Inheritance Cycle Omnibus

by Christopher Paolini

  Then Uthar pointed at a sailor and barked, “You there, Bonden! Get those swabs to the capstans and weigh anchors, then down to the oars. Double time!” To the rest of the men at the ballistae, he ordered, “Half of you leave off and take the port ballistae. Drive away any boarding parties.”

  Roran was one of those who switched sides. As he prepared the ballistae, a few laggards staggered out of the acrid smoke and onto the ship. Beside him, Jeod and Helen hoisted the six prisoners one by one onto the gangway and rolled them onto the pier.

  Before Roran quite knew it, anchors had been raised, the gangway was cut loose, and a drum pounded beneath his feet, setting the tempo for the oarsmen. Ever so slowly, the Dragon Wing turned to starboard—toward the open sea—and then, with gathering speed, pulled away from the dock.

  Roran accompanied Jeod to the quarterdeck, where they watched the crimson inferno devour everything flammable between Teirm and the ocean. Through the filter of smoke, the sun appeared a flat, bloated, bloody orange disk as it rose over the city.

  How many have I killed now? wondered Roran.

  Echoing his thoughts, Jeod observed, “This will harm a great many innocent people.”

  Guilt made Roran respond with more force than he intended: “Would you rather be in Lord Risthart’s prisons? I doubt many will be injured in the blaze, and those that aren’t won’t face death, like we will if the Empire catches us.”

  “You needn’t lecture me, Roran. I know the arguments well enough. We did what we had to. Just don’t ask me to take pleasure in the suffering we’ve caused to ensure our own safety.”

  By noon the oars had been stowed and the Dragon Wing sailed under her own power, propelled by favorable winds from the north. The gusts of air caused the rigging overhead to emit a low hum.

  The ship was miserably overcrowded, but Roran was confident that with some careful planning they could make it to Surda with a minimum of discomfort. The worst inconvenience was that of limited rations; if they were to avoid starvation, food would have to be dispensed in miserly portions. And in such cramped quarters, disease was an all too likely possibility.

  After Uthar gave a brief speech about the importance of discipline on a ship, the villagers applied themselves to the tasks that required their immediate attention, such as tending to their wounded, unpacking their meager belongings, and deciding upon the most efficient sleeping arrangement for each deck. They also had to choose people to fill the various positions on the Dragon Wing: who would cook, who would train as sailors under Uthar’s men, and so forth.

  Roran was helping Elain hang a hammock when he became embroiled in a heated dispute between Odele, her family, and Frewin, who had apparently deserted Torson’s crew to stay with Odele. The two of them wanted to marry, which Odele’s parents vehemently opposed on the grounds that the young sailor lacked a family of his own, a respectable profession, and the means to provide even a modicum of comfort for their daughter. Roran thought it best if the enamored couple remained together—it seemed impractical to try and separate them while they remained confined to the same ship—but Odele’s parents refused to give his arguments credence.

  Frustrated, Roran said, “What would you do, then? You can’t lock her away, and I believe Frewin has proved his devotion more than—”

  “Ra’zac!”

  The cry came from the crow’s nest.

  Without a second thought, Roran yanked his hammer from his belt, whirled about, and scrambled up the ladder through the fore hatchway, barking his shin on the way. He sprinted toward the knot of people on the quarterdeck, coming to a halt beside Horst.

  The smith pointed.

  One of the Ra’zac’s dread steeds drifted like a tattered shadow above the edge of the coastline, a Ra’zac on its back. Seeing the two monsters exposed in daylight in no way diminished the creeping horror they inspired in Roran. He shuddered as the winged creature uttered its terrifying shriek, and then the Ra’zac’s insectile voice drifted across the water, faint but distinct: “You shall not essscape!”

  Roran looked at the ballistae, but they could not turn far enough to aim at the Ra’zac or its mount. “Does anyone have a bow?”

  “I do,” said Baldor. He dropped to one knee and began to string his weapon. “Don’t let them see me.” Everyone on the quarterdeck gathered in a tight circle around Baldor, shielding him with their bodies from the Ra’zac’s malevolent gaze.

