Eragon [en]

Eragon felt his cheeks burn and averted his eyes. He knew what Brom would have said. Saphira held them on the ground, letting them simmer, then said to Eragon pointedly, Now, if you don’t want to spend the night under my foot, you will politely ask Murtagh what is troubling him. She snaked her head over to Murtagh and stared down at him with an impassive blue eye. And tell him that I won’t stand for insults from either of you.

Won’t you let us up? complained Eragon.

No.

Eragon reluctantly turned his head toward Murtagh, tasting blood in the side of his mouth. Murtagh avoided his eyes and looked up at the sky. “Well, is she going to get off us?”

“No, not unless we talk... She wants me to ask you what’s really the problem,” said Eragon, embarrassed.

Saphira growled an affirmative and continued to stare at Murtagh. It was impossible for him to escape her piercing glare. Finally he shrugged, muttering something under his breath. Saphira’s claws tightened on his chest, and her tail whistled through the air. Murtagh shot her an angry glance, then grudgingly said louder, “I told you before: I don’t want to go to the Varden.”

Eragon frowned. Was that all that was the matter? “Don’t want to... or can’t?”

Murtagh tried to shove Saphira’s leg off him, then gave up with a curse. “Don’t want to! They’ll expect things from me that I can’t deliver.”

“Did you steal something from them?”

“I wish it were that simple.”

Eragon rolled his eyes, exasperated. “Well, what is it, then? Did you kill someone important or bed the wrong woman?”

“No, I was born,” said Murtagh cryptically. He pushed at Saphira again. This time she released them both. They got to their feet under her watchful eye and brushed dirt from their backs.

“You’re avoiding the question,” Eragon said, dabbing his split lip.

“So what?” spat Murtagh as he stomped to the edge of the camp. After a minute he sighed. “It doesn’t matter why I’m in this predicament, but I can tell you that the Varden wouldn’t welcome me even if I came bearing the king’s head. Oh, they might greet me nicely enough and let me into their councils, but trust me? Never. And if I were to arrive under less fortuitous circumstances, like the present ones, they’d likely clap me in irons.”

“Won’t you tell me what this is about?” asked Eragon. “I’ve done things I’m not proud of, too, so it’s not as if I’m going to pass judgment.”

Murtagh shook his head slowly, eyes glistening. “It isn’t like that. I haven’t done anything to deserve this treatment, though it would have been easier to atone for if I had. No... my only wrongdoing is existing in the first place.” He stopped and took a shaky breath. “You see, my father—”

A sharp hiss from Saphira cut him off abruptly. Look!

They followed her gaze westward. Murtagh’s face paled. “Demons above and below!”

A league or so away, parallel to the mountain range, was a column of figures marching east. The line of troops, hundreds strong, stretched for nearly a mile. Dust billowed from their heels. Their weapons glinted in the dying light. A standard-bearer rode before them in a black chariot, holding aloft a crimson banner.

“It’s the Empire,” said Eragon tiredly. “They’ve found us... somehow.” Saphira poked her head over his shoulder and gazed at the column.

“Yes... but those are Urgals, not men,” said Murtagh.

“How can you tell?”

Murtagh pointed at the standard. “That flag bears the personal symbol of an Urgal chieftain. He’s a ruthless brute, given to violent fits and insanity.”

“You’ve met him?”

Murtagh’s eyes tightened. “Once, briefly. I still have scars from that encounter. These Urgals might not have been sent here for us, but I’m sure we’ve been seen by now and that they will follow us. Their chieftain isn’t the sort to let a dragon escape his grasp, especially if he’s heard about Gil’ead.”

Eragon hurried to the fire and covered it with dirt. “We have to flee! You don’t want to go to the Varden, but I have to take Arya to them before she dies. Here’s a compromise: come with me until I reach the lake Kostha- merna, then go your own way.” Murtagh hesitated. Eragon added quickly, “If you leave now, in sight of the column, Urgals will follow you. And then where will you be, facing them alone?”

“Very well,” said Murtagh, tossing his saddlebags over Tornac’s flanks, “but when we near the Varden, I will leave.”

Eragon burned to question Murtagh further, but not with Urgals so near. He gathered his belongings and saddled Snowfire. Saphira fanned her wings, took off in a rush, and circled above. She kept guard over Murtagh and Eragon as they left camp.

What direction shall I fly? she asked.

East, along the Beors.

Stilling her wings, Saphira rose on an updraft and teetered on the pillar of warm air, hovering in the sky over the horses . I wonder why the Urgals are here. Maybe they were sent to attack the Varden.

Then we should try to warn them, he said, guiding Snowfire past half-visible obstacles. As the night deepened, the Urgals faded into the gloom behind them.

A CLASH OF WILLS

When morning came, Eragon’s cheek was raw from chafing against Snowfire’s neck, and he was sore from his fight with Murtagh. They had alternated sleeping in their saddles throughout the night. It had allowed them to outdistance the Urgal troops, but neither of them knew if the lead could be retained. The horses were exhausted to the point of stopping, yet they still maintained a relentless pace. Whether it would be enough to escape depended on how rested the monsters were... and if Eragon and Murtagh’s horses survived.

The Beor Mountains cast great shadows over the land, stealing the sun’s warmth. To the north was the Hadarac Desert, a thin white band as bright as noonday snow.

I must eat, said Saphira. Days have passed since I last hunted. Hunger claws my belly. If I start now, I might be able to catch enough of those bounding deer for a few mouthfuls.

Eragon smiled at her exaggeration. Go if you must, but leave Arya here.

I will be swift. He untied the elf from her belly and transferred her to Snowfire’s saddle. Saphira soared away, disappearing in the direction of the mountains. Eragon ran beside the horses, close enough to Snowfire to keep Arya from falling. Neither he nor Murtagh intruded on the silence. Yesterday’s fight no longer seemed as important because of the Urgals, but the bruises remained.

Saphira made her kills within the hour and notified Eragon of her success. Eragon was pleased that she would soon return. Her absence made him nervous.

They stopped at a pond to let the horses drink. Eragon idly plucked a stalk of grass, twirling it while he stared at the elf. He was startled from his reverie by the steely rasp of a sword being unsheathed. He instinctively grasped Zar’roc and spun around in search of the enemy. There was only Murtagh, his long sword held ready. He pointed at a hill ahead of them, where a tall, brown-cloaked man sat on a sorrel horse, mace in hand. Behind him was a group of twenty horsemen. No one moved. “Could they be Varden?” asked Murtagh.

Eragon surreptitiously strung his bow. “According to Arya, they’re still scores of leagues away. This might be one of their patrols or raiding groups.”

“Assuming they’re not bandits.” Murtagh swung onto Tornac and readied his own bow.

“Should we try to outrun them?” asked Eragon, draping a blanket over Arya. The horsemen must have seen her, but he hoped to conceal the fact that she was an elf.