Brisingr [en]

for we take no prisoners. You can do nothing but die and return this land to peace.”

With a gruesome grimace, the soldier wrapped his mangled shield hand around the arrow and, with the sound of tearing flesh, pulled the shaft out of his foot. Lumps of crimson meat clung to the arrowhead as it came free. The soldier shook the arrow at them, then threw the missile at one of the archers, wounding him in the hand. His laugh louder than ever, the soldier lurched forward, dragging his injured foot behind him. He raised his sword, as if he intended to attack.

“Shoot him!” shouted Orrin.

Bowstrings twanged like badly tuned lutes, then a score of spinning arrows leaped toward the soldier and, an instant later, struck him in the torso. Two of the arrows bounced off his gambeson; the remainder penetrated his rib cage. His laughter reduced to a wheezing chuckle as blood seeped into his lungs, the soldier continued moving forward, painting the grass underneath him bright scarlet. The archers shot again, and arrows sprouted from the man’s shoulders and arms, but he did not stop. Another volley of arrows followed close upon the last. The soldier stumbled and fell as an arrow split his left kneecap and others skewered his upper legs and one passed entirely through his neck — punching a hole in his birthmark — and whistled out across the field, trailing a spray of blood. And still the soldier refused to die. He began to crawl, dragging himself forward with his arms, grinning and giggling as if the whole world were an obscene joke that only he could appreciate.

A cold tingle shivered down Eragon’s spine as he watched.

King Orrin swore violently, and Eragon detected a hint of hysteria in his voice. Jumping off his charger, Orrin threw his sword and his shield into the dirt and then pointed at the nearest Urgal. “Give me your ax.” Startled, the gray-skinned Urgal hesitated, then surrendered his weapon.

King Orrin limped over to the soldier, raised the heavy ax with both hands, and, with a single blow, chopped off the soldier’s head.

The giggling ceased.

The soldier’s eyes rolled and his mouth worked for another few seconds, and then he was still.

Orrin grasped the head by the hair and lifted it so all could see. “They can be killed,” he declared. “Spread the word that the only sure way of stopping these abominations is to behead them. That or bash in their skulls with a mace or shoot them in the eye from a safe distance... Graytooth, where are you?” A stout, middle-aged horseman urged his mount forward. Orrin threw him the head, which he caught. “Mount that on a pole by the north gate of the camp. Mount all of their heads. Let them serve as a message to Galbatorix that we do not fear his underhanded tricks and we shall prevail in spite of them.” Striding back to his charger, Orrin returned the ax to the Urgal, then picked up his own weapons.

A few yards away, Eragon spotted Nar Garzhvog standing among a cluster of Kull. Eragon spoke a few words to Saphira, and she sidled over to the Urgals. After exchanging nods, Eragon asked Garzhvog, “Were all the soldiers like that?” He gestured toward the arrow-riddled corpse.

“All men with no pain. You hit them and you think them dead, turn your back and they hamstring you.” Garzhvog scowled. “I lost many rams today. We have fought droves of humans, Firesword, but never before these laughing ghouls. It is not natural. It makes us think they are possessed by hornless spirits, that maybe the gods themselves have turned against us.”

“Nonsense,” scoffed Eragon. “It is merely a spell by Galbatorix, and we shall soon have a way to protect ourselves against it.” Notwithstanding his outer confidence, the concept of fighting enemies who felt no pain unsettled him as much as it did the Urgals. Moreover, from what Garzhvog had said, he guessed that maintaining morale among the Varden was going to be even more difficult for Nasuada once everyone learned about the soldiers.

While the Varden and the Urgals set about collecting their fallen comrades, stripping the dead of useful equipment, and beheading the soldiers and dragging their truncated bodies into piles to burn, Eragon, Saphira, and King Orrin returned to the camp, accompanied by Arya and the other elves.

Along the way, Eragon offered to heal Orrin’s leg, but the king refused, saying, “I have my own physicians, Shadeslayer.”

Nasuada and Jormundur were waiting for them by the north gate. Accosting Orrin, Nasuada said, “What went wrong?”

