Eldest [en]

Eragon’s heart leaped within his chest. I must now kill or be killed. Almost immediately he felt his wards drawing upon his strength as they deflected attacks from Arya, Orik, Nasuada, and Saphira.

Saphira held back from the leading edge of the battle, for they would be too exposed to Galbatorix’s magicians at the front. Taking a deep breath, Eragon began to search for those magicians with his mind, firing arrows all the while.

Du Vrangr Gata found the first enemy spellcaster. The instant he was alerted, Eragon reached out to the woman who made the discovery, and from there to the foe she grappled with. Bringing the full power of his will to bear, Eragon demolished the magician’s resistance, took control of his consciousness — doing his best to ignore the man’s terror — determined which troops the man was guarding, and slew the man with one of the twelve words of death. Without pause, Eragon located the minds of each of the now-unprotected soldiers and killed them as well. The Varden cheered as the knot of men went limp.

The ease with which he slew them amazed Eragon. The soldiers had had no chance to escape or fight back. How different from Farthen Dur, he thought. Though he marveled at the perfection of his skills, the deaths sickened him. But there was no time to dwell on it.

Recovering from the Varden’s initial assault, the Empire began to man their engines of war: catapults that cast round missiles of hard-baked ceramic, trebuchets armed with barrels of liquid fire, and ballistae that bombarded the attackers with a hail of arrows six feet long. The ceramic balls and the liquid fire caused terrific damage when they landed. One ball exploded against the ground not ten yards from Saphira. As Eragon ducked behind his shield, a jagged fragment spun toward his head, only to be stopped dead in the air by one of his wards. He blinked at the sudden loss of energy.

The engines soon stalled the Varden’s advance, sowing mayhem wherever they aimed. They have to be destroyed if we’re going to last long enough to wear down the Empire, realized Eragon. It would be easy for Saphira to dismantle the machines, but she dared not fly among the soldiers for fear of an attack by magic.

Breaking through the Varden lines, eight soldiers stormed toward Saphira, jabbing at her with pikes. Before Eragon could draw Zar’roc, the dwarves and Kull eliminated the entire group.

“A good fight!” roared Garzhvog.

“A good fight!” agreed Orik with a bloody grin.

Eragon did not use spells against the engines; they would be protected against any conceivable enchantment. Unless... Extending himself, he found the mind of a soldier who tended one of the catapults. Though he was sure the soldier was defended by some magician, Eragon was able to gain dominance over him and direct his actions from afar. He guided the man up to the weapon, which was being loaded, then had him use his sword to hack at the skein of twisted rope that powered the machine. The rope was too thick to sever before the soldier was dragged away by his comrades, but the damage was already done. With a mighty crack, the partially wound skein broke, sending the arm of the catapult flying backward and injuring several men. His lips curled in a grim smile, Eragon proceeded to the next catapult and, in short order, disabled the remainder of the engines.

Returning to himself, Eragon became aware of dozens of the Varden collapsing around Saphira; one of Du Vrangr Gata had been overwhelmed. He uttered a dreadful curse and flung himself back along the trail of magic as he searched for the man who cast the fatal spell, entrusting the welfare of his body to Saphira and his guards.

For over an hour, Eragon hunted Galbatorix’s magicians, but to little avail, for they were wily and cunning and did not directly attack him. Their reticence puzzled Eragon until he tore from the mind of one spellcaster — moments before he committed suicide — the thought, ... ordered not to kill you or the dragon... not to kill you or the dragon.

That answers my question, he said to Saphira, but why does Galbatorix still want us alive? We’ve made it clear we support the Varden.

Before she could respond, Nasuada appeared before them, her face streaked with filth and gore, her shield covered with dents, blood sheeting down her left leg from a wound on her thigh. “Eragon,” she gasped. “I need you, both of you, to fight, to show yourselves and embolden the men... to frighten the soldiers.”

Her condition shocked Eragon. “Let me heal you first,” he cried, afraid she might faint. I should have put more wards around her.

“No! I can wait, but we are lost unless you stem the tide of soldiers.” Her eyes were glazed and empty, blank holes in her face. “We need... a Rider.” She swayed in her saddle.

Eragon saluted her with Zar’roc. “You have one, my Lady.”

“Go,” she said, “and may what gods there are watch over you.”

Eragon was too high on Saphira’s back to strike his enemies below, so he dismounted and positioned himself by her right paw. To Orik and Garzhvog, he said, “Protect Saphira’s left side. And whatever you do, don’t get in our way.”

“You will be overrun, Firesword.”

“No,” said Eragon, “I won’t. Now take your places!” As they did, he put his hand on Saphira’s leg and looked her in one clear-cut sapphire eye. Shall we dance, friend of my heart?

We shall, little one.

Then he and she merged their identities to a greater degree than ever before, vanquishing all differences between them to become a single entity. They bellowed, leaped forward, and forged a path to the front line. Once there, Eragon could not tell from whose mouth emanated the ravenous jet of flame that consumed a dozen soldiers, cooking them in their mail, nor whose arm it was that brought Zar’roc down in an arc, cleaving a soldier’s helm in half.

The metallic scent of blood clogged the air, and curtains of smoke wafted over the Burning Plains, alternately concealing and revealing the knots, clumps, ranks, and battalions of thrashing bodies. Overhead, the carrion birds waited for their meal and the sun climbed in the firmament toward noon.

From the minds of those around them, Eragon and Saphira caught glimpses of how they appeared. Saphira was always noticed first: a great ravening creature with claws and fangs dyed red, who slew all in her path with swipes of her paws and lashes of her tail and with billowing waves of flame that engulfed entire platoons of soldiers. Her brilliant scales glittered like stars and nearly blinded her foes with their reflected light. Next they saw Eragon running alongside Saphira. He moved faster than the soldiers could react and, with strength beyond men, splintered shields with a single blow, rent armor, and clove the swords of those who opposed him. Shot and dart cast at him fell to the pestilent ground ten feet away, stopped by his wards.

It was harder for Eragon — and, by extension, Saphira — to fight his own race than it had been to fight the Urgals in Farthen Dur. Every time he saw a frightened face or looked into a soldier’s mind, he thought, This could be me. But he and Saphira could afford no mercy; if a soldier stood before them, he died.

Three times they sallied forth and three times Eragon and Saphira slew every man in the Empire’s first few ranks before retreating to the main body of the Varden to avoid being surrounded. By the end of their last attack, Eragon had to reduce or eliminate certain wards around Arya, Orik, Nasuada, Saphira, and himself in order to keep the spells from exhausting him too quickly. For though his strength was great, so too were the demands of battle.

Ready? he asked Saphira after a brief respite. She growled an affirmative.

A cloud of arrows whistled toward Eragon the instant he dove back into combat. Fast as an elf, he dodged the bulk of them — since his magic no longer protected him from such missiles — caught twelve on his shield, and stumbled as one struck his belly and one his side. Neither shaft pierced his armor, but they knocked the wind out of him and left bruises the size of apples. Don’t stop! You’ve dealt with worse pain than this before, he told himself.

Rushing a cluster of eight soldiers, Eragon darted from one to the next, knocking aside their pikes and jabbing Zar’roc like a deadly bolt of lightning. The fighting had dulled his reflexes, though, and one soldier managed to drive his pike through Eragon’s hauberk, slicing his left triceps.

The soldiers cringed as Saphira roared.

Eragon took advantage of the distraction to fortify himself with energy stored within the ruby in Zar’roc’s pommel and then to kill the three remaining soldiers.