Inheritance Cycle Omnibus

by Christopher Paolini

  Eragon gritted his teeth with frustration. Say something, Saphira. You can convince her to abandon this harebrained scheme.

  No, I won’t. Your mind is clouded on this issue.

  You can’t agree with her! exclaimed Eragon, aghast. You were there in Yazuac with me; you know what the Urgals did to the villagers. And what about when we left Teirm, my capture at Gil’ead, and Farthen Dûr? Every time we’ve encountered Urgals, they’ve tried to kill us or worse. They’re nothing more than vicious animals.

  The elves believed the same thing about dragons during Du Fyrn Skulblaka.

  At Nasuada’s behest, her guards tied back the front and side panels of the pavilion, leaving it open for all to see and allowing Saphira to crouch low next to Eragon. Then Nasuada seated herself in her high-backed chair, and Jörmundur and the other commanders arranged themselves in two parallel rows so that anyone who sought an audience with her had to walk between them. Eragon stood at her right hand, Elva by her left.

  Less than five minutes later, a great roar of anger erupted from the eastern edge of the camp. The storm of jeers and insults grew louder and louder until a single Kull entered their view, walking toward Nasuada while a mob of the Varden peppered him with taunts. The Urgal—or ram, as Eragon remembered they were called—held his head high and bared his yellow fangs, but did not otherwise react to the abuse directed at him. He was a magnificent specimen, eight and a half feet tall, with strong, proud—if grotesque—features, thick horns that spiraled all the way around, and a fantastic musculature that made it seem he could kill a bear with a single blow. His only clothing was a knotted loincloth, a few plates of crude iron armor held together with scraps of mail, and a curved metal disk nestled between his two horns to protect the top of his head. His long black hair was in a queue.

  Eragon felt his lips tighten in a grimace of hate; he had to struggle to keep from drawing Zar’roc and attacking. Yet despite himself, he could not help but admire the Urgal’s courage in confronting an entire army of enemies alone and unarmed. To his surprise, he found the Kull’s mind strongly shielded.

  When the Urgal stopped before the eaves of the pavilion, not daring to come any closer, Nasuada had her guards shout for quiet to settle the crowd. Everyone looked at the Urgal, wondering what he would do next.

  The Urgal lifted his bulging arms toward the sky, inhaled a mighty breath, and then opened his maw and bellowed at Nasuada. In an instant, a thicket of swords pointed at the Kull, but he paid them no attention and continued his ululation until his lungs were empty. Then he looked at Nasuada, ignoring the hundreds of people who, it was obvious, longed to kill him, and growled in a thick, guttural accent, “What treachery is this, Lady Nightstalker? I was promised safe passage. Do humans break their word so easily?”

  Leaning toward her, one of Nasuada’s commanders said, “Let us punish him, Mistress, for his insolence. Once we have taught him the meaning of respect, then you can hear his message, whatever it is.”

  Eragon longed to remain silent, but he knew his duty to Nasuada and the Varden, so he bent down and said in Nasuada’s ear, “Don’t take offense. This is how they greet their war chiefs. The proper response is to then butt heads, but I don’t think you want to try that.”

  “Did the elves teach you this?” she murmured, never taking her eyes off the waiting Kull.

  “Aye.”

  “What else did they teach you of the Urgals?”

  “A great deal,” he admitted reluctantly.

  Then Nasuada said to the Kull and also to her men beyond, “The Varden are not liars like Galbatorix and the Empire. Speak your mind; you need fear no danger while we hold council under the conditions of truce.”

  The Urgal grunted and raised his bony chin higher, baring his throat; Eragon recognized it as a gesture of friendship. To lower one’s head was a threat in their race, for it meant that an Urgal intended to ram you with his horns. “I am Nar Garzhvog of the Bolvek tribe. I speak for my people.” It seemed as if he chewed on each word before spitting it out. “Urgals are hated more than any other race. Elves, dwarves, humans all hunt us, burn us, and drive us from our halls.”

  “Not without good reason,” pointed out Nasuada.

  Garzhvog nodded. “Not without reason. Our people love war. Yet how often are we attacked just because you find us as ugly as we find you? We have thrived since the fall of the Riders. Our tribes are now so large, the harsh land we live in can no longer feed us.”

