Once in the hall, Eragon hurried to his room. There he slipped on his mail hauberk; strapped the greaves to his shins and the bracers to his forearms; jammed the leather cap, coif, and then helm over his head; and grabbed his shield. Scooping up his pack and saddlebags, he ran back to the courtyard, where he sat against Saphira’s right foreleg.
Tarnag is like an overturned anthill, she observed.
Let’s hope we don’t get bitten.
Arya joined them before long, as did a group of fifty heavily armed dwarves who settled in the middle of the courtyard. The dwarves waited impassively, talking in low grunts as they eyed the barred gate and the mountain that rose up behind them.
“They fear,” said Arya, seating herself by Eragon, “that the crowds may prevent us from reaching the rafts.”
“Saphira can always fly us out.”
“Snowfire as well? And Ûndin’s guards? No, if we are stopped, we shall have to wait until the dwarves’ outrage subsides.” She studied the darkening sky. “It’s unfortunate that you managed to offend so many dwarves, but perhaps inevitable. The clans have ever been contentious; what pleases one infuriates another.”
He fingered the edge of his mail. “I wish now I hadn’t accepted Hrothgar’s offer.”
“Ah, yes. As with Nasuada, I think you made the only viable choice. You are not to blame. The fault, if any, lies with Hrothgar for making the offer in the first place. He must have been well aware of the repercussions.”
Silence reigned for several minutes. A half-dozen dwarves marched around the courtyard, stretching their legs. Finally, Eragon asked, “Do you have any family in Du Weldenvarden?”
It was a long time before Arya answered. “None that I’m close to.”
“Why … why is that?”
She hesitated again. “They disliked my choice to become the Queen’s envoy and ambassador; it seemed inappropriate. When I ignored their objections and still had the yawë tattooed on my shoulder—which indicates that I have devoted myself to the greater good of our race, as is the case with your ring from Brom—my family refused to see me again.”
“But that was over seventy years ago,” he protested.
Arya looked away, concealing her face behind a veil of hair. Eragon tried to imagine what it must have been like for her—ostracized from her family and sent to live among two completely different races. No wonder she’s so withdrawn, he realized. “Are there any other elves outside of Du Weldenvarden?”
Still keeping her face covered, she said, “Three of us were sent forth from Ellesméra. Fäolin and Glenwing always traveled with me when we transported Saphira’s egg between Du Weldenvarden and Tronjheim. Only I survived Durza’s ambush.”
“What were they like?”
“Proud warriors. Glenwing loved speaking to birds with his mind. He would stand in the forest surrounded by a flock of songbirds and listen to their music for hours. Afterward, he might sing us the prettiest melodies.”
“And Fäolin?” This time Arya refused to answer, though her hands tightened on her bow. Undaunted, Eragon cast around for another subject. “Why do you dislike Gannel so much?”
She faced him suddenly and touched his cheek with soft fingers. Eragon flinched with surprise. “That,” she said, “is a discussion for another time.” Then she stood and calmly relocated herself across the courtyard.
Confused, Eragon stared at her back. I don’t understand, he said, leaning against Saphira’s belly. She snorted, amused, then curled her neck and tail around him and promptly fell asleep.
As the valley darkened, Eragon struggled to stay alert. He pulled out Gannel’s necklace and examined it several times with magic, but found only the priest’s guarding spell. Giving up, he replaced the necklace under his tunic, pulled his shield over him, and settled down to wait through the night.
At the first hint of light in the sky overhead—though the valley itself was still in shadow and would remain so until almost midday—Eragon roused Saphira. The dwarves were already up, busy muffling their weapons so they could creep through Tarnag with utter secrecy. Ûndin even had Eragon tie rags around Saphira’s claws and Snowfire’s hooves.
When all was ready, Ûndin and his warriors assembled in a large block around Eragon, Saphira, and Arya. The gates were carefully opened—no sound came from the oiled hinges—and then they set out for the lake.
