Inheritance i-4

by Christopher Paolini

  As Roran ran down the street with his warriors, a dozen or so arrows landed around them.

  Roran stumbled and fell, writhing, as a bolt of pain shot up his spine from the small of his back. It felt as if someone had jabbed him with a large iron bar.

  A second later, the herbalist was by his side. She tugged at something behind him, and Roran screamed. Then the pain decreased, and he found himself able to see clearly again.

  The herbalist showed him an arrow with a bloody tip before throwing it away. “Your mail stopped most of it,” she said as she helped him to his feet.

  Gritting his teeth, Roran ran with her to rejoin their group. Every step pained him now, and if he bent at the waist too far, his back spasmed and he found it almost impossible to move.

  He saw no good places to make a stand, and the soldiers were getting closer, so at last he shouted, “Stop! Form up! Elves to the sides! Urgals front and center!”

  Roran took his place near the front, along with Darmmen, Albriech, the Urgals, and one of the red-bearded dwarves.

  “So you are the one they call Stronghammer,” said the dwarf as they watched the advance of the soldiers. “I fought alongside your hearth-brother in Farthen Dur. It is mine honor to fight with you as well.”

  Roran grunted. He just hoped he could stay on his feet.

  Then the soldiers crashed into them, shoving them back through sheer weight. Roran set his shoulder against his shield and pushed with all his might. Swords and spears stuck through the gaps in the wall of overlapping shields; he felt one scrape against his side, but his hauberk protected him.

  The elves and the Urgals proved invaluable. They broke the soldiers’ lines and earned Roran and the other warriors room to swing their weapons. At the edge of his vision, Roran saw the dwarf stabbing the soldiers in the legs, feet, and groin, causing many to fall.

  The supply of soldiers seemed endless, however, and Roran found himself forced backward step by step. Not even the elves could stem the tide of men, try though they might. Othiara, the elf woman Roran had spoken to outside the city wall, died from an arrow in the neck, and the remaining elves received many wounds.

  Roran was injured several more times himself: a cut on the upper part of his right calf, which would have hamstrung him if it had been a little bit higher; another cut on the thigh of the same leg, where a sword had slipped under the edge of his hauberk; a nasty scrape on his neck, where he hit himself with his own shield; a stab wound on the inner part of his right leg that fortunately missed the major arteries; and more bruises than he could count. He felt as if every part of himself had been beaten soundly with a wooden mallet and then a pair of clumsy men had used him as a target for knife throwing.

  He dropped back from the front line a few times to rest his arms and catch his breath, but he always rejoined the fight soon afterward.

  Then the buildings opened up around them, and Roran realized that the soldiers had succeeded in driving them into the square before Uru’baen’s broken gate, and that there were now enemies behind them as well as before them.

  He chanced a look over his shoulder and saw the elves and the Varden retreating before Barst and his soldiers.

  “Right!” shouted Roran. “Right! Up against the buildings!” He pointed with his bloody spear.

  With some difficulty, the warriors packed behind him edged to the side and onto the steps of a huge stone building fronted with a double row of pillars as tall as any of the trees in the Spine. Between the pillars, Roran glimpsed the dark, yawning shape of an open archway big enough to accommodate Saphira, if not Shruikan.

  “Up! Up!” Roran shouted, and the men, dwarves, elves, and Urgals ran with him to the top of the stairs. There they set themselves among the pillars and repelled the wave of soldiers that charged after them. From their vantage point, which was perhaps twenty feet above the level of the streets, Roran saw that the Empire had nearly forced the Varden and the elves back out the gaping hole in the outer wall.

  We’re going to lose, he thought with sudden desperation.

  The soldiers charged up the steps once again. Roran dodged a spear and kicked its owner in the belly, knocking the soldier and two other men down the stairs.

  From one of the ballistae on a nearby wall tower, a javelin streaked down toward Lord Barst. When it was still a few yards from him, the javelin burst into flames, then crumbled into dust, as did every arrow shot at the armored man.

