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

comfortable presence of death and decay, not the glory that heroic songs

had led him to expect.

Before his uncle, Garrow, was slain by the Ra’zac months earlier, the

brutality that Eragon had witnessed between the humans, dwarves, and

7

Urgals would have destroyed him. Now it numbed him. He had realized,

with Saphira’s help, that the only way to stay rational amid such pain was

to do things. Beyond that, he no longer believed that life possessed inher-

ent meaning—not after seeing men torn apart by the Kull, a race of giant

Urgals, and the ground a bed of thrashing limbs and the dirt so wet with

blood it soaked through the soles of his boots. If any honor existed in

war, he concluded, it was in fighting to protect others from harm.

He bent and plucked a tooth, a molar, from the dirt. Bouncing it on his

palm, he and Saphira slowly made a circuit through the trampled plain.

They stopped at its edge when they noticed Jörmundur—Ajihad’s second

in command in the Varden—hurrying toward them from Tronjheim.

When he came near, Jörmundur bowed, a gesture Eragon knew he would

never have made just days before.

“I’m glad I found you in time, Eragon.” He clutched a parchment note

in one hand. “Ajihad is returning, and he wants you to be there when he

arrives. The others are already waiting for him by Tronjheim’s west gate.

We’ll have to hurry to get there in time.”

Eragon nodded and headed toward the gate, keeping a hand on Saphira.

Ajihad had been gone most of the three days, hunting down Urgals who

had managed to escape into the dwarf tunnels that honeycombed the

stone beneath the Beor Mountains. The one time Eragon had seen him

between expeditions, Ajihad was in a rage over discovering that his

daughter, Nasuada, had disobeyed his orders to leave with the other

women and children before the battle. Instead, she had secretly fought

among the Varden’s archers.

Murtagh and the Twins had accompanied Ajihad: the Twins because it

was dangerous work and the Varden’s leader needed the protection of

their magical skills, and Murtagh because he was eager to continue prov-

ing that he bore the Varden no ill will. It surprised Eragon how much

people’s attitudes toward Murtagh had changed, considering that

Murtagh’s father was the Dragon Rider Morzan, who had betrayed the

Riders to Galbatorix. Even though Murtagh despised his father and was

loyal to Eragon, the Varden had not trusted him. But now, no one was

willing to waste energy on a petty hate when so much work remained.

Eragon missed talking with Murtagh and looked forward to discussing all

that had happened, once he returned.

As Eragon and Saphira rounded Tronjheim, a small group became visi-

ble in the pool of lantern light before the timber gate. Among them were

Orik—the dwarf shifting impatiently on his stout legs—and Arya. The

8

white bandage around her upper arm gleamed in the darkness, reflecting

a faint highlight onto the bottom of her hair. Eragon felt a strange thrill,

as he always did when he saw the elf. She looked at him and Saphira,

green eyes flashing, then continued watching for Ajihad.

By breaking Isidar Mithrim—the great star sapphire that was sixty feet

across and carved in the shape of a rose—Arya had allowed Eragon to kill

Durza and so win the battle. Still, the dwarves were furious with her for

destroying their most prized treasure. They refused to move the sap-

phire’s remains, leaving them in a massive circle inside Tronjheim’s cen-

tral chamber. Eragon had walked through the splintered wreckage and

shared the dwarves’ sorrow for all the lost beauty.

He and Saphira stopped by Orik and looked out at the empty land that

surrounded Tronjheim, extending to Farthen Dûr’s base five miles away

in each direction. “Where will Ajihad come from?” asked Eragon.

Orik pointed at a cluster of lanterns staked around a large tunnel open-

ing a couple of miles away. “He should be here soon.”

Eragon waited patiently with the others, answering comments directed

at him but preferring to speak with Saphira in the peace of his mind. The

quiet that filled Farthen Dûr suited him.

Half an hour passed before motion flickered in the distant tunnel. A

group of ten men climbed out onto the ground, then turned and helped

up as many dwarves. One of the men—Eragon assumed it was Ajihad—

raised a hand, and the warriors assembled behind him in two straight

lines. At a signal, the formation marched proudly toward Tronjheim.

