope that Galbatorix will not kill Blodhgarm or the others-not immediately, at least-and we continue on until we find the king.

  Arya acquiesced, but Eragon could tell that she found it distasteful. He could not blame her; he felt the same.

  “Why didn’t you sense the trap?” he asked Elva in an undertone. He thought he understood, but he wanted to hear it from her.

  “Because it didn’t hurt them,” she said.

  He nodded.

  Arya strode back to the golden doors and again grasped the handle on the left. Joining her, Elva wrapped her small hand around the shaft of the Dauthdaert.

  Leaning away from the door, Arya pulled and pulled, and the massive structure slowly began to swing outward. No one human, Eragon was sure, could have opened it, and even Arya’s strength was barely sufficient.

  When the
door reached the wall, Arya released it, and then she and Elva joined Eragon in front of Saphira.

  On the other side of the cavernous archway was a huge, dark chamber. Eragon was unsure of its size, for the walls lay hidden in velvet shadows. A line of flameless lanterns mounted on iron poles ran straight out from either side of the entranceway, illuminating the patterned floor and little else, while a faint glow came from above through crystals set within the distant ceiling. The two rows of lanterns ended over five hundred feet away, near the base of a broad dais, upon which rested a throne. On the throne sat a single black figure, the only figure in the whole room, and on his lap lay a bare sword, a long white splinter that seemed to emit a faint glow.

  Eragon swallowed and tightened his grip on Brisingr. He gave Saphira’s jaw a quick rub with the edge of his shield, and she flicked out her tongue in response. Then, by unspoken consent, the four of them started forward.

  The moment they were all in the throne room, the golden door swung shut behind them. Eragon had expected as much, but still, the noise of it closing made him start. As the echoes faded to dusky silence within the high presence chamber, the figure upon the throne stirred, as if waking from sleep, and then a voice-a voice such as Eragon had never heard before: deep and rich and imbued with authority greater than that of Ajihad or Oromis or Hrothgar, a voice that made even the elves’ seem harsh and discordant-rang forth from the far side of the throne room.

  And it said, “Ah, I have been expecting you. Welcome to my abode. And welcome to you in particular, Eragon Shadeslayer, and to you, Saphira Brightscales. I have much desired to meet with you. But I am also glad to see you, Arya-daughter of Islanzadi, and Shadeslayer in your own right-and you as well, Elva, she of the Shining Brow. And of course, Glaedr, Umaroth, Valdr, and those others who travel with you unseen. I had long believed them to be dead, and I am most glad to learn otherwise. Welcome, all! We have much to talk about.”

  THE HEART OF THE FRAY

  Along with the warriors of his battalion, Roran fought his way down off Uru’baen’s outer wall to the streets below. There they paused to regroup; then he shouted, “To the gate!” and pointed with his hammer.

  He and several men from Carvahall, including Horst and Delwin, took the lead as they trotted along the inside of the wall toward the breach the elves had created with their magic. Arrows flitted over their heads as they ran, but none were aimed at them specifically, and he did not hear any of their group take a wound.

  They encountered dozens of soldiers in the narrow space between the wall and the stone houses. A few paused to fight, but the rest ran, and even those who fought soon retreated down the adjoining alleyways.

  At first the savage intensity of slaughter and victory blinded Roran to all else. But when the soldiers they met continued to flee, a sense of unease began to gnaw at his stomach, and he began to look around with greater alertness, searching for anything that seemed different from what it ought to be.

  Something was wrong. He was sure of it.

  “Galbatorix wouldn’t let them give up this easily,” he muttered to himself.

  “What?” asked Albriech, who was next to him.

  “I said, Galbatorix wouldn’t let them give up this easily.” Twisting his head around, Roran shouted to the rest of the battalion, “Pin back your ears and look sharp! Galbatorix has a surprise or two in store for us, I wager. We won’t let ourselves get caught unawares, though, now will we?”

  “Stronghammer!” they shouted in return, and pounded their weapons against their shields. All but the elves, that was. Satisfied, he quickened the pace even as he continued to scan the rooftops.

  They soon broke out into the rubble-strewn street that led to what had once been the main gate of the city. Now all that was left was a gaping hole several hundred feet wide at the top, with a pile of broken stones at the bottom. Through the gap streamed the Varden and their allies: men, dwarves, Urgals, elves, and werecats, fighting alongside one another for the first time in history.

  Arrows rained down on the army as it poured into the city, but the elves’ magic stopped the deadly darts before they could cause harm. The same did not hold true for Galbatorix’s soldiers; Roran saw a number of them fall to the Varden’s archers, although some appeared to have wards that protected them from the arrows. Galbatorix’s favorites, he assumed.

  As his battalion joined the rest of the army, Roran spotted Jormundur riding in the press of warriors. Roran called out greetings, and Jormundur replied in kind and shouted, “Once we reach that fountain”-he pointed with his sword toward a large, ornate edifice that stood in a courtyard several hundred yards in front of them-“take your men and head off to the right. Clear the southern part of the city, then meet back up with us at the citadel.”

