Eldest

by Christopher Paolini

  Roran smiled with grim amusement. “Men will do anything to protect their families and homes.”

  As Roran lifted the door latch, Clovis asked, “And what will you do once you reach Surda?”

  “We will—”

  “Not we: you. What will you do? I’ve watched you, Roran. I’ve listened to you. An’ you seem a good enough sort, even if I don’t care for how you dealt with me. But I cannot fit it in my head, you dropping that hammer of yours and taking up the plow again, just because you’ve arrived in Surda.”

  Roran gripped the latch until his knuckles turned white. “When I have delivered the village to Surda,” he said in a voice as empty as a blackened desert, “then I shall go hunting.”

  “Ah. After that redheaded lass of yours? I heard some talk of that, but I didn’t put—”

  The door slammed behind Roran as he left the cabin. He let his anger burn hot and fast for a moment—enjoying the freedom of the emotion—before he began to subdue his unruly passions. He marched to Felda’s tent, where Mandel was throwing a hunting knife at a stump.

  Felda’s right; someone has to talk some sense into him. “You’re wasting your time,” said Roran.

  Mandel whirled around with surprise. “Why do you say that?”

  “In a real fight, you’re more likely to put out your own eye than injure your enemy. If you don’t know the exact distance between you and your target…” Roran shrugged. “You might as well throw rocks.”

  He watched with detached interest as the younger man bristled with pride. “Gunnar told me about a man he knew in Cithrí who could hit a flying crow with his knife eight times out of ten.”

  “And the other two times you get killed. It’s usually a bad idea to throw away your weapon in battle.” Roran waved a hand, forestalling Mandel’s objections. “Get your kit together and meet me on the hill past the stream in fifteen minutes. I’ve decided you should come with us to Teirm.”

  “Yes, sir!” With an enthusiastic grin, Mandel dove into the tent and began packing.

  As Roran left, he encountered Felda, her youngest daughter balanced on one hip. Felda glanced between him and Mandel’s activity in the tent, and her expression tightened. “Keep him safe, Stronghammer.” She set her daughter on the ground and then bustled about, helping to gather the items Mandel would need.

  Roran was the first to arrive at the designated hill. He squatted on a white boulder and watched the sea while he readied himself for the task ahead. When Loring, Gertrude, Birgit, and Nolfavrell, Birgit’s son, arrived, Roran jumped off the boulder and said, “We have to wait for Mandel; he’ll be joining us.”

  “What for?” demanded Loring.

  Birgit frowned as well. “I thought we agreed no one else should accompany us. Especially not Mandel, since he was seen in Narda. It’s dangerous enough having you and Gertrude along, and Mandel only increases the odds that someone will recognize us.”

  “I’ll risk it.” Roran met each of their eyes in turn. “He needs to come.” In the end, they listened to him, and, with Mandel, the six of them headed south, toward Teirm.

  TEIRM

  In that area, the coastline was composed of low, rolling hills verdant with lush grass and occasional briars, willows, and poplars. The soft, muddy ground gave under their feet and made walking difficult. To their right lay the glittering sea. To their left ran the purple outline of the Spine. The ranks of snowcapped mountains were laced with clouds and mist.

  As Roran’s company wended past the properties surrounding Teirm—some freehold farms, others massive estates—they made every effort to go undetected. When they encountered the road that connected Narda to Teirm, they darted across it and continued farther east, toward the mountains, for several more miles before turning south again. Once they were confident they had circumnavigated the city, they angled back toward the ocean until they found the southern road in.

  During his time on the Red Boar, it had occurred to Roran that officials in Narda might have deduced that whoever killed the two guards was among the men who left upon Clovis’s barges. If so, messengers would have warned Teirm’s soldiers to watch for anyone matching the villagers’ descriptions. And if the Ra’zac had visited Narda, then the soldiers would also know that they were looking not just for a handful of murderers but Roran Stronghammer and the refugees from Carvahall. Teirm could be one huge trap. Yet they could not bypass the city, for the villagers needed supplies and a new mode of transportation.

