Inheritance i-4

by Christopher Paolini

  Barst showed his teeth in a grim smile, and he was about to strike again when a shadow fell on him from above, and he looked up.

  Islanzadi’s white raven dropped out of the sky and landed on Barst’s face. The raven screeched with fury as it pecked and clawed at Barst, and Roran was astonished to hear the raven say, “Die! Die! Die!”

  Barst swore and dropped his shield. With his free hand, he batted the raven away, breaking its already-injured wing. Ribbons of flesh hung loose from his brow, and blood painted his cheeks and chin crimson.

  Roran lunged forward and stabbed Barst’s other hand with his spear, causing Barst to drop his mace as well.

  Then Roran seized his chance and stabbed at Barst’s exposed throat. However, Barst caught the spear with one hand, tore it from Roran’s grip, and broke it between his fingers as easily as Roran might break a dry twig.

  “Now you die,” said Barst, spitting blood. His lips were torn and his right eye was ruined, but he could still see out of his remaining orb.

  The man reached for Roran, seeking to envelop him in a deadly embrace. Roran could not have escaped even if he had wanted to, but as Barst’s arms closed about him, Roran grasped Barst’s waist and twisted with all his might, putting as much weight and pressure as he could on Barst’s wounded leg, the leg with the hitch.

  Barst held for a moment; then his knee buckled, and with a cry of pain, he fell forward onto one leg and caught himself with his left hand. Squirming around, Roran slipped out from under Barst’s right arm. The blood on Barst’s breastplate made it that much easier to work free, despite the man’s immense strength.

  Roran tried to grab Barst’s throat from behind, but Barst tucked his chin, preventing Roran from getting a grip. So, instead, Roran wrapped his arms around Barst’s chest, hoping to restrain him until someone else could help kill him.

  Barst growled and threw himself onto his side, jarring Roran’s injured shoulder and causing him to grunt with pain. The cobblestones dug into Roran’s arms and back as Barst rolled three times. When the bulk of the man was atop him, Roran had trouble breathing. Yet still Roran maintained his grip. One of Barst’s elbows slammed into his side, and Roran felt several of his ribs break.

  Roran clenched his teeth and tightened his arms, squeezing as hard as he could.

  Katrina, he thought.

  Again Barst’s elbow slammed into him.

  Roran howled, and flashing lights appeared before his eyes. He squeezed even harder.

  Again the elbow, like an anvil pounding into his side.

  “You … shall … not … win, … Lackhammer,” grunted Barst. He staggered to his feet, dragging Roran with him.

  Though he thought he might tear the muscles from his bones, Roran tightened his embrace even further. He screamed, but he could not hear his voice, and he felt veins pop and tendons snap.

  And then Barst’s breastplate caved in, giving way where the Kull had dented it, and there was the sound of crystal breaking.

  “No!” shouted Barst even as a pure white light erupted from the edges of his armor. He went rigid, as if chains had pulled every limb to its farthest reach, and he began to shake uncontrollably.

  The light blinded Roran and burned his arms and face. He released Barst and fell to the ground, where he covered his eyes with his forearm.

  The light continued to pour out from under Barst’s breastplate until the edges of the metal began to glow. Then the blaze ceased, leaving the world darker than before, and what little remained of Lord Barst tumbled backward and lay smoking on the cobblestones.

  Roran blinked as he stared at the featureless sky. He knew he should rise, for there were soldiers nearby, but the cobblestones seemed soft beneath him, and all he really wanted to do was to close his eyes and rest.…

  When he next opened his eyes, he saw Orik and Horst and a number of elves gathered around him.

  “Roran, can you hear me?” said Horst, peering at him with concern.

  Roran tried to speak, but he could not form the words.

  “Can you hear me? Listen to me. You have to stay awake. Roran! Roran!”

  Again Roran felt himself sinking into blackness. It was a comforting sensation, like wrapping himself in a soft woolen blanket. Warmth spread through him, and the last thing he remembered was Orik bending over him and saying something in Dwarvish that sounded like a prayer.

