Paolini, Christopher - Inheritance Trilogy, Book 2 - Eldest (v1.5) (29 page)

he even knew if my parents would agree. That’s how it should be done.

Surely you could have thought of a better strategy than striking your fa-

ther-in-law-to-be.”

A painful laugh escaped Roran. “I could have, but it never seemed the

right time with all the attacks.”

“The Ra’zac haven’t attacked for almost six days now.”

He scowled. “No, but. . it was. . Oh, I don’t know!” He banged his fist

on the table with frustration.

Elain put down her cup and wrapped her tiny hands around his. “If you

can mend this rift between you and Sloan now, before years of resent-

ment accumulate, your life with Katrina will be much, much easier. To-

morrow morning you should go to his house and beg his forgiveness.”

“I won’t beg! Not to him.”

“Roran, listen to me. It’s worth a month of begging to have peace in

your family. I know from experience; strife does naught but make you

miserable.”

“Sloan hates the Spine. He’ll have nothing to do with me.”

“You have to try, though,” said Elain earnestly. “Even if he spurns your

apology, at least you can’t be blamed for not making the effort. If you

love Katrina, then swallow your pride and do what’s right for her. Don’t

make her suffer for your mistake.” She finished her cider, used a tin hat to

snuff the candles, and left Roran sitting alone in the dark.

Several minutes elapsed before Roran could bring himself to stir. He

stretched out an arm and traced along the counter’s edge until he felt the

doorway, then proceeded upstairs, all the while running the tips of his

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fingers over the carved walls to keep his balance. In his room, he disrobed

and threw himself lengthwise on the bed.

Wrapping his arms around his wool-stuffed pillow, Roran listened to

the faint sounds that drifted through the house at night: the scrabble of a

mouse in the attic and its intermittent squeaks, the groan of wood beams

cooling in the night, the whisper and caress of wind at the lintel of his

window, and. . and the rustle of slippers in the hall outside his room.

He watched as the latch above the doorknob was pulled free of its

hook, then the door inched forward with a rasp of protest. It paused. A

dark form slipped inside, the door closed, and Roran felt a curtain of hair

brush his face along with lips like rose petals. He sighed.

Katrina.

A thunderclap tore Roran from sleep.

Light flared on his face as he struggled to regain awareness, like a diver

desperate to reach the surface. He opened his eyes and saw a jagged hole

blasted through his door. Six soldiers rushed through the yawning cleft,

followed by the two Ra’zac, who seemed to fill the room with their

ghastly presence. A sword was pressed against Roran’s neck. Beside him,

Katrina screamed and pulled the blankets around her.

“Up,” ordered the Ra’zac. Roran cautiously got to his feet. His heart felt

like it was about to explode in his chest. “Tie his handsss and bring him.”

As a soldier approached Roran with rope, Katrina screamed again and

jumped on the men, biting and clawing furiously. Her sharp nails fur-

rowed their faces, drawing streams of blood that blinded the cursing sol-

diers.

Roran dropped to one knee and grabbed his hammer from the floor,

then planted his feet, swinging the hammer over his head and roaring like

a bear. The soldiers threw themselves at him in an attempt to subdue

him through sheer numbers, but to no avail: Katrina was in danger, and

he was invincible. Shields crumpled beneath his blows, brigandines and

mail split under his merciless weapon, and helmets caved in. Two men

were wounded, and three fell to rise no more.

The clang and clamor had roused the household; Roran dimly heard

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Horst and his sons shouting in the hall. The Ra’zac hissed to one another,

then scuttled forward and grasped Katrina with inhuman strength, lifting

her off the floor as they fled the room.

“Roran!” she shrieked.

Summoning his energy, Roran bowled past the two remaining men. He

stumbled into the hall and saw the Ra’zac climbing out a window. Roran

dashed toward them and struck at the last Ra’zac, just as it was about to

descend below the windowsill. Jerking upward, the Ra’zac caught Roran’s

wrist in midair and chittered with delight, blowing its fetid breath onto

his face. “Yesss! You are the one we want!”

