surrounded Tarnag. Groups of observers had already begun to gather in the fields when seven Feldunost with jeweled harnesses bounded out from the city. Their riders bore lances tipped with pennants that snapped like whips in the air. Reining in his strange beast, the lead dwarf said, “Thou art well-come to this city of Tarnag. By otho of Undin and Gannel, I, Thorv, son of Brokk, offer in peace the shelter of our halls.” His accent grumbled and rasped with a rough burr quite unlike Orik’s.
“And by Hrothgar’s otho, we of the Ingeitum accept your hospitality,” responded Orik.
“As do I, in Islanzadi’s stead,” added Arya.
Appearing satisfied, Thorv motioned to his fellow riders, who spurred their Feldunost into formation around the four of them. With a flourish, the dwarves rode off, guiding them to Tarnag and through the city gates.
The outer wall was forty feet thick and formed a shadowed tunnel to the first of the many farms that belted Tarnag. Five more tiers — each of which was defended by a fortified gate — carried them past the fields and into the city proper.
In contrast to Tarnag’s thickly built ramparts, the buildings within, though of stone, were shaped with such cunning as to give the impression of grace and lightness. Strong, bold carvings, usually of animals, adorned the houses and shops. But even more striking was the stone itself: vibrant hues, from bright scarlet to the subtlest of greens, glazed the rock in translucent layers.
And hung throughout the city were the dwarves’ flameless lanterns, their multicolored sparks harbingers of the Beors’ long dusk and night.
Unlike Tronjheim, Tarnag had been constructed in proportion to the dwarves, with no concession for human, elf, or dragon visitors. At the most, doorways were five feet high, and they were often only four and a half. Eragon was of middling height, but now he felt like a giant transported onto a puppet stage.
The streets were wide and crammed. Dwarves of various clans hurried about their business or stood haggling in and around shops. Many were garbed in strange, exotic costumes, such as a block of fierce black-haired dwarves who wore silver helmets forged in the likeness of wolf heads.
Eragon stared at the dwarf women the most, as he had only caught brief glimpses of them while in Tronjheim. They were broader than the men, and their faces were heavyset, yet their eyes sparkled and their hair was lustrous and their hands were gentle on their diminutive children. They eschewed frippery, except for small, intricate brooches of iron and stone.
At the Feldunost’s piercing footsteps, the dwarves turned to look at the new arrivals. They did not cheer as Eragon had expected, but rather bowed and murmured, “Shadeslayer.” As they saw the hammer and stars upon Eragon’s helm, admiration was replaced by shock and, in many cases, outrage. A number of the angrier dwarves contracted around the Feldunost, glaring between the animals at Eragon and shouting imprecations.
The back of Eragon’s neck prickled.
Thorv and the other guards rode forward as if the crowd was nonexistent, clearing the way through seven additional tiers until only a single gate separated them from the mass of Celbedeil. Then Thorv turned left, toward a great hall pressed against the side of the mountain and protected in fore by a barbican with two machicolated towers.
As they neared the hall, a group of armed dwarves streamed out from between the houses and formed a thick line, blocking the street. Long purple veils covered their faces and draped over their shoulders, like mail coifs.
The guards immediately reined in their Feldunost, faces hard. “What is it?” Eragon asked Orik, but the dwarf only shook his head and strode forward, a hand on his ax.
“Etzil nithgech!” cried a veiled dwarf, raising a fist. “Formv Hrethcarach... formv Jurgencarmeitder nos eta goroth bahst Tarnag, dur encesti rak kythn! Jok is warrev az barzulegur dur durgrimst, Az Sweldn rak Anhuin, mogh tor rak Jurgenvren? Ne udim etal os rast knurlag. Knurlag ana...” For a long minute, he continued to rant with growing spleen.
“Vrron!” barked Thorv, cutting him off, then the two dwarves began arguing. Despite the harsh exchange, Eragon saw that Thorv seemed to respect the other dwarf.
Eragon shifted to the side — trying to get a better view past Thorv’s Feldunost — and the veiled dwarf abruptly fell silent, jabbing at Eragon’s helm with an expression of horror.
“Knurlag qana qiranu Durgrimst Ingeitum!” he screamed. “Qarzul ana Hrothgar oen volfild—”
“Jok is frekk durgrimstvren?” interrupted Orik quietly, drawing his ax. Worried, Eragon glanced at Arya, but she was too intent on the confrontation to notice him. He surreptitiously slid his hand down and around Zar’roc’s wire-wrapped hilt.
The strange dwarf stared hard at Orik, then removed an iron ring from his pocket, plucked three hairs from his beard, twined them around the ring, and threw it onto the street with an impervious clink, spitting after it. Without a word, the purple-shrouded dwarves filed away.
Thorv, Orik, and the other warriors flinched as the ring bounced across the granite pavement. Even Arya seemed taken aback. Two of the younger dwarves blanched and reached for their blades, then dropped their hands as Thorv barked, “Eta!”
Their reactions unsettled Eragon far more than the raucous exchange had. As Orik strode forward alone and deposited the ring in a pouch, Eragon asked, “What does it mean?”
“It means,” said Thorv, “that you have enemies.”
They hurried through the barbican to a wide courtyard arrayed with three banquet tables, decorated with lanterns and banners. Before the tables stood a group of dwarves, foremost among them a gray-bearded dwarf swathed in wolfskin. He spread his arms, saying, “Welcome to Tarnag, home of Durgrimst Ragni Hefthyn. We have heard much praise of you, Eragon Shadeslayer. I am Undin, son of Derund and clan chief.”
Another dwarf stepped forward. He had the shoulders and chest of a warrior, topped with hooded black eyes that never left Eragon’s face. “And I, Gannel, son of Orm Blood-ax and clan chief of Durgrimst Quan.”
“It is an honor to be your guests,” said Eragon, inclining his head. He felt Saphira’s irritation at being ignored.
She snorted.
The clan chiefs greeted Arya and Orik in turn, but their hospitality was lost on Orik, whose only response was to extend his hand, the iron ring on his palm.
Undin’s eyes widened, and he gingerly lifted the ring, pinching it between his thumb and forefinger as if it were a venomous snake. “Who gave this to you?”
“It was Az Sweldn rak Anhuin. And not to me, but to Eragon.”
As alarm spread across their faces, Eragon’s earlier apprehension returned. He had seen lone dwarves face an entire group of Kull without shirking. The ring must symbolize something dreadful indeed if it could undermine their courage.
Undin frowned as he listened to the muttering of his advisers, then said, “We must consult on this issue. Shadeslayer, a feast is prepared in your honor. If you would allow my servants to guide you to your quarters, you can refresh yourself, and then we might begin.”
“Of course.” Eragon handed Snowfire’s reins to a waiting dwarf and followed a guide into the hall. As he passed through the doorway, he glanced back and saw Arya and Orik bustling away with the clan chiefs, their heads pressed close together.
After crouching through dwarf-sized corridors, he was relieved that the room assigned to him was spacious enough to stand freely. The servant bowed and said, “I will return when Grimstborith Undin is ready.”
Once the dwarf was gone, Eragon paused and took a deep breath, grateful for the silence. The encounter with the veiled dwarves hovered in his mind, making it difficult for him to relax.
Peeling off his gloves, Eragon went to a marble basin set on the floor next to the low bed. He put his hands in the water, then jerked them out with an involuntary yelp. The water was almost boiling.
Rejuvenated, he stripped out of his breeches and tunic and outfitted himself in the clothes he had worn to
