Paolini, Christopher - Inheritance Trilogy, Book 2 - Eldest (v1.5) (16 page)

“Do all dwarves ride Feldûnost?” He stumbled slightly over the unusual

word.

“Only in the mountains. Feldûnost are hardy and sure-footed, but they

are better suited for cliffs than open plains.”

Saphira nudged Eragon with her nose, causing Snowfire to shy away.

Now those would be good hunting, better than any I had in the Spine or

hence! If I have time in Tarnag—

No, he said. We can’t afford to offend the dwarves.

She snorted, irritated. I could ask permission first.

Now the path that had concealed them for so long under dark boughs

entered the great clearing that surrounded Tarnag. Groups of observers

had already begun to gather in the fields when seven Feldûnost with jew-

eled harnesses bounded out from the city. Their riders bore lances tipped

with pennants that snapped like whips in the air. Reining in his strange

beast, the lead dwarf said, “Thou art well-come to this city of Tarnag. By

otho of Ûndin and Gannel, I, Thorv, son of Brokk, offer in peace the

shelter of our halls.” His accent grumbled and rasped with a rough burr

quite unlike Orik’s.

“And by Hrothgar’s otho, we of the Ingeitum accept your hospitality,”

responded Orik.

“As do I, in Islanzadí’s stead,” added Arya.

Appearing satisfied, Thorv motioned to his fellow riders, who spurred

their Feldûnost into formation around the four of them. With a flourish,

the dwarves rode off, guiding them to Tarnag and through the city gates.

The outer wall was forty feet thick and formed a shadowed tunnel to

the first of the many farms that belted Tarnag. Five more tiers—each of

which was defended by a fortified gate—carried them past the fields and

into the city proper.

In contrast to Tarnag’s thickly built ramparts, the buildings within,

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though of stone, were shaped with such cunning as to give the impres-

sion of grace and lightness. Strong, bold carvings, usually of animals,

adorned the houses and shops. But even more striking was the stone it-

self: vibrant hues, from bright scarlet to the subtlest of greens, glazed the

rock in translucent layers.

And hung throughout the city were the dwarves’ flameless lanterns,

their multicolored sparks harbingers of the Beors’ long dusk and night.

Unlike Tronjheim, Tarnag had been constructed in proportion to the

dwarves, with no concession for human, elf, or dragon visitors. At the

most, doorways were five feet high, and they were often only four and a

half. Eragon was of middling height, but now he felt like a giant trans-

ported onto a puppet stage.

The streets were wide and crammed. Dwarves of various clans hurried

about their business or stood haggling in and around shops. Many were

garbed in strange, exotic costumes, such as a block of fierce black-haired

dwarves who wore silver helmets forged in the likeness of wolf heads.

Eragon stared at the dwarf women the most, as he had only caught

brief glimpses of them while in Tronjheim. They were broader than the

men, and their faces were heavyset, yet their eyes sparkled and their hair

was lustrous and their hands were gentle on their diminutive children.

They eschewed frippery, except for small, intricate brooches of iron and

stone.

At the Feldûnost’s piercing footsteps, the dwarves turned to look at the

new arrivals. They did not cheer as Eragon had expected, but rather

bowed and murmured, “Shadeslayer.” As they saw the hammer and stars

upon Eragon’s helm, admiration was replaced by shock and, in many

cases, outrage. A number of the angrier dwarves contracted around the

Feldûnost, glaring between the animals at Eragon and shouting impreca-

tions.

The back of Eragon’s neck prickled. It seems that adopting me wasn’t the

most popular decision Hrothgar could make.

Aye, agreed Saphira. He may have strengthened his hold on you, but at

the cost of alienating many of the dwarves.... We’d better get out of sight be-

fore blood is shed.

Thorv and the other guards rode forward as if the crowd was nonexis-

tent, clearing the way through seven additional tiers until only a single

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gate separated them from the mass of Celbedeil. Then Thorv turned left,

toward a great hall pressed against the side of the mountain and pro-

tected in fore by a barbican with two machicolated towers.

As they neared the hall, a group of armed dwarves streamed out from

between the houses and formed a thick line, blocking the street. Long

purple veils covered their faces and draped over their shoulders, like mail

coifs.

