agon proceeded to the next catapult and, in short order, disabled the re-
mainder of the engines.
Returning to himself, Eragon became aware of dozens of the Varden
collapsing around Saphira; one of Du Vrangr Gata had been over-
whelmed. 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, entrust-
ing 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 spell-
caster—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 sheet-
ing 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.
583
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 en-
tity. They bellowed, leaped forward, and forged a path to the front line.
Once there, Eragon could not tell from whose mouth emanated the rav-
enous 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 glit-
tered 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 op-
posed 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
584
race than it had been to fight the Urgals in Farthen Dûr. 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 ex-
hausting 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 affirma-
tive.
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 be-
fore, 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 light-
ning. The fighting had dulled his reflexes, though, and one soldier man-
aged 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 re-
maining soldiers.
Sweeping her tail over him, Saphira knocked a score of men out of his
way. In the lull that followed, Eragon looked over at his throbbing arm
and said, “Waíse heill.” He also healed his bruises, relying upon Zar’roc’s
ruby, as well as the diamonds in the belt of Beloth the Wise.
Then the two of them pressed onward.
Eragon and Saphira choked the Burning Plains with mountains of their
enemies, and yet the Empire never faltered or fell back. For every man
585
they killed, another stepped forth to take his place. A sense of hopeless-
ness engulfed Eragon as the mass of soldiers gradually forced the Varden
to retreat toward their own camp. He saw his despair mirrored in the
faces of Nasuada, Arya, King Orrin, and even Angela when he passed
them in battle.
All our training and we still can’t stop the Empire, raged Eragon. There
are just too many soldiers! We can’t keep this up forever. And Zar’roc and
the belt are almost depleted.
You can draw energy from your surroundings if you have to.
I won’t, not unless I kill another of Galbatorix’s magicians and can take
it from the soldiers. Otherwise, I’ll just be hurting the rest of the Varden,
since there are no plants or animals here I can use to support us.
As the long hours dragged by, Eragon grew sore and weary and—
stripped of many of his arcane defenses—accumulated dozens of minor
injuries. His left arm went numb from the countless blows that ham-
mered his mangled shield. A scratch on his forehead kept blinding him
with rivulets of hot, sweat-mixed blood. He thought one of his fingers
might be broken.
Saphira fared no better. The soldiers’ armor tore the inside of her
mouth, dozens of swords and arrows cut her unprotected wings, and a
javelin punctured one of her own plates of armor, wounding her in the
shoulder. Eragon saw the spear coming and tried to deflect it with a spell
but was too slow. Whenever Saphira moved, she splattered the ground
with hundreds of drops of blood.
Beside them, three of Orik’s warriors fell, and two of the Kull.
And the sun began its descent toward evening.
As Eragon and Saphira prepared for their seventh and final assault, a
trumpet sounded in the east, loud and clear, and King Orrin shouted,
“The dwarves are here! The dwarves are here!”
Dwarves? Eragon blinked and glanced around, confused. He saw noth-
ing but soldiers. Then a jolt of excitement raced through him as he un-
derstood. The dwarves! He climbed onto Saphira and she jumped into the
air, hanging for a moment on her tattered wings as they surveyed the bat-
tlefield.
586
It was true—a great host marched out of the east toward the Burning
Plains. At its head strode King Hrothgar, clad in gold mail, his jeweled
helm upon his brow, and Volund, his ancient war hammer, gripped in his
iron fist. The dwarf king raised Volund in greeting when he saw Eragon
and Saphira.
Eragon howled at the top of his lungs and returned the gesture, bran-
dishing Zar’roc in the air. A surge of renewed vigor made him forget his
wounds and feel fierce and determined again. Saphira added her voice to
his, and the Varden looked to her with hope, while the Empire’s soldiers
hesitated with fear.
“What did you see?” cried Orik as Saphira dropped back to earth. “Is it
Hrothgar? How many warriors did he bring?”
Ecstatic with relief, Eragon stood in his stirrups and shouted, “Take
heart, King Hrothgar is here! And it looks like every single dwarf is be-
hind him! We’ll crush the Empire!” After the men stopped cheering, he
added, “Now take your swords and remind these flea-bitten cowards why
they should fear us. Charge!”
Just as Saphira leaped toward the soldiers, Eragon heard a second cry,
this one from the west: “A ship! A ship is coming up the Jiet River!”
“Blast it,” he snarled. We can’t let a ship land if it’s bringing reinforce-
ments for the Empire. Contacting Trianna, he said, Tell Nasuada that
Saphira and I will take care of this. We’ll sink the ship if it’s from Galba-
torix.
As you wish, Argetlam, replied the sorceress.
Without hesitation, Saphira took flight, circling high over the trampled,
smoking plain. As the relentless clamor of combat faded from his ears,
Eragon took a deep breath, feeling his mind clear. Below, he was sur-
prised by how scattered both armies had become. The Empire and the
Varden had disintegrated into a series of smaller groups contending
against one another over the entire breadth and width of the Burning
Plains. It was into this confused tumult that the dwarves inserted them-
selves, catching the Empire from the side—as Orrin had done earlier with
his cavalry.
Eragon lost sight of the battle when Saphira turned to her left and
soared through the clouds in the direction of the Jiet River. A gust of
wind blew the peat smoke out of their way and unveiled a large three-
587
masted ship riding upon the orange water, rowing against the current
with two banks of oars. The ship was scarred and damaged and flew no
colors to declare its allegiance. Nevertheless, Eragon readied himself to
destroy the vessel. As Saphira dove toward it, he lifted Zar’roc overhead
and loosed his savage war cry.
588
CONVERGENCE
Roran stood at the prow of the Dragon Wing and listened to the oars
swish through the water. He had just finished a stint rowing and a cold,
jagged ache permeated his right shoulder. Will I always have to deal with
this reminder of the Ra’zac? He wiped the sweat from his face and ignored
the discomfort, concentrating instead on the river ahead, which was ob-
scured by a bank of sooty clouds.
Elain joined him at the railing. She rested a hand on her swollen belly.
“The water looks evil,” she said. “Perhaps we should have stayed in
Dauth, rather than drag ourselves in search of more trouble.”
He feared she spoke the truth. After the Boar’s Eye, they had sailed east
from the Southern Isles back to the coast and then up the mouth of the
Jiet River to Surda’s port city of Dauth. By the time they made landfall,
their stores were exhausted and the villagers sickly.
Roran had every intention of staying in Dauth, especially after they re-
ceived an enthusiastic welcome from its governor, Lady Alarice. But that
was before he was told about Galbatorix’s army. If the Varden were de-
feated, he would never see Katrina again. So, with the help of Jeod, he
convinced Horst and many of the other villagers that if they wanted to
live in Surda, safe from the Empire, they had to row up the Jiet River and
assist the Varden. It was a difficult task, but in the end Roran prevailed.
And once they told Lady Alarice about their quest, she gave them all the
supplies they wanted.
Since then, Roran often wondered if he made the right choice. By now
everyone hated living on the Dragon Wing. People were tense and short-
tempered, a situation only aggravated by the knowledge they were sailing
toward a battle. Was it all selfishness on my part? wondered Roran. Did I
really do this for the benefit of the villagers, or only because it will bring me
one step closer to finding Katrina?
“Perhaps we should have,” he said to Elain.
Together they watched as a thick layer of smoke gathered overhead,
darkening the sky, obscuring the sun, and filtering the remaining light so
that everything below was colored a nauseating hue of orange. It pro-
duced an eerie twilight the likes of which Roran had never imagined. The