  We have to kill him, thought Roran. If Barst fell, then the soldiers would likely break and lose confidence. But given that both the elves and the Kull had failed to stop him, it seemed doubtful that anyone other than Eragon could.

  Even as he continued to fight, Roran kept glancing at the large, armored figure, hoping to see something that might provide a way to defeat him. He noticed that Barst walked with a slight hitch in his stride, as if he had once injured his left knee or hip. And the man seemed a hair slower than before.

  So he does have his limits, thought Roran. Or rather, the Eldunari does.

  With a shout, he parried the sword of the soldier who had been pressing him. Jerking his shield up, he caught the soldier underneath the jaw, killing the man instantly.

  Roran was out of breath and faint from his wounds, so he withdrew behind one of the pillars and leaned against it. He coughed and spat; his spittle contained blood, but he thought that was just from where he had bitten the inside of his mouth and not from a punctured lung. At least he hoped so. His ribs felt sore enough that one of them might be broken.

  A great shout rose from the Varden, and Roran looked around the pillar to see Queen Islanzadi and eleven other elves riding through the battle toward Lord Barst. Again upon Islanzadi’s left shoulder sat the white raven, and he cawed and lifted his wings, the better to balance upon his moving perch. In her hand, Islanzadi carried her sword, while the rest of the elves carried spears with banners attached close to their leaf-shaped blades.

  Roran leaned against the pillar, hope rising within him. “Kill him,” he growled.

  Barst made no move to avoid the elves but stood waiting for them with his feet spread wide and his mace and shield by his sides, as if he had no need to defend himself.

  Throughout the streets, the fighting slowed to a standstill as everyone turned to watch what was about to happen.

  The two elves in the lead lowered their spears, and their horses sprang forward into a gallop, the muscles beneath their glossy hides flexing and relaxing as they raced across the short distance that separated them from Barst. For a moment, it looked as if Barst would surely fall; it seemed impossible that anyone on foot could withstand such a charge.

  The spears never touched Barst. His wards stopped them an arm’s length from his body, and the hafts shattered in the elves’ hands, leaving them holding useless shards of wood. Then Barst lifted his mace and his shield, and with them he struck the horses on the sides of their heads, breaking their necks and killing them.

  The horses fell, and the elves upon them jumped free, twisting in the air as they did.

  The next two elves did not have time to change course before they reached Barst. Like their predecessors, they split their spears on his wards, and then they too jumped free of their horses as Barst struck the animals down.

  By then, the eight other elves, including Islanzadi, had managed to turn and rein in their steeds. They trotted in a circle around Barst, keeping their weapons pointed at him, while the four elves on the ground drew their swords and cautiously advanced toward Barst.

  The man laughed and hefted his shield as he prepared for their attack. The light caught his face under his helm, and even from a distance Roran could see that it was broad and heavy-browed, with prominent cheekbones. In some ways, it reminded him of the face of an Urgal.

  The four elves ran at Barst, each from a different direction, and they cut and stabbed at him in unison. Barst caught one of the swords on his shield, deflected another with his mace, and let his wards stop the blades of the two elves b
ehind him. He laughed again and swung his weapon.

  A silver-haired elf threw himself to the side, and the mace flew past harmlessly.

  Twice more Barst swung, and twice more the elves evaded him. Barst showed no signs of frustration, but hunched behind his shield and bided his time, like a cave bear waiting for whosoever might be foolish enough to venture into his lair.

  Outside the ring of elves, a block of halberd-wielding soldiers took it upon themselves to run screaming toward Queen Islanzadi and her companions. Without pause, the queen lifted her sword over her head, and at her signal, a swarm of buzzing arrows shot out from the ranks of the Varden and felled the soldiers.

  Roran shouted with excitement, along with many of the Varden.

  Barst had been edging ever closer to the bodies of the four horses he had slain, and now he stepped into their midst so that the bodies formed a low, tumbled wall on either side of him. The elves to his left and his right would have no choice but to leap over the horses if they wished to attack him.

  Clever, Roran thought, frowning.