  Roran had decided that their best precaution against capture was to send no one into Teirm who had been seen in Narda, except for Gertrude and himself—Gertrude because only she understood the ingredients for her medicines, and Roran because, though he was the most likely to be recognized, he trusted no one else to do what was required. He knew he possessed the will to act when others hesitated, like the time he slew the guards. The rest of the group was chosen to minimize suspicion. Loring was old but a tough fighter and an excellent liar. Birgit had proven herself canny and strong, and her son, Nolfavrell, had already killed a soldier in combat, despite his tender age. Hopefully, they would appear as nothing more than an extended family traveling together. That is, if Mandel doesn’t throw the scheme awry, thought Roran.

  It was also Roran’s idea to enter Teirm from the south, and thus make it seem even more unlikely that they had come from Narda.

  Evening was nigh when Teirm came into view, white and ghostly in the gloaming. Roran stopped to inspect what lay before them. The walled city stood alone upon the edge of a large bay, self-contained and impregnable to any conceivable attack. Torches glowed between the merlons on the battlements, where soldiers with bows patrolled their endless circuits. Above the walls rose a citadel, and then a faceted lighthouse, which swept its hazy beam across the dark waters.

  “It’s so big,” said Nolfavrell.

  Loring bobbed his head without taking his eyes off Teirm. “Aye, that it is.”

  Roran’s attention was caught by a ship moored at one of the stone piers jutting from the city. The three-masted vessel was larger than any he had seen in Narda, with a high forecastle, two banks of oarlocks, and twelve powerful ballistae mounted along each side of the deck for shooting javelins. The magnificent craft appeared equally suited for either commerce or war. Even more importantly, Roran thought that it might—might—be able to hold the entire village.

  “That’s what we need,” he said, pointing.

  Birgit uttered a sour grunt. “We’d have to sell ourselves into slavery to afford passage on that monster.”

  Clovis had warned them that Teirm’s portcullis closed at sunset, so they quickened their pace to avoid spending the night in the countryside. As they neared the pale walls, the road filled with a double stream of people hurrying to and from Teirm.

  Roran had not anticipated so much traffic, but he soon realized that it could help shield his party from unwanted attention. Beckoning to Mandel, Roran said, “Drop back a ways and follow someone else through the gate, so the guards don’t think you’re with us. We’ll wait for you on the other side. If they ask, you’ve come here seeking employment as a seaman.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  As Mandel fell behind, Roran hunched one shoulder, allowed a limp to creep into his walk, and began to rehearse the story Loring had concocted to explain their presence at Teirm. He stepped off the road and ducked his head as a man drove a pair of lumbering oxen past, grateful for the shadows that concealed his features.

  The gate loomed ahead, washed in uncertain orange from the torches placed in sconces on each side of the entrance. Underneath stood a pair of soldiers with Galbatorix’s twisting flame stitched onto the front of their crimson tunics. Neither of the armed men so much as glanced at Roran and his companions as they shuffled underneath the spiked portcullis and through the short tunnel beyond.

  Roran squared his shoulders and felt some of his tension ease. He and the others clustered by the corner of a house, where Loring murmured, “So far, so good.”
>
  When Mandel rejoined them, they set out to find an inexpensive hostel where they could let a room. As they walked, Roran studied the layout of the city with its fortified houses—which grew progressively higher toward the citadel—and the gridlike arrangement of streets. Those north to south radiated from the citadel like a starburst, while those east to west curved gently across and formed a spiderweb pattern, creating numerous places where barriers could be erected and soldiers stationed.

  If Carvahall had been built like this, he thought, no one could have defeated us but the king himself.

  By dusk they had acquired lodging at the Green Chestnut, an exceedingly vile tavern with atrocious ale and flea-infested beds. Its sole advantage was that it cost next to nothing. They went to sleep without dinner to save their precious coin, and huddled together to prevent their purses from being filched by one of the tavern’s other guests.

  The next day, Roran and his companions left the Green Chestnut before dawn to search for provisions and transportation.