  Roran nodded, exaggerating the movement so Jormundur could see. “Sir!”

  He felt safer now that they had the company of other warriors, but still his sense of unease continued. Where are they? he wondered, looking at the mouths of the empty streets. Galbatorix had supposedly gathered the whole of his army in Uru’baen, but Roran had yet to see evidence of a large force of men. There had been surprisingly few soldiers on the walls, and those who were present had fled far sooner than they should have.

  He’s luring us in, Roran realized with sudden certainty. It’s all a play designed to trick us. Catching Jormundur’s attention again, he shouted, “Something’s wrong! Where are the soldiers?”

  Jormundur frowned and turned to speak with King Orrin and Queen Islanzadi, who had ridden up to him. Oddly enough, a white raven sat on Islanzadi’s left shoulder, his claws hooked into her corselet of golden armor.

  And still the Varden continued to march deeper and deeper into Uru’baen.

  “What is the matter, Stronghammer?” growled Nar Garzhvog as he pushed his way over to Roran.

  Roran glanced up at the heavy-headed Kull. “I’m not sure. Galbatorix-”

  He forgot whatever else he was going to say when a horn sounded among the buildings ahead of them. It blared for the better part of a minute, a low, ominous tone that caused the Varden to pause and look around with concern.

  Roran’s heart sank. “This is it,” he said to Albriech. Turning, he waved his hammer, motioning toward the side of the street. “Move over!” he bellowed. “Get between the buildings and take cover!”

  It took his battalion longer to extricate itself from the column of warriors than it had to join it. Frustrated, Roran continued shouting, trying to get them to move faster. “Quickly, you sorry dogs! Quickly!”

  The horn sounded again, and Jormundur finally called a halt to the army.

  By then, Roran’s warriors were safely wedged into three streets, where they stood clustered behind buildings, waiting for his orders. He stood by the side of a house, along with Garzhvog and Horst, peering around the corner as he tried to see what was happening.

  Once more the horn sounded, and then the tramp of many feet echoed through Uru’baen.

  Dread crawled through Roran as he saw rank after rank of soldiers march into the streets leading from the citadel, the rows of men brisk and orderly, their faces devoid of even the slightest hint of fear. At their head rode a squat, broad-shouldered man upon a gray charger. He wore a gleaming breastplate that bulged over a foot outward, as if to accommodate a large belly. In his left hand, he carried a shield painted with the device of a crumbling tower upon a bare stone peak. In his right hand, he carried a spiked mace that most men would have found difficult to lift but that he swung back and forth with ease.

  Roran wet his lips. He guessed that the man was none other than Lord Barst, and if even half the things he had heard about the man were true, then Barst would never ride straight at an opposing force unless he was utterly certain of destroying it.

  Roran had seen enough. Pushing himself off the corner of the building, he said, “We’re not going to wait. Tell the others to follow us.”

  “You mean to run away, Stronghammer?” rumbled Nar Ga
rzhvog.

  “No,” said Roran. “I mean to attack from the side. Only a fool would attack an army like that head-on. Now go!” He gave the Urgal a shove, then hurried down the cross street to take his position at the front of his warriors. And only a fool would go head to head with the man Galbatorix has chosen to lead his forces.

  As they made their way between the densely packed buildings, Roran heard the soldiers start to chant, “Lord Barst! Lord Barst! Lord Barst!” And they stamped the ground with their hobnail boots and banged their swords against their shields.

  Better and better, Roran thought, wishing he were anywhere but there.

  Then the Varden shouted in return, the air filled with cries of “Eragon!” and “The Riders!” and the city rang with the sounds of clashing metal and the screams of wounded men.

  When his battalion was level with what Roran guessed was the midpoint of the Empire’s army, he had them turn and start in the direction of their enemies. “Stay together,” he ordered. “Form a wall with your shields, and whatever you do, make sure you protect the spellcasters.”

  They soon spotted the soldiers in the street-spearmen, mostly-pressed close against one another as they shuffled toward the front of the battle.

  Nar Garzhvog let out a ferocious bellow, as did Roran and the other warriors in the battalion, and they charged toward the ranks of men. The soldiers shouted with alarm, and panic spread among them as they scrambled backward, trampling their own kind as they tried to find room to fight.

  Howling, Roran fell upon the first row of men. Blood sprayed around him as he swung his hammer and felt metal and bone give way. The soldiers were so tightly packed that they were nearly helpless. He killed four of them before even one managed to swing a sword at him, which he blocked with his shield.

  By the edge of the street, Nar Garzhvog knocked down six men with a single blow of his club. The soldiers started to climb back to their feet, ignoring injuries that would have crippled them had they been able to feel pain, and Garzhvog struck again, pounding them to a pulp.