Brisingr [en]

Saphira. We shall meet again, I promise, and Thorn and I shall defeat you then, for we shall be even stronger than we are now!”

Eragon clenched his shield and his falchion so tightly, he bled from underneath his fingernails. Do you think you can overtake him?

I could, but the elves would not be able to help you from so far away, and I doubt we could prevail without their support.

We might be able—Eragon stopped and pounded his leg in frustration. Blast it, I’m an idiot! I forgot about Aren. We could have used the energy in Brom’s ring to help defeat them.

You had other things on your mind. Anyone might have made the same mistake.

Maybe, but I still wish I had thought of Aren sooner. We could still use it to capture Thorn and Murtagh.

And then what? asked Saphira. How could we keep them as prisoners? Would you drug them like Durza drugged you in Gil’ead? Or do you just want to kill them?

I don’t know! We could help them to change their true names, to break their oaths to Galbatorix. Letting them wander around unchecked, though, is too dangerous.

Arya said, In theory, you are right, Eragon, but you are tired, Saphira is tired, and I would rather Thorn and Murtagh escape than we lose the two of you because you were not at your best.

But—

But we do not have the capabilities to safely detain a dragon and Rider for an extended period, and I do not think killing Thorn and Murtagh would be as easy as you assume, Eragon. Be grateful we have driven them off, and rest easy knowing we can do so again when next they dare to confront us. So saying, she withdrew from his mind.

Eragon watched until Thorn and Murtagh had vanished from sight, then he sighed and rubbed Saphira’s neck. I could sleep for a fortnight.

As could I.

You should be proud; you outflew Thorn at nearly every turn.

Yes, I did, didn’t I? She preened. It was hardly a fair competition. Thorn does not have my experience.

Nor your talent, I should think.

Twisting her neck, she licked the upper part of his right arm, the mail hauberk tinkling, and then gazed down at him with sparkling eyes.

He managed a ghost of a smile. I suppose I should have expected it, but it still surprised me that Murtagh was as fast as me. More magic on the part of Galbatorix, no doubt.

Why did your wards fail to deflect Zar’roc, though? They saved you from worse blows when we fought the Ra’zac.

I’m not sure. Murtagh or Galbatorix might have invented a spell I had not thought to guard against. Or it could just be that Zar’roc is a Rider’s blade, and as Glaedr said—

— the swords Rhunon forged excel at—

— cutting through enchantments of every kind, and—

— it is only rarely they are—

— affected by magic. Exactly. Eragon stared at the streaks of dragon blood on the flat of the falchion, weary. When will we be able to defeat our enemies on our own? I couldn’t have killed Durza if Arya hadn’t broken the star sapphire. And we were only able to prevail over Murtagh and Thorn with the help of Arya and twelve others.

We must become more powerful.

Yes, but how? How has Galbatorix amassed his strength? Has he found a way to feed off the bodies of his slaves even when he is hundreds of miles away? Garr! I don’t know.

A runnel of sweat coursed down Eragon’s brow and into the corner of his right eye. He wiped off the perspiration with the palm of his hand, then blinked and again noticed the horsemen gathered around him and Saphira. What are they doing here? Looking beyond, he realized Saphira had landed close to where King Orrin had intercepted the soldiers from the boats. Not far off to her left, hundreds of men, Urgals, and horses milled about in panic and confusion. Occasionally, the clatter of swords or the scream of a wounded man broke through the uproar, accompanied by snatches of demented laughter.

I think they are here to protect us, said Saphira.

Us! From what? Why haven’t they killed the soldiers yet? Where—Eragon abandoned his question as Arya, Blodhgarm, and four other haggard-looking elves sprinted up to Saphira from the direction of the camp. Raising a hand in greeting, Eragon called, “Arya! What’s happened? No one seems to be in command.”

To Eragon’s alarm, Arya was breathing so hard, she was unable to speak for a few moments. Then: “The soldiers proved more dangerous than we anticipated. We do not know how. Du Vrangr Gata has heard nothing but gibberish from Orrin’s spellcasters.” Regaining her breath, Arya started examining Saphira’s cuts and bruises.

Before Eragon could ask more, a collection of excited cries from within the maelstrom of warriors drowned out the rest of the tumult, and he heard King Orrin shout, “Back, back, all of you! Archers, hold the line! Blast you, no one move, we have him!”

Saphira had the same thought as Eragon. Gathering her legs under her, she leaped over the ring of horsemen — startling the horses so they bucked and ran — and made her way across the corpsestrewn battlefield toward the sound of King Orrin’s voice, brushing aside men and Urgals alike as if they were so many stalks of grass. The rest of the elves hurried to keep up, swords and bows in hand.

Saphira found Orrin sitting on his charger at the leading edge of the tightly packed warriors, staring at a lone man forty feet away. The king was flushed and wild-eyed, his armor besmirched with filth from combat. He had been wounded under his left arm, and the shaft of a spear protruded several inches from his right thigh. When Saphira’s approach caught his attention, his face registered sudden relief.

“Good, good, you’re here,” he muttered as Saphira crawled abreast of his charger. “We needed you, Saphira, and you, Shade slayer.” One of the archers edged forward a few inches. Orrin waved his sword at him and yelled, “Back! I’ll have the head of anyone who doesn’t remain where he is, I swear by Angvard’s crown!” Then Orrin resumed glaring at the lone man.

Eragon followed his gaze. The man was a soldier of medium height, with a purple birthmark on his neck and brown hair plastered flat by the helmet he had been wearing. His shield was a splintered ruin. His sword was notched, bent, and broken, missing the last six inches. River mud caked his mail hose. Blood sheeted from a gash along his ribs. An arrow fletched with white swan feathers had impaled his right foot and pinned it to the ground, three-quarters of the shaft buried in the hard dirt. From the man’s throat, a horrid gurgling laugh emanated. It rose and fell with a drunken cadence, pitching from note to note as if the man were about to begin shrieking with horror.

“What are you?” shouted King Orrin. When the soldier did not immediately respond, the king cursed and said, “Answer me, or I’ll let my spellcasters at you. Be you man or beast or some ill-spawned demon? In what foul pit did Galbatorix find you and your brothers? Are you kin of the Ra’zac?”

The king’s last question acted like a needle driven into Eragon; he straightened bolt upright, every sense tingling.

The laughter paused for a moment. “Man. I am a man.”

“You are like no man I know.”

“I wanted to assure the future of my family. Is that so foreign to you, Surdan?”

“Give me no riddles, you fork-tongued wretch! Tell me how you became as you are, and speak honestly, lest you convince me to pour boiling lead down your throat and see if that pains you.”

The unbalanced chuckles intensified, then the soldier said, “You cannot hurt me, Surdan. No one can. The king himself made us impervious to pain. In return, our families will live in comfort for the rest of their lives. You can hide from us, but we will never stop pursuing you, even when ordinary men would drop dead from exhaustion. You can fight us, but we will continue killing you as long as we have an arm to swing. You cannot even surrender to us,