  “So you made a pact with Galbatorix.”

  “Aye, Lady Nightstalker. He promised us good land if we killed his enemies. He tricked us, though. His flame-haired shaman, Durza, bent the minds of our war chiefs and forced our tribes to work together, as is not our way. When we learned this in the dwarves’ hollow mountain, the Herndall, the dams who rule us, sent my brood mate to Galbatorix to ask why he used us so.” Garzhvog shook his ponderous head. “She did not return. Our finest rams died for Galbatorix, then he abandoned us like a broken sword. He is drajl and snake-tongued and a lack-horned betrayer. Lady Nightstalker, we are fewer now, but we will fight with you if you let us.”

  “What is the price?” asked Nasuada. “Your Herndall must want something in return.”

  “Blood. Galbatorix’s blood. And if the Empire falls, we ask that you give us land, land for breeding and growing, land to avoid more battles in the future.”

  Eragon guessed Nasuada’s decision by the set of her face, even before she spoke. So apparently did Jörmundur, for he leaned toward her and said in an undertone, “Nasuada, you can’t do this. It goes against nature.”

  “Nature can’t help us defeat the Empire. We need allies.”

  “The men will desert before they’ll fight with Urgals.”

  “That can be worked around. Eragon, will they keep their word?”

  “Only so long as we share a common enemy.”

  With a sharp nod, Nasuada again lifted her voice: “Very well, Nar Garzhvog. You and your warriors may bivouac along the eastern flank of our army, away from the main body, and we shall discuss the terms of our pact.”

  “Ahgrat ukmar,” growled the Kull, clapping his fists to his brow. “You are a wise Herndall, Lady Nightstalker.”

  “Why do you call me that?”

  “Herndall?”

  “No, Nightstalker.”

  Garzhvog made a ruk-ruk sound in his throat that Eragon interpreted as laughter. “Nightstalker is the name we gave your sire because of how he hunted us in the dark tunnels under the dwarf mountain and because of the color of his hide. As his cub, you are worthy of the same name.” With that he turned on his heel and strode out of the camp.

  Standing, Nasuada proclaimed, “Anyone who attacks the Urgals shall be punished as if he attacked a fellow human. See that word of this is posted in every company.”

  No sooner had she finished than Eragon noticed King Orrin approaching at a quick pace, his cape flapping around him. When he was close enough, he cried, “Nasuada! Is it true you met with an Urgal? What do you mean by it, and why wasn’t I alerted sooner? I don’t—”

  He was interrupted as a sentry emerged from the ranks of gray tents, shouting, “A horseman approaches from the Empire!”

  In an instant, King Orrin forgot his argument and joined Nasuada as she hurried toward the vanguard of the army, followed by at least a hundred people. Rather than stay among the crowd, Eragon pulled himself onto Saphira and let her carry him to their destination.

  When Saphira halted at the ramparts, trenches, and rows of sharpened poles that protected the Varden’s leading edge, Eragon saw a lone soldier riding at a furious clip across the bleak no-man’s-land. Above him, the birds of prey swooped low to discover if the first course of their feast had arrived.

  The soldier reined in his black stallion some thirty yards from the breastwork, keeping as much distance as possible between him and the Varden. He shouted, “By refusing King Galbatorix’s generous terms of surrender, you choose death as your fate. No more shall we
negotiate. The hand of friendship has turned into the fist of war! If any of you still hold regard for your rightful sovereign, the all-knowing, all-powerful King Galbatorix, then flee! None may stand before us once we set forth to cleanse Alagaësia of every miscreant, traitor, and subversive. And though it pains our lord—for he knows that most of these rebellious acts are instigated by bitter and misguided leaders—we shall gently chastise the unlawful territory known as Surda and return it to the benevolent rule of King Galbatorix, he who sacrifices himself day and night for the good of his people. So flee, I say, or suffer the doom of your herald.”

  With that the soldier untied a canvas sack and flourished a severed head. He threw it into the air and watched it fall among the Varden, then turned his stallion, dug in his spurs, and galloped back toward the dark mass of Galbatorix’s army.

  “Shall I kill him?” asked Eragon.