  THE GIFT OF KNOWLEDGE

  Eyes locked, Eragon and Murtagh slowly circled each other, trying to anticipate where and how the other would move. Murtagh appeared fit as ever, but there were dark circles under his eyes and his face was haggard; Eragon suspected that he had been under a great strain. He wore the same pieces of armor as did Eragon: mail hauberk, gauntlets, bracers, and greaves, but his shield was longer and thinner than Eragon’s. As for their swords, Brisingr, with its hand-and-a-half hilt, had the advantage of length, while Zar’roc, with its wider blade, had the advantage of weight.

  They began to edge closer, and when they were about ten feet apart, Murtagh, who had his back to Galbatorix, said in a low, anger-filled voice, “What are you doing?”

  “Buying time,” Eragon muttered, keeping his lips as still as possible.

  Murtagh scowled. “You’re a fool. He’ll watch us cut each other to shreds, and what will it change? Nothing.”

  Instead of answering, Eragon shifted his weight forward and twitched his sword arm, causing Murtagh to flinch in response.

  “Blast you,” growled Murtagh. “If you had waited just one more day, I could have freed Nasuada.”

  That surprised Eragon. “Why should I believe you?”

  The question angered Murtagh further, for his lip curled and he quickened his step, causing Eragon to increase his pace as well. Then, in a louder tone, Murtagh said, “So, you finally found a proper sword for yourself. The elves made it for you, didn’t they?”

  “You know they d-”

  Murtagh lunged toward him, swinging Zar’roc at his gut, and Eragon skipped backward, barely parrying the red sword.

  Eragon replied with a looping, overhead blow-he allowed his hand to slide down to Brisingr’s pommel to give himself more reach-and Murtagh danced out of the way.

  They both paused to see if the other would attack again. When neither did, they resumed circling, Eragon more wary than before.

  From their exchange, it was obvious that Murtagh was still as fast and as strong as Eragon-or an elf. Galbatorix’s prohibition on the use of magic apparently did not extend to the spells that fortified Murtagh’s limbs. For selfish reasons, Eragon disliked the king’s edict, but he could understand the rationale behind it; the fight would hardly have been fair otherwise.

  But Eragon did not want a fair fight. He wanted to control the course of the duel so that he could decide when it should end, and how. Unfortunately, Eragon doubted that he would have the opportunity, given Murtagh’s skill with a blade, and even if he did, he was not sure how he could use the fight to strike against Galbatorix. Nor did he have time to think about it, though he trusted that Saphira, Arya, and the dragons would try to devise a solution for him.

  Murtagh feinted with his left shoulder, and Eragon ducked behind his shield. An instant later, he realized that it had been a ruse and that Murtagh was moving around toward his right in an attempt to get past his guard.

  Eragon twisted and saw Zar’roc arcing toward his neck, the edge a glittering, wire-thin line. He knocked it aside with a clumsy push of Brisingr’s crossguard. Then he retaliated with a quick slash at Murtagh’s lower arm. To his grim delight, he struck Murtagh on the side of his wrist. Brisingr failed to cut through Murtagh’s gauntlet and the sleeve of the tunic beneath, but the impact still hurt Murtagh and pushed his arm away from his body, leaving his chest exposed.

  Eragon stabbed, and Murtagh used his shield to deflect the attack. Three more times Eragon stabbed, but Murtagh stopped each blow, and when Eragon drew back his arm to strike again, Murtagh countered with a backhanded cut at his knee, which would
have crippled him had it landed.

  Seeing what Murtagh intended, Eragon altered his swing and stopped Zar’roc an inch from his leg. Then he countered with a cut of his own.

  For several minutes, they exchanged blows, trying to disrupt each other’s rhythms, but to no avail. They knew each other too well. Whatever Eragon attempted, Murtagh was able to thwart, and the same was true in reverse. It was like a game where they both had to think many moves in advance, which fostered a certain sense of intimacy as Eragon focused on divining the inner workings of Murtagh’s mind and, from them, predicting, what Murtagh would do next.

  Right from the beginning, Eragon noticed that Murtagh was playing the game differently than the previous times they’d fought. He attacked with a ruthlessness that heretofore had been lacking, as if, for the first time, he wanted to defeat Eragon, and quickly too. Moreover, after his initial outburst, his anger seemed to vanish, and he displayed only a cool, implacable determination.