The guards immediately reined in their Feldûnost, faces hard. “What is

it?” Eragon asked Orik, but the dwarf only shook his head and strode

forward, a hand on his ax.

“Etzil nithgech!” cried a veiled dwarf, raising a fist. “Formv Hrethca-

rach. . formv Jurgencarmeitder nos eta goroth bahst Tarnag, dûr encesti

rak kythn! Jok is warrev az barzûlegûr dûr dûrgrimst, Az Sweldn rak An-

hûin, môgh tor rak Jurgenvren? Né ûdim etal os rast knurlag. Knurlag

ana. .” For a long minute, he continued to rant with growing spleen.

“Vrron!” barked Thorv, cutting him off, then the two dwarves began

arguing. Despite the harsh exchange, Eragon saw that Thorv seemed to

respect the other dwarf.

Eragon shifted to the side—trying to get a better view past Thorv’s

Feldûnost—and the veiled dwarf abruptly fell silent, jabbing at Eragon’s

helm with an expression of horror.

“Knurlag qana qirânû Dûrgrimst Ingeitum!” he screamed. “Qarzûl ana

Hrothgar oen volfild—”

“Jok is frekk dûrgrimstvren?” interrupted Orik quietly, drawing his ax.

Worried, Eragon glanced at Arya, but she was too intent on the confron-

tation to notice him. He surreptitiously slid his hand down and around

Zar’roc’s wire-wrapped hilt.

The strange dwarf stared hard at Orik, then removed an iron ring from

his pocket, plucked three hairs from his beard, twined them around the

ring, and threw it onto the street with an impervious clink, spitting after

it. Without a word, the purple-shrouded dwarves filed away.

Thorv, Orik, and the other warriors flinched as the ring bounced across

the granite pavement. Even Arya seemed taken aback. Two of the

younger dwarves blanched and reached for their blades, then dropped

their hands as Thorv barked, “Eta!”

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Their reactions unsettled Eragon far more than the raucous exchange

had. As Orik strode forward alone and deposited the ring in a pouch, Er-

agon asked, “What does it mean?”

“It means,” said Thorv, “that you have enemies.”

They hurried through the barbican to a wide courtyard arrayed with

three banquet tables, decorated with lanterns and banners. Before the ta-

bles stood a group of dwarves, foremost among them a gray-bearded

dwarf swathed in wolfskin. He spread his arms, saying, “Welcome to

Tarnag, home of Dûrgrimst Ragni Hefthyn. We have heard much praise

of you, Eragon Shadeslayer. I am Ûndin, son of Derûnd and clan chief.”

Another dwarf stepped forward. He had the shoulders and chest of a

warrior, topped with hooded black eyes that never left Eragon’s face.

“And I, Gannel, son of Orm Blood-ax and clan chief of Dûrgrimst Quan.”

“It is an honor to be your guests,” said Eragon, inclining his head. He felt

Saphira’s irritation at being ignored. Patience, he murmured, forcing a

smile.

She snorted.

The clan chiefs greeted Arya and Orik in turn, but their hospitality was

lost on Orik, whose only response was to extend his hand, the iron ring

on his palm.

Ûndin’s eyes widened, and he gingerly lifted the ring, pinching it be-

tween his thumb and forefinger as if it were a venomous snake. “Who

gave this to you?”

“It was Az Sweldn rak Anhûin. And not to me, but to Eragon.”

As alarm spread across their faces, Eragon’s earlier apprehension re-

turned. He had seen lone dwarves face an entire group of Kull without

shirking. The ring must symbolize something dreadful indeed if it could

undermine their courage.

Ûndin frowned as he listened to the muttering of his advisers, then said,

“We must consult on this issue. Shadeslayer, a feast is prepared in your

honor. If you would allow my servants to guide you to your quarters, you

can refresh yourself, and then we might begin.”

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“Of course.” Eragon handed Snowfire’s reins to a waiting dwarf and fol-

lowed a guide into the hall. As he passed through the doorway, he

glanced back and saw Arya and Orik bustling away with the clan chiefs,

their heads pressed close together. I won’t be long, he promised Saphira.

