She brushed back a lock of hair without looking at him. “We plowed the ground to begin with. It made things easier.”
“Do you have a shovel I can use?” he asked. Birgit pointed to a mound of tools at the other end of the trench. As Roran walked toward it, he spied the copper gleam of Katrina’s hair in the midst of the bobbing backs. Beside her, Sloan hacked at the soft loam with a furious, obsessive energy, as if he were attempting to tear open the earth’s skin, to peel back its clay hide and expose the muscle beneath. His eyes were wild, and his teeth were bared in a knotted grimace, despite the flecks of dirt and filth that spotted his lips.
Roran shuddered at Sloan’s expression and hurried past, averting his face so as to avoid meeting his bloodshot gaze. He grabbed a shovel and immediately plunged it into the soil, doing his best to forget his worries in the heat of physical exertion.
The day progressed in a continuous rush of activity, without breaks for meals or rest. The trench grew longer and deeper, until it cupped two-thirds of the village and reached the banks of the Anora River. All the loose dirt was piled on the inside edge of the trench in an attempt to prevent anyone from jumping over it … and to make it difficult to climb out.
The wall of trees was finished in early afternoon. Roran stopped digging then to help sharpen the innumerable branches—which were overlapped and interlocked as much as possible—and affix the nets of brambles. Occasionally, they had to pull out a tree so farmers like Ivor could drive their livestock into the safety of Carvahall.
By evening the fortifications were stronger and more extensive than Roran had dared hope, though they still required several more hours of work to complete to his satisfaction.
He sat on the ground, gnawing a hunk of sourdough bread and staring at the stars through a haze of exhaustion. A hand dropped on his shoulder, and he looked up to see Albriech. “Here.” Albriech extended a rough shield—made of sawed boards pegged together—and a six-foot-long spear. Roran accepted them gratefully, then Albriech proceeded onward, distributing spears and shields to whomever he encountered.
Roran dragged himself upright, got his hammer from Horst’s house, and thus armed, went to the entrance to the main road, where Baldor and two others kept watch. “Wake me when you need to rest,” Roran said, then lay on the soft grass underneath the eaves of a nearby house. He arranged his weapons so he could find them in the dark and closed his eyes in eager anticipation.
“Roran.”
The whisper came from by his right ear. “Katrina?” He struggled into a sitting position, blinking as she unshuttered a lantern so a key of light struck his thigh. “What are you doing here?”
“I wanted to see you.” Her eyes, large and mysterious against her pale face, pooled with the night’s shadows. She took his arm and led him to a deserted porch far out of earshot of Baldor and the other guards. There she placed her hands on his cheeks and softly kissed him, but he was too tired and troubled to respond to her affection. She drew away and studied him. “What is wrong, Roran?”
A bark of humorless laughter escaped him. “What’s wrong? The world is wrong; it’s as askew as a picture frame knocked on its side.” He jammed his fist against his gut. “And I am wrong. Every time I allow myself to relax, I see the soldiers bleeding under my hammer. Men I killed, Katrina. And their eyes … their eyes! They knew they were about to die and that they could do nothing about it.” He trembled in the darkness. “They knew … I knew … and I still had to do it. It couldn’t—” Words failed him as he felt hot tears roll down his cheeks.
Katrina cradled his head as Roran cried from the shock of the past few days. He wept for Garrow and Eragon; he wept for Parr, Quimby, and the other dead; he wept for himself; and he wept for the fate of Carvahall. He sobbed until his emotions ebbed and left him as dry and hollow as an old barley husk.
Forcing himself to take a long breath, Roran looked at Katrina and noticed her own tears. He brushed them away with his thumb, like diamonds in the night. “Katrina … my love.” He said it again, tasting the words: “My love. I have naught to give you but my love. Still … I must ask. Will you marry me?”
In the dim lantern light, he saw pure joy and wonder leap across her face. Then she hesitated and troubled doubt appeared. It was wrong for him to ask, or for her to accept, without Sloan’s permission. But Roran no longer cared; he had to know now if he and Katrina would spend their lives together.
Then, softly: “Yes, Roran, I will.”