  Gertrude said, “I have heard tell of a remarkable herbalist, Angela by name, who lives here and is supposed to work the most amazing cures, perhaps even a touch of magic. I would go see her, for if anyone has what I seek, it would be she.”

  “You shouldn’t go alone,” said Roran. He looked at Mandel. “Accompany Gertrude, help her with her purchases, and do your best to protect her if you are attacked. Your nerve may be tested at times, but do nothing to cause alarm, unless you would betray your friends and family.”

  Mandel touched his forelock and nodded his obedience. He and Gertrude departed at right angles down a cross street, while Roran and the rest resumed their hunt.

  Roran had the patience of a stalking predator, but even he began to thrum with restlessness when morning and afternoon slipped by and they still had not found a ship to carry them to Surda. He learned that the three-masted ship, the Dragon Wing, was newly built and about to be launched on her maiden voyage; that they had no chance of hiring it from the Blackmoor Shipping Company unless they could pay a roomful of the dwarves’ red gold; and indeed, that the villagers lacked the coin to engage even the meanest vessel. Nor would taking Clovis’s barges solve their problems, because it still left unanswered the question of what they would eat on their trek.

  “It would be hard,” said Birgit, “very hard, to steal goods from this place, what with all the soldiers and how close together the houses are and the watchmen at the gate. If we tried to cart that much stuff out of Teirm, they’d want to know what we were doing.”

  Roran nodded. That too.

  Roran had suggested to Horst that if the villagers were forced to flee Teirm with naught but their remaining supplies, they could raid for their food. However, Roran knew that such an act would mean they had become as monstrous as those he hated. He had no stomach for it. It was one thing to fight and kill those who served Galbatorix—or even to steal Clovis’s barges, since Clovis had other means of supporting himself—but it was quite another to take provisions from innocent farmers who struggled to survive as much as the villagers had in Palancar Valley. That would be murder.

  Those hard facts weighed upon Roran like stones. Their venture had always been tenuous at best, sustained in equal parts by fear, desperation, optimism, and last-minute improvisation. Now he feared that he had driven the villagers into the den of their enemies and bound them in place with a chain forged of their own poverty. I could escape alone and continue my search for Katrina, but what victory would that be if I left my village to be enslaved by the Empire? Whatever our fate in Teirm, I will stand firm with those who trusted me enough to forsake their homes upon my word.

  To relieve their hunger, they stopped at a bakery and bought a loaf of fresh rye bread, as well as a small pot of honey to slather it with. While he paid for the items, Loring mentioned to the baker’s assistant that they were in the market for ships, equipment, and food.

  At a tap on his shoulder, Roran turned. A man with coarse black hair and a thick slab of belly said, “Pardon me for overhearing your parley with the young master, but if it’s ships and such you be after, and at a fair price, then I should guess you’d want to attend the auction.”

  “What auction is this?” asked Roran.

  “Ah, it’s a sad story, it is, but all too common nowadays. One of our merchants, Jeod—Jeod Longshanks, as we call him out of hearing—has had the most abominable run of bad luck. In less than a year, he lost four of his ships, an’ when he tried to send his goods over land, the caravan was ambushed and destroyed by some thieving outlaws. His investors forced him to declare bankruptcy, and now they’re going to sell his property to recoup their losses. I don’t know ’bout food, but you’d be sure to find most everything else you’re looking to buy at the auction.”

  A faint ember of hope kindled in Roran’s breast. “When will the auction be held?”

  “Why, it’s posted on every message board throughout the city. Day after tomorrow, to be sure.”

  That explained to Roran why they had not learned of the auction before; they had done their best to avoid the message boards, on the off chance that someone would recognize Roran from the portrait on his reward poster.

  “Thank you much,” he said to the man. “You may have saved us a great deal of trouble.”

  “My pleasure, so it is.”

  Once Roran and his companions filed out of the shop, they huddled together on the edge of the street. He said, “Do you think we should look into this?”

  “It’s all we have to look into,” growled Loring.

  “Birgit?”

  “You needn’t ask me; it’s obvious. We cannot wait until the day after tomorrow, though.”

