Inheritance i-4

by Christopher Paolini

  Murtagh and Thorn soon appeared in their field of vision. They stopped next to Saphira, and Murtagh bowed. “Sir.”

  The king motioned, and Murtagh and Thorn walked over to the right of the throne.

  As Murtagh took up his position, he gave Eragon a look of disgust; then he clasped his hands behind his back and stared toward the far end of the chamber, ignoring him.

  “You took longer than I expected,” said Galbatorix in a deceptively mild voice.

  Without looking, Murtagh said, “The gate was more damaged than I originally thought, sir, and the spells you placed on it made it difficult to repair.”

  “Do you mean that it’s my fault you are tardy?”

  Murtagh’s jaw tightened. “No, sir. I only mean to explain. Also, part of the hallway was rather … messy, and that slowed us.”

  “I see. We shall speak of this later, but for now, there are other matters we must attend to. For one, it is time our guests meet the final member of our party. Moreover, it is high time we had some proper light in here.”

  And Galbatorix struck the flat of his blade against one arm of his throne, and in a deep voice, he cried, “Naina!”

  At his command, hundreds of lanterns sprang to life along the walls of the chamber, bathing it with warm, candle-like illumination. The room was still dim about the corners, but for the first time Eragon could make out the details of their surroundings. Scores of pillars and doorways lined the walls, and all about were sculptures and paintings and gilt scrollwork. Gold and silver had been used with abundance, and Eragon glimpsed the sparkle of many jewels. It was a staggering display of wealth, even when compared with the riches of Tronjheim or Ellesmera.

  After a moment, he noticed something else: a block of gray stone-granite perhaps-eight feet tall, which stood off to their right, beyond where the light had previously reached. And chained standing to the block was Nasuada, wearing a simple white tunic. She was watching them with wide-open eyes, though she could not speak, for a knotted cloth was tied over her mouth. She looked worn and tired but otherwise healthy.

  Relief shot through Eragon. He had not dared hope to find her alive. “Nasuada!” he shouted. “Are you all right?”

  She nodded.

  “Has he forced you to swear fealty to him?”

  She shook her head.

  “Do you think I would let her tell you if I had?” asked Galbatorix. As Eragon looked back at the king, he saw Murtagh cast a quick, concerned glance toward Nasuada, and he wondered at its significance.

  “Well, have you?” Eragon asked in a challenging tone.

  “As it so happens, no. I decided to wait until I had gathered all of you together. Now that I have, none shall leave until you have pledged yourself in service to me, nor shall you leave until I have learned the true name of each and every one of you. That is why you are here. Not to kill me, but to bow down before me and to finally put an end to this noisome rebellion.”

  Saphira growled again, and Eragon said, “We won’t give in.” Even to his own ears, his words seemed weak and toothless.

  “Then they will die,” Galbatorix replied, pointing at the two children. “And in the end, your defiance will change nothing. You do not seem to understand; you have already lost. Outside, the battle fares badly for your friends. Soon my men will force them to surrender, and this war will arrive at its destined conclusion. Fight if you wish. Deny what is before you if it comforts you. But nothing you do can change your fate, or that of Alagaesia.”

  Eragon refused to believe that he and Saphira would have to spend the rest of their lives answering to Galbatorix. Saphira felt the same, and her anger joined with his, burning away every last bit of his fear and caution, and he said, “Vae weohnata ono vergari, eka thaet otherum.” We will kill you, I swear it.

  For a moment, Galbatorix appeared aggravated; then he spoke the Word again-as well as other words in the ancient language besides-and the vow Eragon had uttered seemed to lose all meaning; the words lay in his mind like a handful of dead leaves, devoid of any power to impel or inspire.

  The king’s upper lip curved in a sneer. “Swear all the oaths you want. They shall not bind you, not unless I allow them to.”

  “I’ll still kill you,” Eragon muttered. He understood that if he continued to resist, it might mean the lives of the two children, but Galbatorix had to be killed, and if the price of his death was the deaths of the boy and the girl, then that was a cost Eragon was willing to accept. He knew he would hate himself for it. He knew that he would see the faces of the children in his dreams for the rest of his life. But if he did not challenge Galbatorix, then all would be lost.