  The elf in front of Barst darted forward, shouting something in the ancient language. Barst seemed to hesitate, and his hesitation encouraged the elf to come closer. Then Barst lunged forward, his mace came crashing down, and the elf crumpled to the ground, broken.

  A groan went up from the elves.

  The three remaining elves on foot were more cautious thereafter. They continued to circle Barst, running in to attack him on occasion, but mostly keeping their distance.

  “Surrender!” exclaimed Islanzadi, and her voice could be heard throughout the streets. “There are more of us than you. No matter how strong you are, in time you will tire and your wards will fail. You cannot win, human.”

  “No?” said Barst. He straightened and dropped his shield with a loud clatter.

  Sudden dread filled Roran. Run, he thought. “Run!” he shouted a half second later.

  He was too late.

  Bending at the knees, Barst grabbed the neck of one of the horses and, with his left arm alone, threw the horse at Queen Islanzadi.

  If she spoke in the ancient language, Roran did not hear it, but she lifted her hand-and the body of the horse stopped in midair, then dropped to the cobblestones, where it landed with an unpleasant sound. On her shoulder, the raven screeched.

  Barst was not looking, however. As soon as the carcass left his hand, he scooped up his shield and sprinted toward the nearest of the mounted elven riders. One of the three remaining elves on foot-a woman with a red sash tied around her upper arm-ran toward him and slashed at his back. Barst ignored her.

  Over a flat stretch of land, the elves’ horses might have been able to outdistance Barst, but in the limited space between the buildings and the closely packed warriors, Barst was both faster and more nimble. He rammed his shoulder into the ribs of one of the horses, toppling it over, and then swung his mace at an elf upon another horse, knocking the elf from his seat. A horse screamed.

  The circle of elven riders disintegrated, each turning in a different direction as they tried to calm their mounts and address the threat before them.

  A half-dozen elves ran out from the nearby press of warriors and surrounded Barst, all hacking at him with frenzied speed. Barst disappeared behind them for a moment; then his mace rose up, and three of the elves flew tumbling away. Then another two, and Barst strode forward, blood and gore clinging to the flanges of his black weapon.

  “Now!” roared Barst, and throughout the square, hundreds of soldiers ran forward and assailed the elves, forcing them to defend themselves.

  “No,” Roran growled, agonized. He would have gone with his warriors to help, but too many bodies-both living and dead-separated them from Barst and the elves. He glanced over at the herbalist, who looked as worried as he felt, and said, “Can’t you do something?”

  “I could, but it would mean my life and that of everyone here.”

  “Galbatorix as well?”

  “He’s too well shielded, but our army would be destroyed along with most everyone in Uru’baen, and even those at our camp might die. Is that what you want?”

  Roran shook his head.

  “I thought not.”

  Moving with uncanny speed, Barst struck elf after elf, felling them with ease. With one of his swings, he caught the shoulder of the elf woman with the red sash and knocked her sprawling onto her back. She pointed at Barst and screamed in the ancient language, but the spell went awry, for another elf slumped forward and toppled out of his saddle, the front of his body split from head to seam.

  Barst slew the elf woman with a jab of his mace and then continued to run from horse to horse until he reached Islanzadi on her white mare.

  The elf queen did not wait for Barst to kill her steed. She leaped out of her saddle, her red cape billowing, and her companion, the white raven, beat his wings as he took flight from her shoulder.

  Before she alit, Islanzadi lashed out at Barst, her sword a streak of shining steel. Her blade rang as it collided with his wards.

  Barst retaliated with a counterstroke, which Islanzadi parried with a deft turn of her wrist, sending the spiked ball of his mace crashing into the cobblestones. Around them, a space formed as friend and foe alike paused to watch them duel. Overhead, the raven circled, shrieking and cursing in the harsh manner of his kind.

  Never had Roran seen such a fight. The blows from both Islanzadi and Barst were too fast to follow-only a blur was visible when they struck-and the sound of their weapons clashing was louder than all of the other noises in the city.

  Again and again, Barst tried to crush Islanzadi with his mace, even as he had crushed the other elves. But she was too fast for him to catch, and she seemed, if not his equal in strength, at least strong enough to knock aside his blows without difficulty. The other elves, Roran thought, must be aiding her, for she appeared not to tire, despite her exertions.