  Eragon found himself fighting to the limit of his abilities, and though he was able to hold Murtagh off, he ended up on the defensive more than he would have liked.

  After a while, Murtagh lowered his sword and turned toward the throne and Galbatorix.

  Eragon kept his guard up, but he hesitated, unsure whether it was appropriate to attack.

  In that moment of hesitation, Murtagh leaped toward him. Eragon stood his ground and swung. Murtagh caught the blow on his shield, and then, instead of following up with a strike of his own as Eragon expected, he slammed his shield against Eragon’s and pushed.

  Eragon growled and pushed back. He would have reached around his shield to slash at Murtagh’s back or legs, but Murtagh was shoving too hard for Eragon to risk it. Murtagh was an inch or two taller, and the extra height allowed him to bear down on Eragon’s shield in a way that made it difficult for Eragon to keep from sliding back across the polished stone floor.

  At last, with a roar and a mighty heave, Murtagh sent Eragon stumbling away. As Eragon flailed and struggled to regain his balance, Murtagh stabbed at his neck.

  “Letta!” said Galbatorix.

  The tip of Zar’roc stopped less than a finger’s-breadth from Eragon’s skin. He froze, panting, not sure what had just happened.

  “Restrain yourself, Murtagh, or I shall do it for you,” said Galbatorix from where he sat watching. “I dislike having to repeat myself. You are not to kill Eragon, nor is he to kill you.… Now, continue.”

  The realization that Murtagh had just tried to kill him-and that he would have succeeded if not for Galbatorix’s intervention-shocked Eragon. He searched Murtagh’s face for an explanation, but Murtagh remained stubbornly expressionless, as if Eragon meant little or nothing to him.

  Eragon could not understand. Murtagh was definitely playing the game differently than he ought to be. Something had changed in him, but what it was, Eragon could not tell.

  In addition, the knowledge that he had lost-and that, by all rights, he should be dead-undermined Eragon’s confidence. He had confronted death many times before, but never in such a stark and uncompromising manner. There was no question of it; Murtagh had bested him, and only Galbatorix’s mercy-such as it was-had saved him.

  Eragon, do not dwell on it, said Arya. You had no reason to suspect he would try to kill you. Nor were you trying to kill him. If you had, the fight would have gone differently, and Murtagh would never have had the chance to attack you as he did.

  Doubtful, Eragon glanced over to where she stood by the edge of the pool of light, along with Elva and Saphira. Then Saphira said, If he wishes to rip out your throat, then cut his hamstrings and make sure that he cannot do it again.

  Eragon nodded, acknowledging what they had said.

  He and Murtagh separated and again took up their positions opposite each other while Galbatorix looked on approvingly.

  This time Eragon was the first to attack.

  They fought for what felt like hours. Murtagh did not attempt any more killing blows, whereas Eragon-to his satisfaction-succeeded in touching Murtagh on the collarbone, although he stopped the blow before Galbatorix saw fit to do so himself. Murtagh looked unsettled by the touch, and Eragon allowed himself a brief smile at Murtagh’s reaction.

  There were other blows that they failed to block as well. For all their speed and skill, neither he nor Murtagh was infallible, and without an easy means to end the fight, it was inevitable that they would make mistakes and that those mistakes would result in injuries.

  The first wound was a cut Murtagh gave Eragon on his right thigh, in the gap between the edge of his hauberk and the upper part of his greave. It was a shallow cut, but exceedingly painful, and every time Eragon put his weight on the leg, blood surged from the wound.

  The second wound was also Eragon’s: a gash above one eyebrow after Murtagh landed a blow upon his helm and the edge of it drove into his flesh. Of the two wounds, Eragon found the second by far the most aggravating, because blood kept dripping into his eye, obscuring his vision.

  Then Eragon caught Murtagh on the wrist again and, this time, sliced all the way through the cuff of his gauntlet, the sleeve of his tunic, and a thin layer of skin to the bone beneath. He failed to sever any muscles, but the wound seemed to pain Murtagh a great deal, and the blood that seeped into his gauntlet caused him to lose his grip at least twice.