  Do not hesitate, said Umaroth. Now is the time to strike.

  Eragon raised his voice. “Why won’t you fight me? Are you a coward? Or are you too weak to match yourself against me? Is that why you hide behind these children like a frightened old woman?”

  Eragon …, said Arya in a warning tone.

  “I am not the only one who brought a child here today,” replied the king, the lines on his face deepening.

  “There is a difference: Elva agreed to come. But you didn’t answer the question. Why won’t you fight? Is it that you’ve spent so long sitting on your throne and eating sweets that you’ve forgotten how to swing a sword?”

  “You would not want to fight me, youngling,” growled the king.

  “Prove it, then. Release me and meet me in honest battle. Show that you are still a warrior to be reckoned with. Or live with the knowledge that you are a sniveling coward who dares not face even a single opponent without the help of your Eldunari. You killed Vrael himself! Why should you fear me? Why should-”

  “Enough!” said Galbatorix. A flush had crept onto his hollow cheeks. Then, like quicksilver, his mood changed, and he bared his teeth in a fearsome approximation of a smile. He rapped the arm of his seat with his knuckles. “I did not gain this throne by accepting every challenge put to me. Nor have I held it by meeting my foes in ‘honest battle.’ What you have yet to learn, youngling, is that it does not matter how you achieve victory, only that you achieve it.”

  “You’re wrong. It does matter,” said Eragon.

  “I will remind you of that when you are sworn to me. However …” Galbatorix tapped the pommel of his sword. “Since you wish so badly to fight, I will grant your request.” The flare of hope that Eragon felt vanished when Galbatorix added, “But not with me. With Murtagh.”

  At those words, Murtagh flashed an angry look at Eragon.

  The king stroked the fringe of his beard. “I would like to know, once and for all, which of you is the better warrior. You will fight as you are, without magic or Eldunari, until one of you is unable to continue. You may not kill each other-that I forbid-but short of death, I will allow most anything. It will be rather entertaining, I think, to watch brother fight brother.”

  “No,” said Eragon. “Not brothers. Half brothers. Brom was my father, not Morzan.”

  For the first time, Galbatorix appeared surprised. Then one corner of his mouth twisted upward. “Of course. I should have seen it; the truth is in your face for any who know what to look for. This duel will be all the more fitting, then. The son of Brom pitted against the son of Morzan. Fate indeed has a sense of humor.”

  Murtagh also reacted with surprise. He controlled his face too well for Eragon to determine whether the information pleased or upset him, but Eragon knew that it had thrown him off balance. That had been his plan. If Murtagh was distracted, it would be that much easier for Eragon to defeat him. And he did intend to defeat him, regardless of the blood they shared.

  “Letta,” said Galbatorix with a slight motion of his hand.

  Eragon staggered as the spell holding him vanished.

  Then the king said, “Ganga aptr,” and Arya, Elva, and Saphira slid backward, leaving a wide space between them and the dais. The king muttered a few other words, and most of the lanterns in the chamber dimmed so that the area in front of the throne was the b
rightest spot in the room.

  “Come now,” said Galbatorix to Murtagh. “Join Eragon, and let us see which of you is the more skilled.”

  Scowling, Murtagh walked to a spot several yards from where Eragon stood. He drew Zar’roc-the blade of the crimson sword looked as if it were already coated in blood-then lifted his shield and settled into a crouch.

  After glancing at Saphira and Arya, Eragon did the same.

  “Now fight!” cried Galbatorix, and clapped his hands.

  Sweating, Eragon began to move toward Murtagh, even as Murtagh moved toward him.

  MUSCLE AGAINST METAL

  Roran yelped and jumped aside as a brick chimney smashed to the ground in front of him, followed by the body of one of the Empire’s archers.

  He shook the sweat from his eyes, then moved around the body and the pile of scattered bricks, hopping from one patch of open ground to the next, much as he used to hop along the stones by the Anora River.