Before they went more than five yards, the tunnel behind them

swarmed with a flurry of activity as more figures jumped out. Eragon

squinted, unable to see clearly from so far away.

Those are Urgals! exclaimed Saphira, her body tensing like a drawn

bowstring.

Eragon did not question her. “Urgals!” he cried, and leaped onto Saphira,

berating himself for leaving his sword, Zar’roc, in his room. No one had

expected an attack now that the Urgal army had been driven away.

His wound twinged as Saphira lifted her azure wings, then drove them

down and jumped forward, gaining speed and altitude each second. Be-

low them, Arya ran toward the tunnel, nearly keeping apace with

9

Saphira. Orik trailed her with several men, while Jörmundur sprinted

back toward the barracks.

Eragon was forced to watch helplessly as the Urgals fell on the rear of

Ajihad’s warriors; he could not work magic over such a distance. The

monsters had the advantage of surprise and quickly cut down four men,

forcing the rest of the warriors, men and dwarves alike, to cluster around

Ajihad in an attempt to protect him. Swords and axes clashed as the

groups pressed together. Light flashed from one of the Twins, and an Ur-

gal fell, clutching the stump of his severed arm.

For a minute, it seemed the defenders would be able to resist the Ur-

gals, but then a swirl of motion disturbed the air, like a faint band of mist

wrapping itself around the combatants. When it cleared, only four warri-

ors were standing: Ajihad, the Twins, and Murtagh. The Urgals converged

on them, blocking Eragon’s view as he stared with rising horror and fear.

No! No! No!

Before Saphira could reach the fight, the knot of Urgals streamed back

to the tunnel and scrambled underground, leaving only prone forms be-

hind.

The moment Saphira touched down, Eragon vaulted off, then faltered,

overcome by grief and anger. I can’t do this. It reminded him too much of

when he had returned to the farm to find his uncle Garrow dying. Fight-

ing back his dread with every step, he began to search for survivors.

The site was eerily similar to the battlefield he had inspected earlier,

except that here the blood was fresh.

In the center of the massacre lay Ajihad, his breastplate rent with nu-

merous gashes, surrounded by five Urgals he had slain. His breath still

came in ragged gasps. Eragon knelt by him and lowered his face so his

tears would not land on the leader’s ruined chest. No one could heal such

wounds. Running up to them, Arya paused and stopped, her face trans-

formed with sorrow when she saw that Ajihad could not be saved.

“Eragon.” The name slipped from Ajihad’s lips—no more than a whis-

per.

“Yes, I am here.”

“Listen to me, Eragon. . I have one last command for you.” Eragon

10

leaned closer to catch the dying man’s words. “You must promise me

something: promise that you. . won’t let the Varden fall into chaos. They

are the only hope for resisting the Empire. . They must be kept strong.

You must promise me.”

“I promise.”

“Then peace be with you, Eragon Shadeslayer. . ” With his last breath,

Ajihad closed his eyes, setting his noble face in repose, and died.

Eragon bowed his head. He had trouble breathing past the lump in his

throat, which was so hard it hurt. Arya blessed Ajihad in a ripple of the

ancient language, then said in her musical voice, “Alas, his death will

cause much strife. He is right, you must do all you can to avert a struggle

for power. I will assist where possible.”

Unwilling to speak, Eragon gazed at the rest of the bodies. He would

have given anything to be elsewhere. Saphira nosed one of the Urgals and

said, This should not have happened. It is an evil doing, and all the worse

for coming when we should be safe and victorious. She examined another

body, then swung her head around. Where are the Twins and Murtagh?

They’re not among the dead.

Eragon scanned the corpses. You’re right! Elation surged within him as

he hurried to the tunnel’s mouth. There pools of thickening blood filled

the hollows in the worn marble steps like a series of black mirrors, glossy

and oval, as if several torn bodies had been dragged down them. The Ur-

gals must have taken them! But why? They don’t keep prisoners or hostages.