  “No. I say we meet with this Jeod and see if we can strike a bargain with him before the auction opens. Are we agreed?”

  They were, and so they set out for Jeod’s house, armed with directions from a passerby. The house—or rather, mansion—was set on the west side of Teirm, close to the citadel, among scores of other opulent buildings embellished with fine scrollwork, wrought-iron gates, statues, and gushing fountains. Roran could scarcely comprehend such riches; it amazed him how different the lives of these people were from his own.

  Roran knocked on the front door to Jeod’s mansion, which stood next to an abandoned shop. After a moment, the door was pulled open by a plump butler garnished with overly shiny teeth. He eyed the four strangers upon his doorstep with disapproval, then flashed his glazed smile and asked, “How may I help you, sirs and madam?”

  “We would talk with Jeod, if he is free.”

  “Have you an appointment?”

  Roran thought the butler knew perfectly well that they did not. “Our stay in Teirm is too brief for us to arrange a proper meeting.”

  “Ah, well, then I regret to say that your time would have been better spent elsewhere. My master has many matters to tend. He cannot devote himself to every group of ragged tramps that bangs on his door, asking for handouts,” said the butler. He exposed even more of his glassy teeth and began to withdraw inside.

  “Wait!” cried Roran. “It’s not handouts we want; we have a business proposition for Jeod.”

  The butler lifted one eyebrow. “Is that so?”

  “Aye, it is. Please ask him if he will hear us. We’ve traveled more leagues than you’d care to know, and it’s imperative we see Jeod today.”

  “May I inquire as to the nature of your proposition?”

  “It’s confidential.”

  “Very well, sir,” said the butler. “I will convey your offer, but I warn you that Jeod is occupied at the moment, and I doubt he will wish to bother himself. By what name shall I announce you, sir?”

  “You may call me Stronghammer.” The butler’s mouth twitched as if amused by the name, then slipped behind the door and closed it.

  “If his head were any larger, ’e couldn’t fit in the privy,” muttered Loring out the side of his mouth. Nolfavrell uttered a bark of laughter at the insult. />
  Birgit said, “Let’s hope the servant doesn’t imitate the master.”

  A minute later, the door reopened and the butler announced, with a rather brittle expression, “Jeod has agreed to meet you in the study.” He moved to the side and gestured with one arm for them to proceed. “This way.” After they trooped into the sumptuous entryway, the butler swept past them and down a polished wood hallway to one door among many, which he opened and ushered them through.

  JEOD LONGSHANKS

  If Roran had known how to read, he might have been more impressed by the treasure trove of books that lined the study walls. As it was, he reserved his attention for the tall man with graying hair who stood behind an oval writing desk. The man—who Roran assumed was Jeod—looked about as tired as Roran felt. His face was lined, careworn, and sad, and when he turned toward them, a nasty scar gleamed white from his scalp to his left temple. To Roran, it bespoke steel in the man. Long and buried, perhaps, but steel nevertheless.

  “Do sit,” said Jeod. “I won’t stand on ceremony in my own house.” He watched them with curious eyes as they settled in the soft leather armchairs. “May I offer you pastries and a glass of apricot brandy? I cannot talk for long, but I see you’ve been on the road for many a week, and I well remember how dusty my throat was after such journeys.”

  Loring grinned. “Aye. A touch of brandy would be welcome indeed. You’re most generous, sir.”

  “Only a glass of milk for my boy,” said Birgit.

  “Of course, madam.” Jeod rang for the butler, delivered his instructions, then leaned back in his chair. “I am at a disadvantage. I believe you have my name, but I don’t have yours.”

  “Stronghammer, at your service,” said Roran.

  “Mardra, at your service,” said Birgit.

  “Kell, at your service,” said Nolfavrell.

  “And I’d be Wally, at your service,” finished Loring.

  “And I at yours,” responded Jeod. “Now, Rolf mentioned that you wished to do business with me. It’s only fair that you know I’m in no position to buy or sell goods, nor have I gold for investing, nor proud ships to carry wool and food, gems and spices across the restless sea. What, then, can I do for you?”