  The battle was going badly. That much was obvious. He and his warriors had remained close to the outer wall for at least a quarter of an hour, fighting off the advancing waves of soldiers, but then they had allowed the soldiers to lure them back among the buildings. In retrospect, that had been a mistake. Fighting in the streets was desperate and bloody and confusing. His battalion had become spread out, and only a small number of his warriors remained close by-men from Carvahall, mostly, along with four elves and several Urgals. The rest were scattered among the nearby streets, fighting on their own, without direction.

  Worse, for some reason that the elves and other spellcasters could not explain, magic no longer seemed to be working as it should. They had discovered this when one of the elves had tried to kill a soldier with a spell, only to have a Varden warrior fall down dead instead, consumed by the swarm of beetles the elf had summoned forth. His death had sickened Roran; it was a horrible, senseless way to die, and it might have happened to any of them.

  Off to their right, closer to the main gate, Lord Barst was still rampaging through the main body of the Varden’s army. Roran had caught sight of him several times: on foot now, striding among the humans, elves, and dwarves and dashing them aside like so many ninepins with his huge black mace. No one had been able to stop the hulking man, much less wound him, and those around him scrambled to stay out of reach of his fearsome weapon.

  Roran had also seen King Orik and a group of dwarves hewing their way through a group of soldiers. Orik’s jeweled helm flashed in the light as he swung his mighty war hammer, Volund. Behind him, his warriors shouted, “Vor Orikz korda!”

  Fifty feet past Orik, Roran had glimpsed Queen Islanzadi whirling through the battle, her red cape flying and her shining armor as bright as a star amid the dark mass of bodies. About her head had flitted the white raven that was her companion. What little Roran saw of Islanzadi impressed him with her skill, ferocity, and bravery. She reminded him of Arya, but he thought that the queen might be the greater warrior.

  A cluster of five soldiers charged around the corner of a house and nearly ran into Roran. Shouting, they leveled their spears and did their best to skewer him like a roast chicken. He ducked and dodged and, with his own spear, caught one of the men in the throat. The soldier remained on his feet for a minute more, but he could not breathe properly and soon he fell to the ground, tangling the legs of his companions.

  Roran seized the opportunity, stabbing and cutting with abandon. One of the soldiers managed to land a blow on Roran’s right shoulder, and Roran felt the familiar decrease in his strength as his wards deflected the blade.

  He was surprised that the wards protected him. Only a few moments before, they had failed to stop the rim of a shield from tearing open the skin on his left cheek. He wished that whatever was happening with the magic would resolve itself one way or another. As it was, he dared not risk leaving himself open for even the slightest blow.

  Roran advanced toward the last two soldiers, but before he reached them, there was a blur of steel, and then their heads dropped to the cobblestones, surprised expressions on their faces. The bodies collapsed, and behind them Roran saw the herbalist Angela, garbed in her green and black armor and carrying her sword-staff. Close by her side were a pair of werecats, one in the shape of a brindle-haired girl with sharp, bloodstained teeth and a long dagger, the other in the shape of an animal. He thought it might have been Solembum, but he was not sure.

  “Roran! How nice to see you,” said the herbalist with a smile that seemed altogether too cheery considering the circumstances. “Imagine meeting here!”

  “Better here than in the grave!” he shouted, picking up an extra spear and heaving it at a man farther down the street.

  “Well said!”

  “I thought you went with Eragon?”

  She shook her head. “He didn’t ask me, and I wouldn’t have gone if he had. I’m no match for Galbatorix. Besides, Eragon has the Eldunari to help him.”

  “You know?” he asked, shocked.

  She winked at him from under the lip of her helm. “I know lots of things.”

  He grunted and tucked his shoulder behind his shield as he rammed into another group of soldiers. The herbalist and the werecats joined him, as did Horst, Mandel, and several others.

  “Where’s your hammer?” shouted Angela as she spun her bladed staff, blocking and cutting at the same time.

  “Lost! I dropped it.”