UNDER A DARKLING SKY
hat night it rained.
Layer upon layer of pregnant clouds blanketed Palancar Valley, clinging to the mountains with tenacious arms and filling the air with heavy, cold mist. From inside, Roran watched as cords of gray water pelted the trees with their frothing leaves, muddied the trench around Carvahall, and scrabbled with blunt fingers against the thatched roofs and eaves as the clouds disgorged their load. Everything was streaked, blurred, and hidden behind the torrent’s inexorable streamers.
By midmorning the storm had abated, although a continuous drizzle still percolated through the mist. It quickly soaked Roran’s hair and clothes when he took his watch at the barricade to the main road. He squatted by the upright logs, shook his cloak, then pulled the hood farther over his face and tried to ignore the cold.
Despite the weather, Roran soared and exulted with his joy at Katrina’s acceptance. They were engaged! In his mind, it was as if a missing piece of the world had dropped into place, as if he had been granted the confidence of an invulnerable warrior. What did the soldiers matter, or the Ra’zac, or the Empire itself, before love such as theirs? They were nothing but tinder to the blaze.
For all his new bliss, however, his mind was entirely focused on what had become the most important conundrum of his existence: how to assure that Katrina would survive Galbatorix’s wrath. He had thought of nothing else since waking. The best thing would be for Katrina to go to Cawley’s, he decided, staring down the hazy road, but she would never agree to leave … unless Sloan told her to. I might be able to convince him; I’m sure he wants her out of danger as much as I do.
As he considered ways to approach the butcher, the clouds thickened again and the rain renewed its assault on the village, arching down in stinging waves. Around Roran, the puddles jumped to life as pellets of water drummed their surfaces, bouncing back up like startled grasshoppers.
When Roran grew hungry, he passed his watch to Larne—Loring’s youngest son—and went to find lunch, darting from the shelter of one eave to another. As he rounded a corner, he was surprised to see Albriech on the house’s porch, arguing violently with a group of men.
Ridley shouted, “… you’re blind—follow the cottonwoods and they’ll never see! You took the addle-brain’s route.”
“Try it if you want,” retorted Albriech.
“I will!”
“Then you can tell me how you like the taste of arrows.”
“Maybe,” said Thane, “we aren’t as clubfooted as you are.”
Albriech turned on him with a snarl. “Your words are as thick as your wits. I’m not stupid enough to risk my family on the cover of a few leaves that I’ve never seen before.” Thane’s eyes bulged and his face turned a deep mottled crimson. “What?” taunted Albriech. “Have you no tongue?”
Thane roared and struck Albriech on the cheek with his fist. Albriech laughed. “Your arm is as weak as a woman’s.” Then he grabbed Thane’s shoulder and threw him off the porch and into the mud, where he lay on his side, stunned.
Holding his spear like a staff, Roran jumped beside Albriech, preventing Ridley and the others from laying hands on him. “No more,” growled Roran, furious. “We have other enemies. An assembly can be called and arbitrators will decide whether compensation is due to either Albriech or Thane. But until then, we can’t fight ourselves.”
“Easy for you to say,” spat Ridley. “You have no wife or children.” Then he helped Thane to his feet and departed with the group of men.
Roran stared hard at Albriech and the purple bruise that was spreading beneath his right eye. “What started it?” he asked.
“I—” Albriech stopped with a grimace and felt his jaw. “I went scouting with Darmmen. The Ra’zac have posted soldiers on several hills. They can see across the Anora and up and down the valley. One or two of us might, might, be able to creep past them without notice, but we’ll never get the children to Cawley without killing the soldiers, and then we might as well tell the Ra’zac where we’re going.”
Dread clutched at Roran, flooding like poison through his heart and veins. What can I do? Sick with a sense of impending doom, he put an arm around Albriech’s shoulders. “Come on; Gertrude should have a look at you.”
“No,” said Albriech, shrugging him off. “She has more pressing cases than me.” He took a preparatory breath—as if he were about to dive into a lake—and lumbered off through the downpour in the direction of the forge.