  Nasuada shook her head. “We will have our due soon enough. I won’t violate the sanctity of envoys, even if the Empire has.”

  “As you—” He yelped with surprise and clutched Saphira’s neck to keep from falling as she reared above the ramparts, planting her front legs upon the chartreuse bank. Opening her jaws, Saphira uttered a long, deep roar, much like Garzhvog had done, only this roar was a defiant challenge to their enemies, a warning of the wrath they had roused, and a clarion call to all who hated Galbatorix.

  The sound of her trumpeting voice frightened the stallion so badly, he jinked to the right, slipped on the heated ground, and fell on his side. The soldier was thrown free of the horse and landed in a gout of fire that erupted at that very instant. He uttered a single cry so horrible, it made Eragon’s scalp prickle, then was silent and still forevermore.

  The birds began to descend.

  The Varden cheered Saphira’s accomplishment. Even Nasuada allowed herself a small smile. Then she clapped her hands and said, “They will attack at dawn, I think. Eragon, gather Du Vrangr Gata and prepare yourself for action. I will have orders for you within the hour.” Taking Orrin by the shoulder, she guided him back toward the center of the compound, saying, “Sire, there are decisions we must make. I have a certain plan, but it will require …”

  Let them come, said Saphira. The tip of her tail twitched like that of a cat stalking a rabbit. They will all burn.

  WITCH’S BREW

  ight had fallen on the Burning Plains. The roof of opaque smoke covered the moon and stars, plunging the land into profound darkness that was broken only by the sullen glow of the sporadic peat fires, and by the thousands of torches each army lit. From Eragon’s position near the fore of the Varden, the Empire looked a dense nest of uncertain orange lights as large as any city.

  As Eragon buckled the last piece of Saphira’s armor onto her tail, he closed his eyes to maintain better contact with the magicians from Du Vrangr Gata. He had to learn to locate them at a moment’s notice; his life would depend on communicating with them in a quick and timely manner. In turn, the magicians had to learn to recognize the touch of his mind so they did not block him when he needed their assistance.

  Eragon smiled and said, “Hello, Orik.” He opened his eyes to see Orik clambering up the low knuckle of rock where he and Saphira sat. The dwarf, who was fully armored, carried his Urgal-horn bow in his left hand.

  Hunkering beside Eragon, Orik wiped his brow and shook his head. “How’d you know it was me? I was shielding myself.”

  Every consciousness feels different, explained Saphira. Just like no two voices sound exactly the same.

  “Ah.”

  Eragon asked, “What brings you here?”

  Orik shrugged. “It struck me you might appreciate a spot of company in this grim night. Especially since Arya’s otherwise engaged and you don’t have Murtagh with you for this battle.”

  And I wish I did, thought Eragon. Murtagh had been the only human who matched Eragon’s skill with a sword, at least before the Agaetí Blödhren. Sparring with him had been one of Eragon’s few pleasures during their time together. I would have enjoyed fighting with you again, old friend.

  Remembering how Murtagh was killed—dragged underground by Urgals in Farthen Dûr—forced Eragon to confront a sobering truth: No matter how great a warrior you were, as often as not, pure chance dictated who lived and who died in war.

  Orik must have sensed his mood, for he clapped Eragon on the shoulder and said, “You’ll be fine. Just imagine how the soldiers out there feel, knowing they have to face you before long!”

  Gratitude made Eragon smile again. “I’m glad you came.”

  The tip of Orik’s nose reddened, and he glanced down, rolling his bow between gnarled hands. “Ah, well,” he grumbled, “Hrothgar wouldn’t much like it if I let something happen to you. Besides, we’re foster brothers now, eh?”

  Through Eragon, Saphira asked, What about the other dwarves? Aren’t they under your command?

  A twinkle sprang into Orik’s eyes. “Why, yes, so they are. And they’ll be joining us before long. Seeing as Eragon’s a member of Dûrgrimst Ingeitum, it’s only right we fight the Empire together. That way, the two of you won’t be so vulnerable; you can concentrate on finding Galbatorix’s magicians instead of defending yourselves from constant attacks.”

  “A good idea. Thank you.” Orik grunted an acknowledgment. Then Eragon asked, “What do you think about Nasuada and the Urgals?”

  “She made the right choice.”

