Eragon [en]

swinging his sword viciously. He missed and lunged. Surprise spread across his face as one of Murtagh’s arrows sprouted from his shoulder.

The Shade laughed and snapped the arrow off with two fingers. “You’ll have to do better than that if you want to stop me.” The next arrow caught him between the eyes. The Shade howled with agony and writhed, covering his face. His skin turned gray. Mist formed in the air around him, obscuring his figure. There was a shattering cry; then the cloud vanished.

Where the Shade had been, nothing was left but his cape and a pile of clothes. “You killed him!” exclaimed Eragon. He knew of only two heroes of legend who had survived slaying a Shade.

“I’m not so sure,” said Murtagh.

A man shouted, “That’s it. He failed. Go in and get them!” Soldiers with nets and spears poured into the banquet room from both ends. Eragon and Murtagh backed up against the wall, dragging the elf with them. The men formed a menacing half-circle around them. Then Saphira stuck her head through the hole in the ceiling and roared. She gripped the edge of the opening with her powerful talons and ripped off another large section of the ceiling.

Three soldiers turned and ran, but the rest held their positions. With a resounding report, the center beam of the ceiling cracked and rained down heavy shingles. Confusion scattered the ranks as they tried to dodge the deadly barrage. Eragon and Murtagh pressed against the wall to avoid the falling debris. Saphira roared again, and the soldiers fled, some getting crushed on the way.

With a final titanic effort, Saphira tore off the rest of the ceiling before jumping into the banquet hall with her wings folded. Her weight splintered a table with a sharp crunch. Crying out with relief, Eragon threw his arms around her. She hummed contentedly. I’ve missed you, little one.

Same here. There’s someone else with us. Can you carry three?

Of course, she said, kicking shingles and tables out of the way so she could take off. Murtagh and Eragon pulled the elf out of hiding. Saphira hissed in surprise as she saw her. An elf!

Yes, and the woman I saw in my dreams, said Eragon, picking up Zar’roc. He helped Murtagh secure the elf into the saddle, then they both climbed onto Saphira. I heard fighting on the roof. Are there men up there?

There were, but no more. Are you ready?

Yes.

Saphira leapt out of the banquet hall and onto the fortress’s roof, where the bodies of watchmen lay scattered. “Look!” said Murtagh, pointing. A row of archers filed out of a tower on the other side of the roofless hall.

“Saphira, you have to take off. Now!” warned Eragon.

She unfurled her wings, ran toward the edge of the building, and propelled them over it with her powerful legs. The extra weight on her back made her drop alarmingly. As she struggled to gain altitude, Eragon heard the musical twang of bowstrings being released.

Arrows whizzed toward them in the dark. Saphira roared with pain as she was struck and quickly rolled to the left to avoid the next volley. More arrows perforated the sky, but the night protected them from the shafts’ deadly bite. Distressed, Eragon bent over Saphira’s neck. Where are you hurt?

My wings are pierced... one of the arrows didn’t go all the way through. It’s still there. Her breathing was labored and heavy.

How far can you take us?

Far enough. Eragon clutched the elf tightly as they skimmed over Gil’ead, then left the city behind and veered eastward, soaring upward through the night.

A WARRIOR AND A HEALER

Saphira drifted down to a clearing, landed on the crest of a hill, and rested her outstretched wings on the ground. Eragon could feel her shaking beneath him. They were only a half-league from Gil’ead.

Picketed in the clearing were Snowfire and Tornac, who snorted nervously at Saphira’s arrival. Eragon slid to the ground and immediately turned to Saphira’s injuries, while Murtagh readied the horses.

Unable to see well in the darkness, Eragon ran his hands blindly over Saphira’s wings. He found three places where arrows had punctured the thin membrane, leaving bloody holes as thick around as his thumb. A small piece had also been torn out of the back edge of her left wing. She shivered when his fingers brushed the injuries. He tiredly healed the wounds with words from the ancient language. Then he went to the arrow that was embedded in one of the large muscles of her flying arm. The arrowhead poked through its underside. Warm blood dripped off it.

Eragon called Murtagh over and instructed, “Hold her wing down. I have to remove this arrow.” He indicated where Murtagh should grip. This will be painful, he warned Saphira, but it’ll be over quickly. Try not to struggle — you’ll hurt us.

She extended her neck and grabbed a tall sapling between her curved teeth. With a yank of her head, she pulled the tree out of the ground and clamped it firmly in her jaws. I’m ready.

Okay, said Eragon. “Hold on,” he whispered to Murtagh, then broke off the head of the arrow. Trying not cause any more damage, he swiftly pulled the shaft out of Saphira. As it left her muscle, she threw back her head and whimpered past the tree in her mouth. Her wing jerked involuntarily, clipping Murtagh under the chin and knocking him to the ground.

With a growl, Saphira shook the tree, spraying them with dirt before tossing it away. After Eragon sealed the wound, he helped Murtagh up. “She caught me by surprise,” admitted Murtagh, touching his scraped jaw.

I’m sorry.

“She didn’t mean to hit you,” assured Eragon. He checked on the unconscious elf. You’re going to have to carry her a bit longer, he told Saphira. We can’t take her on the horses and ride fast enough. Flying should be easier for you now that the arrow is out.

Saphira dipped her head. I will do it.

Thank you, said Eragon. He hugged her fiercely. What you did was incredible; I’ll never forget it.

Her eyes softened. I will go now. He backed away as she flew up in a flurry of air, the elf’s hair streaming back. Seconds later they were gone. Eragon hurried to Snowfire, pulled himself into the saddle, and galloped away with Murtagh.

While they rode, Eragon tried to remember what he knew about elves. They had long lives — that fact was oft repeated — although he knew not how long. They spoke the ancient language, and many could use magic. After the Riders’ fall, elves had retreated into seclusion. None of them had been seen in the Empire since. So why is one here now? And how did the Empire manage to capture her? If she can use magic, she’s probably drugged as I was.

They traveled through the night, not stopping even when their flagging strength began to slow them. They continued onward despite burning eyes and clumsy movements. Behind them, lines of torch-bearing horsemen searched around Gil’ead for their trail.

After many bleary hours, dawn lightened the sky. By unspoken consent Eragon and Murtagh stopped the horses. “We have to make camp,” said Eragon wearily. “I must sleep — whether they catch us or not.”

“Agreed,” said Murtagh, rubbing his eyes. “Have Saphira land. We’ll meet her.”

They followed Saphira’s directions and found her drinking from a stream at the base of a small cliff, the elf still slouched on her back. Saphira greeted them with a soft bugle as Eragon dismounted.

Murtagh helped him remove the elf from Saphira’s saddle and lower her to the ground. Then they sagged against the rock face, exhausted. Saphira examined the elf curiously. I wonder why she hasn’t woken. It’s been hours since we left Gil’ead.

Who knows what they did to her? said Eragon grimly.

Murtagh followed their gaze. “As far as I know, she’s the first elf the king has captured. Ever since they