Roran watched him go, then shook his head and went inside. He found Elain sitting on the floor with a row of children, sharpening a pile of spearheads with files and whetstones. Roran gestured to Elain. Once they were in another room, he told her what had just occurred.
Elain swore harshly—startling him, for he had never heard her use such language—then asked, “Is there cause for Thane to declare a feud?”
“Possibly,” admitted Roran. “They both insulted each other, but Albriech’s oaths were the strongest.… However, Thane did strike first. You could declare a feud yourself.”
“Nonsense,” asserted Elain, wrapping a shawl around her shoulders. “This is a dispute for arbitrators to resolve. If we must pay a fine, so be it, as long as bloodshed is avoided.” She headed out the front door, a finished spear in hand.
Troubled, Roran located bread and meat in the kitchen, then helped the children sharpen spearheads. Once Felda, one of the mothers, arrived, Roran left the children in her care and slogged back through Carvahall to the main road.
As he squatted in the mud, a shaft of sunlight burst underneath the clouds and illuminated the folds of rain so each drop flashed with crystalline fire. Roran stared, awestruck, ignoring the water streaming down his face. The rift in the clouds widened until a shelf of massive thunderheads hung over the western three-quarters of Palancar Valley, facing a strip of pure blue sky. Because of the billowy roof above and the angle of the sun, the rain-drenched landscape was lit brilliantly on one side and painted with rich shadows on the other, giving the fields, bushes, trees, river, and mountains the most extraordinary colors. It was as if the entire world had been transformed into a sculpture of burnished metal.
Just then, movement caught Roran’s eye, and he looked down to see a soldier standing on the road, his mail shining like ice. The man gaped with amazement at Carvahall’s new fortifications, then turned and fled back into the golden mist.
“Soldiers!” shouted Roran, jolting to his feet. He wished that he had his bow, but he had left it inside to protect it from the elements. His only comfort was that the soldiers would have an even harder time keeping their weapons dry.
Men and women ran from their houses, gathered along the trench, and peered out through the wall of overlapping pines. The long branches wept beads of moisture, translucent cabochons that reflected the rows of anxious eyes.
Roran found himself standing beside Sloan. The butcher held one of Fisk’s makeshift shields in his left hand, and in his right a cleaver curved like a half-moon. His belt was festooned with at least a dozen knives, all of them large and honed to a razor edge. He and Roran exchanged brisk nods, then refocused on where the soldier had disappeared.
Less than a minute later, the disembodied voice of a Ra’zac slithered out of the mist: “By continuing to defend Carvahall, you proclaim your choice and ssseal your doom. You ssshall die!”
Loring responded: “Show your maggot-riddled faces if you dare, you lily-livered, bandy-legged, snake-eyed wretches! We’ll crack your skulls open and fatten our hogs on your blood!”
A dark shape floated toward them, followed by the dull thump of a spear embedding itself in a door an inch from Gedric’s left arm.
“Take cover!” shouted Horst from the middle of the line. Roran knelt behind his shield and peered through a hairline gap between two of the boards. He was just in time, for a half-dozen spears hurtled over the wall of trees and buried themselves among the cowering villagers.
From somewhere in the mist came an agonized scream.
Roran’s heart jumped with a painful flutter. He panted for breath, though he had not moved, and his hands were slick with sweat. He heard the faint sound of shattering glass on the northern edge of Carvahall … then the bellow of an explosion and crashing timbers.
Spinning around, he and Sloan sped through Carvahall, where they found a team of six soldiers dragging away the splintered remains of several trees. Beyond them, pale and wraithlike in the glittering shards of rain, sat the Ra’zac on their black horses. Without slowing, Roran fell upon the first man, jabbing his spear. His first and second stabs were deflected by an upraised arm, then Roran caught the soldier on the hip, and when he stumbled, in his throat.
Sloan howled like an enraged beast, threw his cleaver, and split one of the men’s helms, crushing his skull. Two soldiers charged him with drawn swords. Sloan sidestepped, laughing now, and blocked their attacks with his shield. One soldier swung so hard, his blade stuck in the shield’s rim. Sloan yanked him closer and gored him through the eye with a carving knife from his belt. Drawing a second cleaver, the butcher circled his other opponent with a maniacal grin. “Shall I gut and hamstring you?” he demanded, almost prancing with a terrible, bloody glee.
