sailors on deck looked about fearfully and muttered charms of protec-
tion, pulling out stone amulets to ward off the evil eye.
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“Listen,” said Elain. She tilted her head. “What is that?”
Roran strained his ears and caught the faint ring of metal striking metal.
“That,” he said, “is the sound of our destiny.” Twisting, he shouted back
over his shoulder, “Captain, there’s fighting just ahead!”
“Man the ballistae!” roared Uthar. “Double-time on those oars, Bonden.
An’ every able-bodied man jack among you better be ready or you’ll be
using your guts for pillows!”
Roran remained where he was as the Dragon Wing exploded with ac-
tivity. Despite the increase in noise, he could still hear swords and shields
clanging together in the distance. The screams of men were audible now,
as were the roars of some giant beast.
He glanced over as Jeod joined them at the prow. The merchant’s face
was pale. “Have you ever been in battle before?” asked Roran.
The knob in Jeod’s throat bobbed as he swallowed and shook his head.
“I got into plenty of fights along with Brom, but never anything of this
scale.”
“A first for both of us, then.”
The bank of smoke thinned on the right, providing them with a
glimpse of a dark land that belched forth fire and putrid orange vapor and
was covered with masses of struggling men. It was impossible to tell who
was the Empire and who was the Varden, but it was apparent to Roran
that the battle could tip in either direction given the right nudge. We can
provide that nudge.
Then a voice echoed over the water as a man shouted, “A ship! A ship
is coming up the Jiet River!”
“You should go belowdecks,” said Roran to Elain. “It won’t be safe for
you here.” She nodded and hurried to the fore hatchway, where she
climbed down the ladder, closing the opening behind her. A moment
later, Horst bounded up to the prow and handed Roran one of Fisk’s
shields.
“Thought you might need that,” said Horst.
“Thanks. I—”
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Roran stopped as the air around them vibrated, as if from a mighty
concussion. Thud. His teeth jarred together. Thud. His ears hurt from the
pressure. Close upon the heels of the second impact came a third—
thud—and with it a raw-throated yell that Roran recognized, for he had
heard it many times in his childhood. He looked up and beheld a gigantic
sapphire dragon diving out of the shifting clouds. And on the dragon’s
back, at the juncture between its neck and shoulders, sat his cousin, Er-
agon.
It was not the Eragon he remembered, but rather as if an artist had
taken his cousin’s base features and enhanced them, streamlined them,
making them both more noble and more feline. This Eragon was garbed
like a prince, in fine cloth and armor—though tarnished by the grime of
war—and in his right hand he wielded a blade of iridescent red. This Er-
agon, Roran knew, could kill without hesitation. This Eragon was power-
ful and implacable. . This Eragon could slay the Ra’zac and their mounts
and help him to rescue Katrina.
Flaring its translucent wings, the dragon pulled up sharply and hung be-
fore the ship. Then Eragon met Roran’s eyes.
Until that moment, Roran had not completely believed Jeod’s story
about Eragon and Brom. Now, as he stared at his cousin, a wave of con-
fused emotions washed over him. Eragon is a Rider! It seemed inconceiv-
able that the slight, moody, overeager boy he grew up with had turned
into this fearsome warrior. Seeing him alive again filled Roran with unex-
pected joy. Yet, at the same time, a terrible, familiar anger welled up in-
side him over Eragon’s role in Garrow’s death and the siege of Carvahall.
In those few seconds, Roran knew not whether he loved or hated Eragon.
He stiffened with alarm as a vast and alien being touched his mind.
From that consciousness emanated Eragon’s voice: Roran?
“Aye.”
Think your answers and I’ll hear them. Is everyone from Carvahall with
you?
Just about.
How did you... No, we can’t go into it; there’s no time. Stay where you are
until the battle is decided. Better yet, go back farther down the river, where
the Empire can’t attack you.
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We have to talk, Eragon. You have much to answer for.
Eragon hesitated with a troubled expression, then said, I know. But not
now, later. With no visible prompting, the dragon veered away from the
ship and flew off to the east, vanishing in the haze over the Burning
Plains.
In an awed voice, Horst said, “A Rider! A real Rider! I never thought I’d
see the day, much less that it would be Eragon.” He shook his head. “I
guess you told us the truth, eh, Longshanks?” Jeod grinned in response,
looking like a delighted child.
Their words sounded muted to Roran as he stared at the deck, feeling
like he was about to explode with tension. A host of unanswerable ques-
tions assailed him. He forced himself to ignore them. I can’t think about
Eragon now. We have to fight. The Varden must defeat the Empire.
A rising tide of fury consumed him. He had experienced this before, a
berserk frenzy that allowed him to overcome nearly any obstacle, to
move objects he could not shift ordinarily, to face an enemy in combat
and feel no fear. It gripped him now, a fever in his veins, quickening his
breath and setting his heart a-pounding.