After crouching through dwarf-sized corridors, he was relieved that the

room assigned to him was spacious enough to stand freely. The servant

bowed and said, “I will return when Grimstborith Ûndin is ready.”

Once the dwarf was gone, Eragon paused and took a deep breath, grate-

ful for the silence. The encounter with the veiled dwarves hovered in his

mind, making it difficult for him to relax. At least we won’t be in Tarnag

long. That should prevent them from hindering us.

Peeling off his gloves, Eragon went to a marble basin set on the floor

next to the low bed. He put his hands in the water, then jerked them out

with an involuntary yelp. The water was almost boiling. It must be a

dwarf custom, he realized. He waited until it cooled a bit, then doused his

face and neck, rubbing them clean as steam swirled off his skin.

Rejuvenated, he stripped out of his breeches and tunic and outfitted

himself in the clothes he had worn to Ajihad’s funeral. He touched

Zar’roc, but decided it would only insult Ûndin’s table and instead belted

on his hunting knife.

Then, from his pack, he took the scroll Nasuada had charged him with

delivering to Islanzadí and weighed it in his hand, wondering where to

hide it. The missive was too important to leave out in the open, where it

could be read or stolen. Unable to think of a better place, he slipped the

scroll up his sleeve. It’ll be safe there unless I get into a fight, in which case

I’ll have bigger problems to worry about.

When at last the servant returned for Eragon, it was only an hour or so

past noon, but the sun had already vanished behind the looming moun-

tains, plunging Tarnag into dusk. Exiting the hall, Eragon was struck by

the city’s transformation. With the premature advent of night, the

dwarves’ lanterns revealed their true strength, flooding the streets with

pure, unwavering light that made the entire valley glow.

Ûndin and the other dwarves were gathered in the courtyard, along

with Saphira, who had situated herself at the head of a table. No one ap-

peared interested in disputing her choice.

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Has anything happened? asked Eragon, hurrying toward her.

Ûndin summoned extra warriors, then had the gates barred.

Does he expect an attack?

At the very least, he’s concerned about the possibility.

“Eragon, please join me,” said Ûndin, gesturing at the chair to his right.

The clan chief seated himself as Eragon did, and the rest of the company

hurriedly followed suit.

Eragon was happy when Orik ended up beside him with Arya directly

across the table, although both looked grim. Before he could ask Orik

about the ring, Ûndin slapped the table and roared, “Ignh az voth!”

Servants streamed out of the hall, bearing platters of beaten gold piled

high with meats, pies, and fruit. They divided into three columns—one

for each table—and deposited the dishes with a flourish.

Before them were soups and stews filled with various tubers, roasted

venison, long hot loaves of sourdough bread, and rows of honeycakes

dripped with raspberry preserve. In a bed of greens lay filleted trout gar-

nished with parsley, and on the side, pickled eel stared forlornly at an urn

of cheese, as if hoping to somehow escape back into a river. A swan sat

on each table, surrounded by a flock of stuffed partridges, geese, and

ducks.

Mushrooms were everywhere: broiled in juicy strips, placed atop a

bird’s head like a bonnet, or carved in the shape of castles amid moats of

gravy. An incredible variety was on display, from puffy white mushrooms

the size of Eragon’s fist, to ones he could have mistaken for gnarled bark,

to delicate toadstools sliced neatly in half to showcase their blue flesh.

Then the centerpiece of the feast was revealed: a gigantic roasted boar,

glistening with sauce. At least Eragon thought it was a boar, for the car-

cass was as large as Snowfire and took six dwarves to carry. The tusks

were longer than his forearms, the snout as wide as his head. And the

smell, it overwhelmed all others in pungent waves that made his eyes

water from their strength.

“Nagra,” whispered Orik. “Giant boar. Ûndin truly honors you tonight,

Eragon. Only the bravest dwarves dare hunt Nagran, and it is only served

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to those who have great valor. Also, I think he makes a gesture that he

will support you over Dûrgrimst Nagra.”

Eragon leaned toward him so no one else could hear. “Then this is an-

other animal native to the Beors? What are the rest?”