Tarnag seemed deserted, the vacant streets lined with houses where its inhabitants lay oblivious and dreaming. The few dwarves they encountered gazed at them silently, then padded away like ghosts in the twilight.
At the gate to each tier, a guard waved them through without comment. They soon left the buildings and found themselves crossing the barren fields at Tarnag’s base. Beyond those, they reached the stone quay that edged the still, gray water.
Waiting for them were two wide rafts tied alongside a pier. Three dwarves squatted on the first raft, four on the second. They stood as Ûndin came into view.
Eragon helped the dwarves hobble and blindfold Snowfire, then coax the reluctant horse onto the second raft, where he was forced to his knees and tied down. Meanwhile, Saphira slipped off the pier into the lake. Only her head remained above the surface as she paddled through the water.
Ûndin grasped Eragon’s arm. “Here is where we part. You have my best men; they will protect you until you reach Du Weldenvarden.” Eragon tried to thank him, but Ûndin shook his head. “No, it is not a matter for gratitude. It is my duty. I am only shamed that your stay was darkened by the hatred of Az Sweldn rak Anhûin.”
Eragon bowed, then boarded the first raft with Orik and Arya. The mooring ropes were unknotted, and the dwarves pushed away from shore with long poles. As dawn approached, the two rafts drifted toward the mouth of the Az Ragni, Saphira swimming between them.
DIAMONDS IN THE NIGHT
he Empire has violated my home.
So thought Roran as he listened to the anguished moans of the men injured during the previous night’s battle with the Ra’zac and soldiers. Roran shuddered with fear and rage until his whole body was consumed with feverish chills that left his cheeks burning and his breath short. And he was sad, so very sad … as if the Ra’zac’s deeds had destroyed the innocence of his childhood haunts.
Leaving the healer, Gertrude, tending to the wounded, Roran continued toward Horst’s house, noting the makeshift barriers that filled the gaps between buildings: the boards, the barrels, the piles of rocks, and the splintered frames of the two wagons destroyed by the Ra’zac’s explosives. It all seemed pitifully fragile.
The few people who moved through Carvahall were glassy-eyed with shock, grief, and exhaustion. Roran was tired too, more than he could ever remember being. He had not slept since the night before last, and his arms and back ached from the fighting.
He entered Horst’s house and saw Elain standing by the open doorway to the dining room, listening to the steady burn of conversation that emanated from within. She beckoned him over.
After they had foiled the Ra’zac’s counterattack, the prominent members of Carvahall had sequestered themselves in an attempt to decide what action the village should take and if Horst and his allies should be punished for initiating the hostilities. The group had been in deliberation most of the morning.
Roran peeked into the room. Seated around the long table were Birgit, Loring, Sloan, Gedric, Delwin, Fisk, Morn, and a number of others. Horst presided at the head of the table.
“… and I say that it was stupid and reckless!” exclaimed Kiselt, propping himself upright on his bony elbows. “You had no cause to endanger—”
Morn waved a hand. “We’ve been over this before. Whether what has been done should have been done is beside the point. I happen to agree with it—Quimby was my friend as much as anyone’s, and I shudder to think what those monsters would do with Roran—but … but what I want to know is how we can escape this predicament.”
“Easy, kill the soldiers,” barked Sloan.
“And then wh
at? More men will follow until we drown in a sea of crimson tunics. Even if we surrender Roran, it’ll do no good; you heard what the Ra’zac said—they’ll kill us if we protect Roran and enslave us if we don’t. You may feel differently, but, as for myself, I would rather die than spend my life as a slave.” Morn shook his head, his mouth set in a flat grim line. “We cannot survive.”
Fisk leaned forward. “We could leave.”
“There’s nowhere to go,” retorted Kiselt. “We’re backed against the Spine, the soldiers have blocked the road, and beyond them is the rest of the Empire.”
“It’s all your fault,” cried Thane, stabbing a shaking finger at Horst. “They will torch our houses and murder our children because of you. You!”
Horst stood so quickly, his chair toppled over backward. “Where is your honor, man? Will you let them eat us without fighting back?”