  “Why don’t they attack?” growled Horst.

  Puzzled, Roran searched for an explanation but found none. It was Jeod who suggested, “Perhaps it’s too bright for them. The Ra’zac hunt at night, and so far as I know they do not willingly venture forth from their lairs while the sun is yet in the sky.”

  “It’s not just that,” said Gertrude slowly. “I think they’re afraid of the ocean.”

  “Afraid of the ocean?” scoffed Horst.

  “Watch them; they don’t fly more than a yard over the water at any given time.”

  “She’s right,” said Roran. At last, a weakness I can use against them!

  A few seconds later, Baldor said, “Ready!”

  At his word, the ranks of people who stood before him jumped aside, clearing the path for his arrow. Baldor sprang to his feet and, in a single motion, pulled the feather to his cheek and loosed the reed shaft.

  It was a heroic shot. The Ra’zac was at the extreme edge of a longbow’s range—far beyond any mark Roran had seen an archer hit—and yet Baldor’s aim was true. His arrow struck the flying creature on the right flank, and the beast gave a scream of pain so great that the glass on the deck was shattered and the stones on the shore were riven in shards. Roran clapped his hands over his ears to protect them from the hideous blast. Still screaming, the monster veered inland and dropped behind a line of misty hills.

  “Did you kill it?” asked Jeod, his face pale.

  “I fear not,” replied Baldor. “It was naught but a flesh wound.”

  Loring, who had just arrived, observed with satisfaction, “Aye. But at least you hurt him, and I’d wager they’ll think twice about bothering us again.”

  Gloom settled over Roran. “Save your triumph for later, Loring. This was no victory.”

  “Why not?” demanded Horst.

  “Because now the Empire knows exactly where we are.” The quarterdeck fell silent as they grasped the implications of what he had said.

  CHILD’S PLAY

  nd this,” said Trianna, “is the latest pattern we’ve invented.”

  Nasuada took the black veil from the sorceress and ran it through her hands, marveling at its quality. No human could throw lace that fine. She gazed with satisfaction at the rows of boxes on her desk, which contained samples of the many designs Du Vrangr Gata now produced. “You’ve done well,” she said. “Far better than I had hoped. Tell your spellcasters how pleased I am with their work. It means much to the Varden.”

  Trianna inclined her head at the praise. “I will convey your message to them, Lady Nasuada.”

  “Have they yet—”

  A disturbance at the doors to her quarters interrupted Nasuada. She heard her guards swear and raise their voices, then a yelp of pain. The sound of metal clashing on metal rang in the hallway. Nasuada backed away from the door in alarm, drawing her dagger from its sheath.

  “Run, Lady!” said Trianna. The sorceress placed herself in front of Nasuada and pushed back her sleeves, baring her white arms in preparation to work magic. “Take the servants’ entrance.”

  Before Nasuada could move, the doors burst open and a small figure tackled her legs, knocking her to the floor. Even as Nasuada fell, a silvery object flashed through the space she had just occupied, burying itself in the far wall with a dull thud.

  Then the four guards entered, and all was confusion as Nasuada felt them drag her assailant off her. When Nasuada managed to stand, she saw Elva hanging in their grip.

  “What is the meaning of this?” demanded Nasuada.

  The black-haired girl smile
d, then doubled over and retched on the braided rug. Afterward, she fixed her violet eyes on Nasuada and—in her terrible, knowing voice—she said, “Have your magician examine the wall, O Daughter of Ajihad, and see if I have not fulfilled my promise to you.”

  Nasuada nodded to Trianna, who glided to the splintered hole in the wall and muttered a spell. She returned holding a metal dart. “This was buried in the wood.”

  “But where did it come from?” asked Nasuada, bewildered.

  Trianna gestured toward the open window overlooking the city of Aberon. “Somewhere out there, I guess.”

  Nasuada returned her attention to the waiting child. “What do you know about this, Elva?”

  The girl’s horrible smile widened. “It was an assassin.”

  “Who sent him?”