  “You agree with her!”

  “I do. I don’t like it any more than you, but I do.”

  Silence enveloped them after that. Eragon sat against Saphira and stared out at the Empire, trying to prevent his growing anxiety from overwhelming him. Minutes dragged by. To him, the interminable waiting before a battle was as stressful as the actual fighting. He oiled Saphira’s saddle, polished rust off his hauberk, and then resumed familiarizing himself with the minds of Du Vrangr Gata, anything to pass the time.

  Over an hour later, he paused as he sensed two beings approaching from across the no-man’s-land. Angela? Solembum? Puzzled and alarmed, he woke Orik—who had dozed off—and told him what he had discovered.

  The dwarf frowned and drew his war ax from his belt. “I’ve only met the herbalist a few times, but she didn’t seem like the sort who would betray us. She’s been welcome among the Varden for decades.”

  “We should still find out what she was doing,” said Eragon.

  Together they picked their way through the camp to intercept the duo as they approached the fortifications. Angela soon trotted into the light, Solembum at her heels. The witch was muffled in a dark, full-length cloak that allowed her to blend into the mottled landscape. Displaying a surprising amount of alacrity, strength, and flexibility, she clambered over the many rows of breastwork the dwarves had engineered, swinging from pole to pole, leaping over trenches, and finally running helter-skelter down the steep face of the last rampart to stop, panting, by Saphira.

  Throwing back the hood of her cloak, Angela flashed them a bright smile. “A welcoming committee! How thoughtful of you.” As she spoke, the werecat shivered along his length, fur rippling. Then his outline blurred as if seen through cloudy water, resolving once more into the nude figure of a shaggy-haired boy. Angela dipped her hand into a leather purse at her belt and passed a child’s tunic and breeches back to Solembum, along with the small black dagger he fought with.

  “What were you doing out there?” asked Orik, peering at them with a suspicious gaze.

  “Oh, this and that.”

  “I think you better tell us,” said Eragon.

  Her face hardened. “Is that so? Don’t you trust Solembum and me?” The werecat bared his pointed teeth.

  “Not really,” admitted Eragon, but with a small smile.

  “That’s good,” said Angela. She patted him on the cheek. “You’ll live longer. If you must know, then, I was doing my best to help defeat the Empire, only my methods don’t involve yelling and running around with a sword.”

  �
�And what exactly are your methods?” growled Orik.

  Angela paused to roll up her cloak into a tight bundle, which she stored in her purse. “I’d rather not say; I want it to be a surprise. You won’t have to wait long to find out. It’ll start in a few hours.”

  Orik tugged on his beard. “What will start? If you can’t give us a straight answer, we’ll have to take you to Nasuada. Maybe she can wring some sense out of you.”

  “It’s no use dragging me off to Nasuada,” said Angela. “She gave me permission to cross lines.”

  “So you say,” challenged Orik, ever more belligerent.

  “And so I say,” announced Nasuada, walking up to them from behind, as Eragon knew she would. He also sensed that she was accompanied by four Kull, one of whom was Garzhvog. Scowling, he turned to face them, making no attempt to hide his anger at the Urgals’ presence.

  “My Lady,” muttered Eragon.

  Orik was not as composed; he jumped back with a mighty oath, grasping his war ax. He quickly realized that they were not under attack and gave Nasuada a terse greeting. But his hand never left the haft of his weapon and his eyes never left the hulking Urgals. Angela seemed to have no such inhibitions. She paid Nasuada the respect due to her, then addressed the Urgals in their own harsh language, to which they answered with evident delight.

  Nasuada drew Eragon off to the side so they could have a measure of privacy. There, she said, “I need you to put aside your feelings for a moment and judge what I am about to tell you with logic and reason. Can you do that?” He nodded, stiff-faced. “Good. I’m doing everything I can to ensure we don’t lose tomorrow. It doesn’t matter, though, how well we fight, or how well I lead the Varden, or even if we rout the Empire if you,” she poked him in the chest, “are killed. Do you understand?” He nodded again. “There’s nothing I can do to protect you if Galbatorix reveals himself; if he does, you will face him alone. Du Vrangr Gata poses no more of a threat to him than they do to you, and I’ll not have them eradicated without reason.”