Roran lost his spear to the next two men he faced. He barely managed to drag out his hammer in time to stop a sword from shearing off his leg. The soldier who had torn the spear from Roran’s grip now cast the weapon at him, aiming for his breast. Roran dropped his hammer, caught the shaft in midair—which astounded him as much as the soldiers—spun it around, and drove the spear through the armor and ribs of the man who had launched it. Left weaponless, Roran was forced to retreat before the remaining soldier. He stumbled over a corpse, cutting his calf on a sword as he fell, and rolled to avoid a two-handed blow from the soldier, scrabbling frantically in the ankle-deep mud for something, anything he could use for a weapon. A hilt bruised his fingers, and he ripped it from the muck and slashed at the soldier’s sword hand, severing his thumb.
The man stared dumbly at the glistening stump, then said, “This is what comes from not shielding myself.”
“Aye,” agreed Roran, and beheaded him.
The last soldier panicked and fled toward the impassive specters of the Ra’zac while Sloan bombarded him with a stream of insults and foul names. When the soldier finally pierced the shining curtain of rain, Roran watched with a thrill of horror as the two black figures bent down from their steeds on either side of the man and gripped the nape of his neck with twisted hands. The cruel fingers tightened, and the man shrieked desperately and convulsed, then went limp. The Ra’zac placed the corpse behind one of their saddles before turning their horses and riding away.
Roran shuddered and looked at Sloan, who was cleaning his blades. “You fought well.” He had never suspected that the butcher contained such ferocity.
Sloan said in a low voice, “They’ll never get Katrina. Never, even if I must skin the lot of them, or fight a thousand Urgals and the king to boot. I’d tear the sky itself down and let the Empire drown in its own blood before she suffers so much as a scratch.” He clamped his mouth shut then, jammed the last of his knives into his belt, and began dragging the three broken trees back into position.
While he did, Roran rolled the dead soldiers through the trampled mud, away from the fortifications. Now I have killed five. At the completion of his labor, he straightened and glanced around, puzzled, for all he heard was silence and the hissing rain. Why has no one come to help us?
Wonderin
g what else might have occurred, he returned with Sloan to the scene of the first attack. Two soldiers hung lifelessly on the slick branches of the tree wall, but that was not what held their attention. Horst and the other villagers knelt in a circle around a small body. Roran caught his breath. It was Elmund, son of Delwin. The ten-year-old boy had been struck in his side by a spear. His parents sat in the mud beside him, their faces as blank as stone.
Something has to be done, thought Roran, dropping to his knees and leaning against his spear. Few children survived their first five or six years. But to lose your firstborn son now, when everything indicated that he should grow tall and strong to take his father’s place in Carvahall—it was enough to crush you. Katrina … the children … they all have to be protected.
But where? … Where? … Where? … Where!
DOWN THE RUSHING MERE-WASH
n the first day from Tarnag, Eragon made an effort to learn the names of Ûndin’s guards. They were Ama, Tríhga, Hedin, Ekksvar, Shrrgnien—which Eragon found unpronounceable, though he was told it meant Wolfheart—Dûthmér, and Thorv.
Each raft had a small cabin in the center. Eragon preferred to spend his time seated on the edge of the logs, watching the Beor Mountains scroll by. Kingfishers and jackdaws flitted along the clear river, while blue herons stood stiltlike on the marshy bank, which was planked with splotches of light that fell through the boughs of hazel, beech, and willow. Occasionally, a bullfrog would croak from a bed of ferns.
When Orik settled beside him, Eragon said, “It’s beautiful.”
“That it is.” The dwarf quietly lit his pipe, then leaned back and puffed.
Eragon listened to the creak of wood and rope as Tríhga steered the raft with the long paddle at the aft. “Orik, can you tell me why Brom joined the Varden? I know so little about him. For most of my life, he was just the town storyteller.”
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