Eldest [en]

throat.

Sloan howled like an enraged beast, threw his cleaver, and split one of the men’s helms, crushing his skull. Two soldiers charged him with drawn swords. Sloan sidestepped, laughing now, and blocked their attacks with his shield. One soldier swung so hard, his blade stuck in the shield’s rim. Sloan yanked him closer and gored him through the eye with a carving knife from his belt. Drawing a second cleaver, the butcher circled his other opponent with a maniacal grin. “Shall I gut and hamstring you?” he demanded, almost prancing with a terrible, bloody glee.

Roran lost his spear to the next two men he faced. He barely managed to drag out his hammer in time to stop a sword from shearing off his leg. The soldier who had torn the spear from Roran’s grip now cast the weapon at him, aiming for his breast. Roran dropped his hammer, caught the shaft in midair — which astounded him as much as the soldiers — spun it around, and drove the spear through the armor and ribs of the man who had launched it. Left weaponless, Roran was forced to retreat before the remaining soldier. He stumbled over a corpse, cutting his calf on a sword as he fell, and rolled to avoid a two-handed blow from the soldier, scrabbling frantically in the ankle-deep mud for something, anything he could use for a weapon. A hilt bruised his fingers, and he ripped it from the muck and slashed at the soldier’s sword hand, severing his thumb.

The man stared dumbly at the glistening stump, then said, “This is what comes from not shielding myself.”

“Aye,” agreed Roran, and beheaded him.

The last soldier panicked and fled toward the impassive specters of the Ra’zac while Sloan bombarded him with a stream of insults and foul names. When the soldier finally pierced the shining curtain of rain, Roran watched with a thrill of horror as the two black figures bent down from their steeds on either side of the man and gripped the nape of his neck with twisted hands. The cruel fingers tightened, and the man shrieked desperately and convulsed, then went limp. The Ra’zac placed the corpse behind one of their saddles before turning their horses and riding away.

Roran shuddered and looked at Sloan, who was cleaning his blades. “You fought well.” He had never suspected that the butcher contained such ferocity.

Sloan said in a low voice, “They’ll never get Katrina. Never, even if I must skin the lot of them, or fight a thousand Urgals and the king to boot. I’d tear the sky itself down and let the Empire drown in its own blood before she suffers so much as a scratch.” He clamped his mouth shut then, jammed the last of his knives into his belt, and began dragging the three broken trees back into position.

While he did, Roran rolled the dead soldiers through the trampled mud, away from the fortifications. Now I have killed five. At the completion of his labor, he straightened and glanced around, puzzled, for all he heard was silence and the hissing rain. Why has no one come to help us?

Wondering what else might have occurred, he returned with Sloan to the scene of the first attack. Two soldiers hung lifelessly on the slick branches of the tree wall, but that was not what held their attention. Horst and the other villagers knelt in a circle around a small body. Roran caught his breath. It was Elmund, son of Delwin. The ten-year-old boy had been struck in his side by a spear. His parents sat in the mud beside him, their faces as blank as stone.

Something has to be done, thought Roran, dropping to his knees and leaning against his spear. Few children survived their first five or six years. But to lose your firstborn son now, when everything indicated that he should grow tall and strong to take his father’s place in Carvahall — it was enough to crush you. Katrina... the children... they all have to be protected.

But where?... Where?... Where?... Where!

DOWN THE RUSHING MERE-WASH

On the first day from Tarnag, Eragon made an effort to learn the names of Undin’s guards. They were Ama, Trihga, Hedin, Ekksvar, Shrrgnien — which Eragon found unpronounceable, though he was told it meant Wolfheart — Duthmer, and Thorv.

Each raft had a small cabin in the center. Eragon preferred to spend his time seated on the edge of the logs, watching the Beor Mountains scroll by. Kingfishers and jackdaws flitted along the clear river, while blue herons stood stiltlike on the marshy bank, which was planked with splotches of light that fell through the boughs of hazel, beech, and willow. Occasionally, a bullfrog would croak from a bed of ferns.

When Orik settled beside him, Eragon said, “It’s beautiful.”

“That it is.” The dwarf quietly lit his pipe, then leaned back and puffed.

Eragon listened to the creak of wood and rope as Trihga steered the raft with the long paddle at the aft. “Orik, can you tell me why Brom joined the Varden? I know so little about him. For most of my life, he was just the town storyteller.”

“He never joined the Varden; he helped found it.” Orik paused to tap some ashes into the water. “After Galbatorix became king, Brom was the only Rider still alive, outside of the Forsworn.”

“But he wasn’t a Rider, not then. His dragon was killed in the fighting at Doru Araeba.”

“Well, a Rider by training. Brom was the first to organize the friends and allies of the Riders who had been forced into exile. It was he who convinced Hrothgar to allow the Varden to live in Farthen Dur, and he who obtained the elves’ assistance.”

They were silent for a while. “Why did Brom relinquish the leadership?” asked Eragon.

Orik smiled wryly. “Perhaps he never wanted it. It was before Hrothgar adopted me, so I saw little of Brom in Tronjheim... He was always off fighting the Forsworn or engaged in one plot or another.”

“Your parents are dead?”

“Aye. The pox took them when I was young, and Hrothgar was kind enough to welcome me into his hall and, since he has no children of his own, to make me his heir.”

Eragon thought of his helm, marked with the Ingeitum symbol. Hrothgar has been kind to me as well.

When the afternoon twilight arrived, the dwarves hung a round lantern at each corner of the rafts. The lanterns were red, which Eragon remembered was to preserve night vision. He stood by Arya and studied the lanterns’ pure, motionless depths. “Do you know how these are made?” he asked.

“It was a spell we gave the dwarves long ago. They use it with great skill.”

Eragon reached up and scratched his chin and cheeks, feeling the patches of stubble that had begun to appear. “Could you teach me more magic while we travel?”

She looked at him, her balance perfect on the undulating logs. “It is not my place. A teacher is waiting for you.”

“Then tell me this, at least,” he said. “What does the name of my sword mean?”

Arya’s voice was very soft. “Misery is your sword. And so it was until you wielded it.”

Eragon stared with aversion at Zar’roc. The more he learned about his weapon, the more malevolent it seemed, as if the blade could cause misfortune of its own free will. Not only did Morzan kill Riders with it, but Zar’roc’s very name is evil. If Brom had not given it to him, and if not for the fact that Zar’roc never dulled and could not be broken, Eragon would have thrown it into the river at that very moment.

Before it grew any darker, Eragon swam out to Saphira. They flew together for the first time since leaving Tronjheim and soared high above the Az Ragni, where the air was thin and the water below was only a purple streak.

Without the saddle, Eragon gripped Saphira tightly with his knees, feeling her hard scales rub the scars from their first flight.

As Saphira tilted to the left, rising on an updraft, he saw three brown specks launch themselves from the mountainside below and ascend rapidly. At first Eragon took them to be falcons, but as they neared, he realized that the animals were almost twenty feet long, with attenuated tails and leathery wings. In fact, they looked like