Eragon closed his eyes as Orrin explained how at first the attack on the soldiers had seemed to go well. The horsemen had swept through their ranks, dealing what they had thought were death blows left and right, and had suffered only one casualty during their charge. When they had engaged the remaining soldiers, however, many of those they had struck down before rose up and rejoined the fight. Orrin shuddered. “We lost our nerve then. Any man would have. We did not know if the soldiers were invincible, or if they were even men at all. When you see an enemy coming at you with bone sticking out of his calf, a javelin through his belly, and half his face sheared away, and he laughs at you, it’s a rare man who can stand his ground. My warriors panicked. They broke formation. It was utter confusion. Slaughter. When the Urgals and your warriors, Nasuada, reached us, they became caught up in the madness.” He shook his head. “I’ve never seen the like of it, not even on the Burning Plains.”

Nasuada’s face had grown pale, even with her dark skin. She looked at Eragon and then Arya. “How could Galbatorix have done this?”

It was Arya who answered, “Block most, but not all, of a person’s ability to feel pain. Leave just enough sensation so they know where they are and what they are doing, but not so much that pain can incapacitate them. The spell would require only a small amount of energy.”

Nasuada wet her lips. Again speaking to Orrin, she said, “Do you know how many we lost?”

A tremor racked Orrin. He doubled over, pressed a hand against his leg, gritted his teeth, and growled, “Three hundred soldiers against... What was the size of the force you sent?”

“Two hundred swordsmen. A hundred spearmen. Fifty archers.”

“Those, plus the Urgals, plus my cavalry... Say around a thousand strong. Against three hundred foot soldiers on an open field. We slew every last one of the soldiers. What it cost us, though...” The king shook his head. “We won’t know for sure until we count the dead, but it looked to me as if three-quarters of your swordsmen are gone. More of the spearmen. Some archers. Of my cavalry, few remain: fifty, seventy. Many of them were my friends. Perhaps a hundred, a hundred and fifty Urgals dead. Overall? Five or six hundred to bury, and the better part of the survivors wounded. I don’t know... I don’t know. I don’t—” His jaw going slack, Orrin slumped to the side and would have fallen off his horse if Arya had not sprung forward and caught him.

Nasuada snapped her fingers, summoning two of the Varden from among the tents, and ordered them to take Orrin to his pavilion and then to fetch the king his healers.

“We have suffered a grievous defeat, no matter that we exterminated the soldiers,” Nasuada murmured. She pressed her lips together, sorrow and despair mixed in equal portions in her expression. Her eyes glimmered with unshed tears. Stiffening her back, she fixed Eragon and Saphira with an iron gaze. “How fared it with the two of you?” She listened without moving while Eragon described their encounter with Murtagh and Thorn. Afterward, she nodded. “That you would be able to escape their clutches was all we dared hope. However, you accomplished more than that. You proved that Galbatorix has not made Murtagh so powerful that we have no hope of defeating him. With a few more spellcasters to help you, Murtagh would have been yours to do with as you pleased. For that reason, he will not dare confront Queen Islanzadi’s army by himself, I think. If we can gather enough spellcasters around you, Eragon, I believe we can finally kill Murtagh and Thorn the next time they come to abduct the pair of you.”

“Don’t you want to capture them?” Eragon asked.

“I want a great number of things, but I doubt I shall receive very many of them. Murtagh and Thorn may not be trying to kill you, but if the opportunity presents itself, we must kill them without hesitation. Or do you see it otherwise?”

“... No.”

Shifting her attention to Arya, Nasuada asked, “Did any of your spellweavers die during the contest?”

“Some fainted, but they have all recovered, thank you.”

Nasuada took a deep breath and looked northward, her eyes focused on infinity. “Eragon, please inform Trianna that I want Du Vrangr Gata to figure out how to replicate Galbatorix’s spell. Despicable as it is, we must imitate Galbatorix in this. We cannot afford not to. It won’t be practical for all of us to be unable to feel pain — we would hurt ourselves far too easily — but we should have a few hundred swordsmen, volunteers, who are immune