  Eragon took a nick to his right calf, and then-when Murtagh was still recovering from a failed attack-he moved around to Murtagh’s shield side and brought down Brisingr as hard as he could upon the middle of Murtagh’s left greave, denting the steel.

  Murtagh howled and jumped back on one leg. Eragon followed, swinging Brisingr in an attempt to batter him to the floor. Despite his injury, Murtagh was able to defend himself, and a few seconds later, Eragon was the one who was hard-pressed to remain on his feet.

  For a time, their shields resisted the relentless pounding-Galbatorix, Eragon was pleased to realize, had left intact the enchantments upon their swords and armor-but then the spells on Eragon’s shield gave way, as did those on Murtagh’s, which was apparent from the chips and splinters that flew every time their swords landed. Soon afterward, Eragon cracked Murtagh’s shield with a particularly heavy blow. His victory was short-lived, for Murtagh grasped Zar’roc with both hands and struck at Eragon’s own shield twice in quick succession, and it split as well, leaving them equally matched once again.

  As they fought, the stone beneath them grew slippery with smears and splashes of blood, and it became increasingly difficult to keep their footing. The massive presence chamber returned distant echoes of their clashing weapons-like the sounds of a long-forgotten battle-and it felt as if they were the center of all that existed, for theirs was the only light, and the two of them were alone within its compass.

  And all the while, Galbatorix and Shruikan continued to watch from within the bordering shadows.

  Without their shields, Eragon found it easier to land blows upon Murtagh-mainly upon his arms and legs-even as it was easier for Murtagh to do the same to him. For the most part, their armor protected them from cuts, but it did not protect them from lumps and bruises, of which they accrued many.

  In spite of the wounds he gave Murtagh, Eragon began to suspect that, of the two of them, Murtagh was the better swordsman. Not by much, but enough that Eragon was never really able to gain the upper hand. If the course of their duel continued, Murtagh would end up wearing him down until he was too hurt or too tired to go on, an outcome that seemed to be fast approaching. With every step, Eragon could feel the blood gushing over his knee from the cut on his thigh, and with every moment that passed, it became harder to defend himself.

  He had to end the duel now or else he would be unable to take on Galbatorix afterward. As it was, he doubted he would pose much of a challenge to the king, but he had to try. If nothing else, he had to try.

  The heart of the problem, he realized, was that Murtagh’s reasons for fighting were a mystery to him, and unless he could figu
re them out, Murtagh would continue to catch him by surprise.

  Eragon thought back to what Glaedr had told him outside Dras-Leona: You must learn to see what you are looking at. And also: The way of the warrior is the way of knowing.

  So he looked at Murtagh. He looked at him with the same intensity with which he had gazed upon Arya during their sparring sessions, the same intensity with which he had studied himself during his long night of introspection on Vroengard. By it, he sought to decipher the hidden language of Murtagh’s body.

  He met with some success; it was clear that Murtagh was drawn and hard-worn, and his shoulders were hunched in a way that spoke of deep-rooted anger, or perhaps it was fear. And then there was his ruthlessness, hardly a new characteristic, but newly applied to Eragon. Those things Eragon discerned, along with other, subtler details, and then he strove to reconcile them with what he knew of Murtagh from days past, with his friendship and his loyalty and his resentment of Galbatorix’s control.

  It took a few seconds-seconds filled with strained breathing and a pair of awkward blows that gained him another bruise on his elbow-until the truth came to Eragon. It seemed so obvious when it did. There had to be something in Murtagh’s life, something their duel would affect, that was so important to Murtagh, he felt compelled to win by any means necessary, even if that meant killing his own half brother. Whatever that something was-and Eragon had his suspicions, some more disturbing than others-it meant that Murtagh would never give up. It meant Murtagh would fight like a cornered animal until his very last breath, and it meant Eragon would never be able to defeat him through conventional measures, for the duel did not mean as much to him as it did to Murtagh. For Eragon, the duel was a convenient distraction, and he cared little who won or lost as long as he was still able to face Galbatorix afterward. But for Murtagh, the duel was of far more significance, and from experience, Eragon knew that determination such as his was costly, if not impossible, to overcome by force alone.