“Yes, if it means suicide otherwise.” Thane glared around the table, then stormed out past Roran. His face was contorted by pure, unadulterated fear.
Gedric spotted Roran then and waved him in. “Come, come, we’ve been waiting for you.”
Roran clasped his hands in the small of his back as scores of hard eyes inspected him. “How can I help?”
“I think,” said Gedric, “we’ve all agreed that it would accomplish nothing to give you to the Empire at this point. Whether we would if that wasn’t the case is neither here nor there. The only thing we can do is prepare for another attack. Horst will make spearheads—and other weapons if he has time—and Fisk has agreed to construct shields. Fortunately, his carpentry shop didn’t burn. And someone needs to oversee our defenses. We would like it to be you. You’ll have plenty of assistance.”
Roran nodded. “I’ll do my best.”
Beside Morn, Tara stood, towering over her husband. She was a large woman, with gray-streaked black hair and strong hands that were just as capable of twisting off a chicken’s head as separating a pair of brawlers. She said, “Make sure you do, Roran, else we’ll have more funerals.” Then she turned to Horst. “Before we go any further, there are men to bury. And there are children who should be sent to safety, maybe to Cawley’s farm on Nost Creek. You should go as well, Elain.”
“I won’t leave Horst,” said Elain calmly.
Tara bristled. “This is no place for a woman five months pregnant. You’ll lose the child running around like you have.”
“It would do me far more harm to worry in ignorance than remain here. I have borne my sons; I will stay, as I know you and every other wife in Carvahall will.”
Horst came around the table and, with a tender expression, took Elain’s hand. “Nor would I have you anywhere but at my side. The children should go, though. Cawley will care for them well, but we must make sure that the route to his farm is clear.”
“Not only that,” rasped Loring, “none of us, not one blasted man jack can have a thing to do with the families down the valley, ’side from Cawley, of course. They can’t help us, and we don’t want those desecrators to trouble ’em.”
Everyone agreed that he was right, then the meeting ended and the attendees dispersed throughout Carvahall. Before long, however, they recongregated—along with most of the village—in the small cemetery behind Gertrude’s house. Ten white-swathed corpses were arranged beside their graves, a sprig of hemlock on each of their cold chests and a silver amulet around each of their necks.
Gertrude stood forth and recited the men’s names: “Parr, Wyglif, Ged, Bardrick, Farold, Hale, Garner, Kelby, Melkolf, and Albem.” She placed black pebbles over their eyes, then raised her arms, lifted her face to the sky, and began the quavering death lay. Tears seeped from the corners of her closed eyes as her voice rose and fell with the immemorial phrases, sighing and moaning with the village’s sorrow. She sang of the earth and the night and of humanity’s ageless sorrow from which none escape.
After the last mournful note faded into silence, family members praised the feats and traits of those they had lost. Then the bodies were buried.
As Roran listened, his gaze lit upon the anonymous mound where the three soldiers had been interred. One killed by Nolfavrell, and two by me. He could still feel the visceral shock of muscle and bone giving … crunching … pulping under his hammer. His bile rose and he had to struggle not to be sick in full view of the village. I am the one who destroyed them. Roran had never expected or wanted to kill, and yet he had taken more lives than anyone else in Carvahall. It felt as if his brow was marked with blood.
He left as soon as possible—not even stopping to speak with Katrina—and climbed to a point where he could survey Carvahall and consider how best to protect it. Unfortunately, the houses were too far apart to form a defensive perimeter by just fortifying the spaces between buildings. Nor did Roran think it would be a good idea to have soldiers fighting up against the walls of people’s houses and trampling their gardens. The Anora River guards our western flank, he thought, but as for the rest of Carvahall, we couldn’t even keep a child out of it.… What can we build in a few hours that will be a strong enough barrier?
He jogged into the middle of the village and shouted, “I need everyone who is free to help cut down trees!” After a minute, men began to trickle out of the houses and through the streets. “Come on, more! We all have to help!” Roran waited as the group around him continued to grow.