Despair instantly returned. It doesn’t matter. We can’t pursue them without

reinforcements; you wouldn’t even fit through the opening.

They may still be alive. Would you abandon them?

What do you expect me to do? The dwarf tunnels are an endless maze! I

would only get lost. And I couldn’t catch Urgals on foot, though Arya might

be able to.

Then ask her to.

Arya! Eragon hesitated, torn between his desire for action and his loath-

ing to put her in danger. Still, if any one person in the Varden could han-

dle the Urgals, it was she. With a groan, he explained what they had

found.

11

Arya’s slanted eyebrows met in a frown. “It makes no sense.”

“Will you pursue them?”

She stared at him for a heavy moment. “Wiol ono.” For you. Then she

bounded forward, sword flashing in her hand as she dove into the earth’s

belly.

Burning with frustration, Eragon settled cross-legged by Ajihad, keeping

watch over the body. He could barely assimilate the fact that Ajihad was

dead and Murtagh missing. Murtagh. Son of one of the Forsworn—the

thirteen Riders who had helped Galbatorix destroy their order and anoint

himself king of Alagaësia—and Eragon’s friend. At times Eragon had

wished Murtagh gone, but now that he had been forcibly removed, the

loss left an unexpected void. He sat motionless as Orik approached with

the men.

When Orik saw Ajihad, he stamped his feet and swore in Dwarvish,

swinging his ax into the body of an Urgal. The men only stood in shock.

Rubbing a pinch of dirt between his callused hands, the dwarf growled,

“Ah, now a hornet’s nest has broken; we’ll have no peace among the

Varden after this. Barzûln, but this makes things complicated. Were you

in time to hear his last words?”

Eragon glanced at Saphira. “They must wait for the right person before

I’ll repeat them.”

“I see. And where’d be Arya?”

Eragon pointed.

Orik swore again, then shook his head and sat on his heels.

Jörmundur soon arrived with twelve ranks of six warriors each. He mo-

tioned for them to wait outside the radius of bodies while he proceeded

onward alone. He bent and touched Ajihad on the shoulder. “How can

fate be this cruel, my old friend? I would have been here sooner if not for

the size of this cursed mountain, and then you might have been saved.

Instead, we are wounded at the height of our triumph.”

Eragon softly told him about Arya and the disappearance of the Twins

and Murtagh.

“She should not have gone,” said Jörmundur, straightening, “but we can

12

do naught about it now. Guards will be posted here, but it will be at least

an hour before dwarf guides can be found for another expedition into the

tunnels.”

“I’d be willing to lead it,” offered Orik.

Jörmundur looked back at Tronjheim, his gaze distant. “No, Hrothgar

will need you now; someone else will have to go. I’m sorry, Eragon, but

everyone important must stay here until Ajihad’s successor is chosen.

Arya will have to fend for herself. . We could not overtake her anyway.”

Eragon nodded, accepting the inevitable.

Jörmundur swept his gaze around before saying so all could hear, “Aji-

had has died a warrior’s death! Look, he slew five Urgals where a lesser

man might have been overwhelmed by one. We will give him every

honor and hope his spirit pleases the gods. Bear him and our companions

back to Tronjheim on your shields. . and do not be ashamed to let your

tears be seen, for this is a day of sorrow that all will remember. May we

soon have the privilege of sheathing our blades in the monsters who have

slain our leader!”

As one, the warriors knelt, baring their heads in homage to Ajihad.

Then they stood and reverently lifted him on their shields so he lay be-

tween their shoulders. Already many of the Varden wept, tears flowing

into beards, yet they did not disgrace their duty and allow Ajihad to fall.

With solemn steps, they marched back to Tronjheim, Saphira and Eragon

in the middle of the procession.

13

THE COUNCIL OF ELDERS

Eragon roused himself and rolled to the edge of the bed, looking about

the room, which was suffused with the dim glow of a shuttered lantern.