  “An assassin trained by Galbatorix himself in the dark uses of magic.” Her burning eyes grew half-lidded, as if she were in a trance. “The man hates you. He’s coming for you. He would have killed you if I hadn’t stopped him.” She lurched forward and retched again, spewing half-digested food across the floor. Nasuada gagged with revulsion. “And he’s about to suffer great pain.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because I will tell you he stays in the hostel on Fane Street, in the last room, on the top floor. You had better hurry, or he’ll get away … away.” She groaned like a wounded beast and clutched her belly. “Hurry, before Eragon’s spell forces me to stop you from hurting him. You’ll be sorry, then!”

  Trianna was already moving as Nasuada said, “Tell Jörmundur what’s happened, then take your strongest magicians and hunt down this man. Capture him if you can. Kill him if you can’t.” After the sorceress left, Nasuada looked at her men and saw that their legs were bleeding from numerous small cuts. She realized what it must have cost Elva to hurt them. “Go,” she told them. “Find a healer who can mend your injuries.”

  The warriors shook their heads, and their captain said, “No, Ma’am. We will stay by your side until we know it’s safe again.”

  “As you see fit, Captain.”

  The men barricaded the windows—which worsened the already sweltering heat that plagued Borromeo Castle—then everyone retreated to her inner chambers for further protection.

  Nasuada paced, her heart pounding with delayed shock as she contemplated how close she had come to being killed. What would become of the Varden if I died? she wondered. Who would succeed me? Dismay gripped her; she had made no arrangements for the Varden in the event of her own demise, an oversight that now seemed a monumental failing. I won’t allow the Varden to be thrown into chaos because I failed to take precautions!

  She halted. “I am in your debt, Elva.”

  “Now and forever.”

  Nasuada faltered, disconcerted as she often was by the girl’s responses, then continued: “I apologize for not ordering my guards to let you pass, night or day. I should have anticipated an event like this.”

  “You should have,” agreed Elva in a mocking tone.

  Smoothing the front of her dress, Nasuada resumed pacing, as much to escape the sight of Elva’s stone-white, dragon-marked face as to disperse her own nervous energy. “How did you escape your rooms unaccompanied?”

  “I told my caretaker, Greta, what she wanted to hear.”

  “That’s all?”

  Elva blinked. “It made her very happy.”

  “And what of Angela?”

  “She left on an errand this morning.”

  “Well, be as that may, you have my gratitude for saving my life. Ask me any boon you want and I shall grant it if it’s within my power.”

  Elva glanced around the ornate bedroom, then said, “Do you have any food? I’m hungry.”

  PREMONITION OF WAR

  wo hours later, Trianna returned, leading a pair of warriors who carried a limp body between them. At Trianna’s word, the men dropped the corpse on the floor. Then the sorceress said, “We found the assassin where Elva said we would. Drail was his name.”

  Motivated by a morbid curiosity, Nasuada examined the face of the man who had tried to kill her. The assassin was short, bearded, and plain-looking, no different from countless other men in the city. She felt a certain connection to him, as if his attempt on her life and the fact that she had arranged his death in return linked them in the most intimate manner possible. “How was he killed?” she asked. “I see no marks on his body.”

  “He committed suicide with magic when we overwhelmed his defenses and entered his mind, but before we could take control of his actions.”

  “Were you able to learn anything of use before he died?”

  “We were. Drail was part of a network of agents based here in Surda who are loyal to Galbatorix. They are called the Black Hand. They spy on us, sabotage our war efforts, and—best we could determine in our brief glimpse into Drail’s memories—are responsible for dozens of murders throughout the Varden. Apparently, they’ve been waiting for a good chance to kill you ever since we arrived from Farthen Dûr.”

  “Why hasn’t this Black Hand assassinated King Orrin yet?”

  Trianna shrugged. “I can’t say. It may be that Galbatorix considers you to be more of a threat than Orrin. If that’s the case, then once the Black Hand realizes you are protected from their attacks”—here her gaze darted toward Elva—“Orrin won’t live another month unless he is guarded by magicians day and night. Or perhaps Galbatorix has abstained from such direct action because he wanted the Black Hand to remain unnoticed. Surda has always existed at his tolerance. Now that it’s become a threat …”

  “Can you protect Orrin as well?” asked Nasuada, turning to Elva.