Roran tried to twist free, but the Ra’zac did not budge. With his free

hand, Roran buffeted the creature’s head and shoulders—which were as

hard as iron. Desperate and enraged, he seized the edge of the Ra’zac’s

hood and wrenched it back, exposing its features.

A hideous, tortured face screamed at him. The skin was shiny black,

like a beetle carapace. The head was bald. Each lidless eye was the size of

his fist and gleamed like an orb of polished hematite; no iris or pupil ex-

isted. In place of a nose, mouth, and chin, a thick beak hooked to a sharp

point that clacked over a barbed purple tongue.

Roran yelled and jammed his heels against the sides of the window

frame, struggling to free himself from the monstrosity, but the Ra’zac in-

exorably drew him out of the house. He could see Katrina on the ground,

still screaming and fighting.

Just as Roran’s knees buckled, Horst appeared by his side and wrapped

a knotted arm around his chest, locking him in place. “Someone get a

spear!” shouted the smith. He snarled, veins bulging on his neck from the

strain of holding Roran. “It’ll take more than this demon spawn to best

us!”

The Ra’zac gave a final yank, then, when it failed to dislodge Roran,

cocked its head and said, “You areoursss !” It lunged forward with blind-

ing speed, and Roran howled as he felt the Ra’zac’s beak close on his right

shoulder, snipping through the front of the muscle. His wrist cracked at

the same time. With a malicious cackle, the Ra’zac released him and fell

backward into the night.

Horst and Roran sprawled against each other in the hallway. “They

have Katrina,” groaned Roran. His vision flickered and went black around

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the edges as he pushed himself upright on his left arm—his right hung

useless. Albriech and Baldor emerged from his room, splattered with

gore. Only corpses remained behind them. Now I have killed eight. Roran

retrieved his hammer and staggered down the hall, finding his way

blocked by Elain in her white sleeping shift.

She looked at him with wide eyes, then took his arm and pushed him

down onto a wood chest set against the wall. “You have to see Gertrude.”

“But—”

“You’ll pass out if this bleeding isn’t stopped.”

He looked down at his right side; it was drenched in crimson. “We have

to rescue Katrina before”—he clenched his teeth as the pain surged—

“before they do anything to her.”

“He’s right; we can’t wait,” said Horst, looming over them. “Bind him up

as best you can, then we’ll go.” Elain pursed her lips and hurried to the

linen closet. She returned with several rags, which she wrapped tightly

around Roran’s torn shoulder and his fractured wrist. Meanwhile, Al-

briech and Baldor scavenged armor and swords from the soldiers. Horst

contented himself with just a spear.

Elain put her hands on Horst’s chest and said, “Be careful.” She looked

at her sons. “All of you.”

“We’ll be fine, Mother,” promised Albriech. She forced a smile and

kissed them on the cheek.

They left the house and ran to the edge of Carvahall, where they found

that the wall of trees had been pulled open and the watchman, Byrd,

slain. Baldor knelt and examined the body, then said with a choked voice,

“He was stabbed from behind.” Roran barely heard him through the

pounding in his ears. Dizzy, he leaned against a house and panted for

breath.

“Ho! Who goes?”

From their stations along Carvahall’s perimeter, the other watchmen

congregated around their murdered compatriot, forming a huddle of

shuttered lanterns. In hushed tones, Horst described the attack and

Katrina’s plight. “Who will help us?” he asked. After a quick discussion,

five men agreed to accompany them; the rest would remain to guard the

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breach in the wall and rouse the villagers.

Pushing himself off the house, Roran trotted to the head of the group as

it slipped through the fields and down the valley toward the Ra’zac’s

camp. Every step was agony, yet it did not matter; nothing mattered ex-

cept Katrina. He stumbled once and Horst wordlessly caught him.