  Someone howled with pain behind him. As soon as he dared, Roran looked back and saw Baldor clutching the stump of his right arm. On the ground, his hand lay twitching.

  Roran ran back to him, leaping over several corpses along the way. Horst was already by his son’s side, fending off the soldier who had severed Baldor’s hand.

  Drawing his dagger, Roran cut a strip of cloth from the tunic of a fallen soldier, then said, “Here!” and tied it around the stump of Baldor’s arm, stanching the bleeding.

  The herbalist knelt next to them, and Roran said, “Can you help him?”

  She shook her head. “Not here. If I use magic, it might end up killing him. If you can get him out of the city, though, the elves can probably save his hand.”

  Roran hesitated. He was not sure he dared spare anyone to escort Baldor safely out of Uru’baen. However, without a hand, Baldor would face a hard life, and Roran had no desire to condemn him to that.

  “If you won’t take him, I will,” bellowed Horst.

  Roran ducked as a stone the size of a hog flew past overhead and glanced off the front of a house, scattering pieces of masonry through the air. Inside the building, someone screamed.

  “No. We need you.” Turning, Roran whistled and picked two warriors: the old cobbler Loring and an Urgal. “Get him to the elves’ healers as fast as you can,” he said, pushing Baldor toward them. As he went, Baldor picked up his hand and tucked it under his hauberk.

  The Urgal snarled and said in a thick accent that Roran barely understood, “No! I stay. I fight!” He struck his sword against his shield.

  Roran stepped over, grabbed one of the creature’s horns, and pulled on it until he had twisted the Urgal’s head halfway around. “You’ll do as I say,” Roran growled. “Besides, it’s not an easy task. Protect him and you’ll win much glory for you and your tribe.”

  The Urgal’s eyes seemed to brighten. “Much glory?” he said, mashing the words between his heavy teeth.

  “Much glory!” Roran confirmed.

  “I do it, Stronghammer!”

  With a sense of relief, Roran watched the three of them depart, heading toward the outer wall, so that they might skirt most of the fighting. He was also pleased to see the human-shaped werecat follow after them, the feral, brindle-haired girl swinging her head from side to side as she scented the air.

  Then another group of soldiers attacked, and all thoughts of Baldor left Roran’s mind. He hated fighting with a spear instead of a hammer, but he made do, and after a time, the street again grew calm. He knew the respite would be short.

>   He took the opportunity to sit on the front doorstep of a house and try to regain his breath. The soldiers seemed as fresh as ever, but he could feel exhaustion dragging on his limbs. He doubted he could keep going for much longer without making a fatal mistake.

  As he sat panting, he listened to the shouts and screams coming from the direction of Uru’baen’s ruined front gate. It was difficult to tell what was happening from the general clamor, but he suspected the Varden were getting pushed back, for the noise seemed to be receding slightly. Amid the commotion, he could hear the regular crack of Lord Barst’s mace striking warrior after warrior, and then the increase in cries that invariably followed.

  Roran made himself stand. If he sat for much longer, his muscles would start to stiffen. A moment after he moved away from the doorstep, the contents of a chamber pot splashed across the spot where he had just been.

  “Murderers!” shouted a woman above him, and then a pair of shutters banged shut.

  Roran snorted and picked his way around bodies as he led his remaining warriors over to the nearest cross street.

  They paused, wary, when a soldier raced past, panic upon his face. Close behind, a pack of yowling housecats chased after him, blood dripping from the fur around their mouths.

  Roran smiled and started forward again.

  He stopped a second later when a group of dwarves with red beards ran toward them from deeper within the city. “Ready yourself!” one shouted. “We have a whole pack of soldiers nipping at our heels, a few hundred of them, at least.”

  Roran looked back up the empty cross street. “Perhaps you lost-” he began to say, and then stopped when a line of crimson tunics appeared around the corner of a building a few hundred feet away. More and more soldiers followed, pouring into the street like a swarm of red ants.

  “Back!” Roran shouted. “Back!” We have to find somewhere defensible. The outer wall was too far away, and none of the houses were large enough to have enclosed courtyards.