  Her violet eyes seemed to glow. “Maybe if he asks nicely.”

  Nasuada’s thoughts raced as she considered how to thwart this new menace. “Can all of Galbatorix’s agents use magic?”

  “Drail’s mind was confused, so it’s hard to tell,” said Trianna, “but I’d guess a fair number of them can.”

  Magic, cursed Nasuada to herself. The greatest danger the Varden faced from magicians—or any person trained in the use of their mind—was not assassination, but rather espionage. Magicians could spy on people’s thoughts and glean information that could be used to destroy the Varden. That was precisely why Nasuada and the entire command structure of the Varden had been taught to know when someone was touching their minds and how to shield themselves from such attentions. Nasuada suspected that Orrin and Hrothgar relied upon similar precautions within their own governments.

  However, since it was impractical for everyone privy to potentially damaging information to master that skill, one of Du Vrangr Gata’s many responsibilities was to hunt for anyone who was siphoning off facts as they appeared in people’s minds. The cost of such vigilance was that Du Vrangr Gata ended up spying on the Varden as much as on their enemies, a fact that Nasuada made sure to conceal from the bulk of her followers, for it would only sow hatred, distrust, and dissent. She disliked the practice but saw no alternative.

  What she had learned about the Black Hand hardened Nasuada’s conviction that, somehow, magicians had to be governed.

  “Why,” she asked, “didn’t you discover this sooner? I can understand that you might miss a lone assassin, but an entire network of spellcasters dedicated to our destruction? Explain yourself, Trianna.”

  The sorceress’s eyes flashed with anger at the accusation. “Because here, unlike in Farthen Dûr, we cannot examine everyone’s minds for duplicity. There are just too many people for us magicians to keep track of. That is why we didn’t know about the Black Hand until now, Lady Nasuada.”

  Nasuada paused, then inclined her head. “Understood. Did you discover the identities of any other members of the Black Hand?”

  “A few.”

  “Good. Use them to ferret out the rest of the agents. I want you to destroy this organization for me, Trianna. Eradicate them as you would an infestation of vermin. I’ll give you however many men you need.”


  The sorceress bowed. “As you wish, Lady Nasuada.”

  At a knock on the door, the guards drew their swords and positioned themselves on either side of the entranceway, then their captain yanked open the door without warning. A young page stood outside, a fist raised to knock again. He stared with astonishment at the body on the floor, then snapped to attention as the captain asked, “What is it, boy?”

  “I have a message for Lady Nasuada from King Orrin.”

  “Then speak and be quick about it,” said Nasuada.

  The page took a moment to compose himself. “King Orrin requests that you attend him directly in his council chambers, for he has received reports from the Empire that demand your immediate attention.”

  “Is that all?”

  “Yes, Ma’am.”

  “I must attend to this. Trianna, you have your orders. Captain, will you leave one of your men to dispose of Drail?”

  “Aye, Ma’am.”

  “Also, please have him locate Farica, my handmaid. She will see to it that my study is cleaned.”

  “And what of me?” asked Elva, tilting her head.

  “You,” said Nasuada, “shall accompany me. That is, if you feel strong enough to do so.”

  The girl threw back her head, and from her small, round mouth emanated a cold laugh. “I’m strong enough, Nasuada. Are you?”

  Ignoring the question, Nasuada swept forth into the hallway with her guards clustered around her. The stones of the castle exuded an earthy smell in the heat. Behind her, she heard the patter of Elva’s footsteps and was perversely pleased that the ghastly child had to hurry to keep pace with the adults’ longer stride.

  The guards remained behind in the vestibule to the council chambers while Nasuada and Elva proceeded inside. The chambers were bare to the point of severity, reflecting the militant nature of Surda’s existence. The country’s kings had devoted their resources to protecting their people and overthrowing Galbatorix, not to decorating Borromeo Castle with idle riches as the dwarves had done with Tronjheim.