Half a mile from Carvahall, Ivor spotted a sentry on a hillock, which

compelled them to make a wide detour. A few hundred yards beyond,

the ruddy glow of torches became visible. Roran raised his good arm to

slow their advance, then began to dodge and crawl through the tangled

grass, startling a jackrabbit. The men followed Roran’s lead as he worked

his way to the edge of a grove of cattails, where he stopped and parted

the curtain of stalks to observe the thirteen remaining soldiers.

Where is she?

In contrast to when they had first arrived, the soldiers appeared sullen

and haggard, their weapons nicked and their armor dented. Most of them

wore bandages that were rusty with splotches of dried blood. The men

were clumped together, facing the two Ra’zac—both of whom were now

hooded—across a low fire.

One man was shouting: “. . over half of us killed by a bunch of inbred,

cockle-brained woodrats that can’t tell a pike from a poleax or find the

point of a sword even if it’s lodged in their gut, because you don’t have

half the sense my banner boy does! I don’t care if Galbatorix himself licks

your boots clean, we won’t do a thing until we have a new commander.”

The men nodded. “One who’s human. ”

“Really?” demanded the Ra’zac softly.

“We’ve had enough taking orders from hunchbacks like you, with all

your clicking and teapot whistling—makes us sick! And I don’t know

what you did with Sardson, but if you stay another night, we’ll put steel

in you and find out if you bleed like us. You can leave the girl, though,

she’ll be—”

The man did not get a chance to continue, for the largest Ra’zac

jumped across the fire and landed on his shoulders, like a giant crow.

Screaming, the soldier collapsed under the weight. He tried to draw his

sword, but the Ra’zac pecked twice at his neck with its hidden beak, and

he was still.

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“We have to fight that ?” muttered Ivor behind Roran.

The soldiers remained frozen with shock as the two Ra’zac lapped from

the neck of the corpse. When the black creatures rose, they rubbed their

knobby hands together, as if they were washing, and said, “Yesss. We will

go. Stay if you wisssh; reinforsssements are only daysss away.” The Ra’zac

threw back their heads and began to shriek at the sky, the wail becoming

increasingly shrill until it passed from hearing.

Roran looked up as well. At first he saw nothing, but then a nameless

terror gripped him as two barbed shadows appeared high over the Spine,

eclipsing the stars. They advanced quickly, growing larger and larger until

they obscured half the sky with their ominous presence. A foul wind

rushed across the land, bringing with it a sulfurous miasma that made Ro-

ran cough and gag.

The soldiers were likewise afflicted; their curses echoed as they pressed

sleeves and scarves over their noses.

Above them, the shadows paused and then began to drift downward,

enclosing the camp in a dome of menacing darkness. The sickly torches

flickered and threatened to extinguish themselves, yet they still provided

sufficient light to reveal the two beasts descending among the tents.

Their bodies were naked and hairless—like newborn mice—with

leathery gray skin pulled tight across their corded chests and bellies. In

form they resembled starved dogs, except that their hind legs bulged

with enough muscle to crush a boulder. A narrow crest extended from

the back of each of their attenuated heads, opposite a long, straight, eb-

ony beak made for spearing prey, and cold, bulbous eyes identical to the

Ra’zac’s. From their shoulders and backs sprang huge wings that made the

air moan under their weight.

Flinging themselves to the ground, the soldiers cowered and hid their

faces from the monsters. A terrible, alien intelligence emanated from the

creatures, bespeaking a race far older and far more powerful than hu-

mans. Roran was suddenly afraid that his mission might fail. Behind him,

Horst whispered to the men, urging them to hold their ground and re-

main hidden, else they would be slain.

The Ra’zac bowed to the beasts, then slipped into a tent and returned

carrying Katrina—who was bound with ropes—and leading Sloan. The

butcher walked freely.

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Roran stared, unable to comprehend how Sloan had been captured. His

house isn’t anywhere near Horst’s. Then it struck him. “He betrayed us,”

said Roran with wonder. His fist slowly tightened on his hammer as the

true horror of the situation exploded within him.” He killed Byrd and he

betrayed us!” Tears of rage streamed down his face.