One of Loring’s sons, Darmmen, shouldered to his side. “What’s your plan?”
Roran raised his voice so they could all hear. “We need a wall around Carvahall; the thicker the better. I figure if we get some big trees, lay them on their sides, and sharpen the branches, the Ra’zac will have a pretty hard time getting over them.”
“How many trees do you think it’ll take?” asked Orval.
Roran hesitated, trying to gauge Carvahall’s circumference. “At least fifty. Maybe sixty to do it properly.” The men swore and began to argue. “Wait!” Roran counted the number of people in the crowd. He arrived at forty-eight. “If you each fell a tree in the next hour, we’ll be almost done. Can you do that?”
“What do you take us for?” retorted Orval. “The last time I took an hour on a tree, I was ten!”
Darmmen spoke up: “What about brambles? We could drape them over the trees. I don’t know anyone who can climb through a knot of thorny vines.”
Roran grinned. “That’s a great idea. Also, those of you with sons, have them harness your horses so we can drag the trees back.” The men agreed and scattered through Carvahall to gather axes and saws for the job. Roran stopped Darmmen and said, “Make sure that the trees have branches all along the trunk or else they won’t work.”
“Where will you be?” asked Darmmen.
“Working on another line of defense.” Roran left him then and ran to Quimby’s house, where he found Birgit busy boarding up the windows.
“Yes?” she said, looking at him.
He quickly explained his plan with the trees. “I want to dig a trench inside the ring of trees, to slow down anyone who gets through. We could even put pointed stakes in the bottom of it and—”
“What is your point, Roran?”
“I’d like you to organize every woman and child, and everyone else you can, to dig. It’s too much for me to handle by myself, and we don’t have long.…” Roran looked her straight in the eyes. “Please.”
Birgit frowned. “Why ask me?”
“Because, like me, you hate the Ra’zac, and I know you will do everything possible to stop them.”
“Aye,” whispered Birgit, then clapped her hands briskly. “Very well, as you wish. But I will never forget, Roran Garrowsson, that it was you and your family who brought about my husband’s doom.” She strode away before Roran could respond.
He accepted her animosity with equanimity; it was to be expected, considering her loss. He was only lucky she had not started a blood feud. Then he shook himself and ran to where the main road entered Carvahall. It was the weakest spot in the village and had to be
doubly protected. The Ra’zac can’t be allowed to just blast their way in again.
Roran recruited Baldor, and together they began excavating a ditch across the road. “I’ll have to go soon,” warned Baldor between strokes of his pickax. “Dad needs me in the forge.”
Roran grunted an acknowledgment without looking up. As he worked, his mind once again filled with memories of the soldiers: how they had looked as he struck them, and the feeling, the horrible feeling of smashing a body as if it were a rotten stump. He paused, nauseated, and noted the commotion throughout Carvahall as people readied themselves for the next assault.
After Baldor left, Roran completed the thigh-deep ditch himself, then went to Fisk’s workshop. With the carpenter’s permission, he had five logs from the stockpile of seasoned wood pulled by horses back to the main road. There Roran tipped the logs on end into the trench so that they formed an impenetrable barrier into Carvahall.
As he tamped down the earth around the logs, Darmmen trotted up. “We got the trees. They’re just being put into place now.” Roran accompanied him to Carvahall’s northern edge, where twelve men wrestled four lush green pines into alignment while a team of draft horses under the whip of a young boy returned to the foothills. “Most of us are helping to retrieve the trees. The others got inspired; they seemed determined to chop down the rest of the forest when I left.”
“Good, we can use the extra timber.”
Darmmen pointed to a pile of dense brambles that sat on the edge of Kiselt’s fields. “I cut those along the Anora. Use them however you want. I’m going to find more.”
Roran clapped him on the arm, then turned toward the eastern side of Carvahall, where a long, curved line of women, children, and men labored in the dirt. He went to them and found Birgit issuing orders like a general and distributing water among the diggers. The trench was already five feet wide and two feet deep. When Birgit paused for breath, he said, “I’m impressed.”
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