  A Kull and two elves joined Islanzadi. Barst paid them no mind, other than to kill them, one by one, when they made the mistake of venturing within his reach.

  Roran found himself gripping the pillar so hard, his hands began to cramp.

  Minutes passed as Islanzadi and Barst fought back and forth across the street. In motion, the elf queen was glorious: swift, lithe, and powerful. Unlike Barst, she could not afford to make a single mistake-nor did she-for her wards would not protect her. With every moment, Roran’s admiration for Islanzadi increased, and he felt he was witnessing a battle that would be sung about for centuries to come.

  The raven often dove at Barst, seeking to distract him from Islanzadi. After the raven’s first few attempts, Barst ignored the bird, for the maddened creature could not touch him, and it took pains to keep away from his mace.

  The raven seemed to grow frustrated; it shrieked louder and more frequently, and was bolder with its attacks, and with each sally, it edged ever closer to Barst’s head and neck.

  Finally, as the bird again swooped toward Barst, the man twisted his mace upward, changing its path in midair, and clipped the raven on its right wing. The bird cried out in pain and dropped a foot toward the ground before struggling to climb back into the sky.

  Barst swung at the raven again, but Islanzadi stopped his mace with her sword, and they stood facing each other with their weapons locked together at the top, the blade of her sword wedged between the flanges of his mace.

  Elf and human swayed as they pushed against one another. Neither was able to gain the advantage. Then Queen Islanzadi shouted a word in the ancient language, and where their weapons met, a harsh, brilliant light shone forth.

  Squinting, Roran shaded his eyes with his hand and averted his gaze.

  For a minute, the only sounds were the cries of the wounded and a ringing, bell-like tone that grew louder and louder until it was nearly unbearable. To the side, Roran saw the werecat with Angela cringing and covering its tasseled ears with its paws.

  When the sound was at the very height of its intensity, th
e blade of Islanzadi’s sword cracked, and the light and the bell-like tone vanished.

  Then the elf queen smote at Barst’s face with the broken end of her sword, and she said, “Thus I curse you, Barst, son of Berengar!”

  Barst allowed her sword to fall upon his wards. Then he swung his mace once more and caught Queen Islanzadi between her neck and her shoulder, and she collapsed to the ground, blood staining her corselet of golden scale armor.

  And all was still.

  The white raven circled once over Islanzadi’s body and uttered a doleful cry, then flew slowly toward the breach in the outer wall, the feathers of its wounded wing red and crumpled.

  A great wail went up from the Varden. Throughout the streets, men cast down their weapons and fled. The elves shouted with rage and grief-a most terrible sound-and every elf with a bow began to fire arrows toward Barst. The arrows burst into flame before they touched him. A dozen elves charged him, but he swatted them aside as if they weighed no more than children. In that moment, another five elves darted in, lifted up Islanzadi’s body, and bore her away upon their leaf-shaped shields.

  A sense of disbelief gripped Roran. Of them all, Islanzadi was the one he had least expected to die. He glared at the men who were fleeing and silently cursed them for traitors and cowards; then he returned his gaze to Barst, who was rallying his troops in preparation for driving the Varden and their allies back out of Uru’baen.

  The pit in Roran’s stomach grew larger. The elves might continue to fight, but the men, dwarves, and Urgals no longer had a taste for battle. He could see it in their faces. They would break and retreat, and Barst would slaughter them by the hundreds from behind. Nor, Roran was sure, would Barst halt at the city walls. No, he would continue on to the fields beyond and chase the Varden back to their camp, scattering and killing as many as he could.

  It was what Roran would do.

  Worse, if Barst reached the camp, Katrina would be in danger, and Roran had no illusions as to what would happen if the soldiers caught her.

  Roran stared down at his bloody hands. Barst had to be stopped. But how? Roran thought and he thought, running through everything he knew about magic until, at last, he remembered how it had felt when the soldiers were holding him and striking him.