He pushed himself off the railing, ran the length of the ship to the
quarterdeck, where Uthar stood by the wheel, and said, “Ground the
ship.”
“What?”
“Ground the ship, I say! Stay here with the rest of the soldiers and use
the ballistae to wreak what havoc you can, keep the Dragon Wing from
being boarded, and guard our families with your lives. Understand?”
Uthar stared at him with flat eyes, and Roran feared he would not ac-
cept the orders. Then the scarred sailor grunted and said, “Aye, aye,
Stronghammer.”
Horst’s heavy tread preceded his arrival at the quarterdeck. “What do
you intend to do, Roran?”
“Do?” Roran laughed and spun widdershins to stand toe to toe with the
smith. “Do? Why, I intend to alter the fate of Alagaësia!”
592
ELDEST
Eragon barely noticed as Saphira carried him back into the swirling
confusion of the battle. He had known that Roran was at sea, but it never
occurred to him that Roran might be heading for Surda, nor that they
would reunite in this manner. And Roran’s eyes! His eyes seemed to bore
into Eragon, questioning, relieved, enraged. .accusing. In them, Eragon saw
that his cousin had learned of Eragon’s role in Garrow’s death and had not
yet forgiven him.
It was only when a sword bounced off his greaves that Eragon returned
his attention to his surroundings. He unleashed a hoarse shout and slashed
downward, cutting away the soldier who struck him. Cursing himself for
being so careless, Eragon reached out to Trianna and said, No one on that
ship is an enemy. Spread the word that they’re not to be attacked. Ask
Nasuada if, as a favor to us, she can send a herald to explain the situation
to them and see that they stay away from the fighting.
As you wish, Argetlam.
From the western flank of the battle, where she alighted, Saphira trav-
ersed the Burning Plains in a few giant leaps, stopping before Hrothgar
and his dwarves. Dismounting, Eragon went to the king, who said, “Hail,
Argetlam! Hail, Saphira! The elves seem to have done more for you than
they promised.” Beside him stood Orik.
“No, sir, it was the dragons.”
“Really? I must hear your adventures once our bloody work here is
done. I’m glad you accepted my offer to become Dûrgrimst Ingeitum. It
is an honor to have you as mine kin.”
“And you mine.”
Hrothgar laughed, then turned to Saphira and said, “I still haven’t for-
gotten your vow to mend Isidar Mithrim, dragon. Even now, our artisans
are assembling the star sapphire in the center of Tronjheim. I look for-
ward to seeing it whole once again.”
She bowed her head. As I promised, so it shall be.
After Eragon repeated her words, Hrothgar reached out with a gnarled
finger and tapped one of the metal plates on her side. “I see you wear our
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armor. I hope it has served you well.”
Very well, King Hrothgar, said Saphira through Eragon. It has saved me
many an injury.
Hrothgar straightened and lifted Volund, a twinkle in his deep-set eyes.
“Well then, shall we march out and test it once again in the forge of
war?” He looked back at his warriors and shouted, “Akh sartos oen dûr-
grimst!”
“Vor Hrothgarz korda! Vor Hrothgarz korda!”
Eragon looked at Orik, who translated with a mighty yell, “By Hroth-
gar’s hammer!” Joining the chant, Eragon ran with the dwarf king toward
the crimson ranks of soldiers, Saphira by his side.
Now at last, with the help of the dwarves, the battle turned in favor of
the Varden. Together they pushed back the Empire, dividing them,
crushing them, forcing Galbatorix’s vast army to abandon positions they
had held since morn. Their efforts were helped by the fact that more of
Angela’s poisons had taken effect. Many of the Empire’s officers behaved
irrationally, giving orders that made it easier for the Varden to penetrate
deeper into the army, sowing chaos as they went. The soldiers seemed to
realize that fortune no longer smiled upon them, for hundreds surren-
dered, or defected outright and turned on their former comrades, or
threw down their weapons and fled.
And the day passed into the late afternoon.
Eragon was in the midst of fighting two soldiers when a flaming javelin
roared past overhead and buried itself in one of the Empire’s command
tents twenty yards away, igniting the fabric. Dispatching his opponents,
Eragon glanced back and saw dozens of fiery missiles arcing out from the
ship on the Jiet River. What are you playing at, Roran? wondered Eragon
before charging the next batch of soldiers.
Soon afterward, a horn echoed from the rear of the Empire’s army, then
another and another. Someone began to pound a sonorous drum, the
peals of which stilled the field as everyone looked about for the source of
the beat. Even as Eragon watched, an ominous figure detached itself from
the horizon in the north and rose up in the lurid sky over the Burning
Plains. The gore-crows scattered before the barbed black shadow, which
balanced motionless upon the thermals. At first Eragon thought it a
Lethrblaka, one of the Ra’zac’s mounts. Then a ray of light escaped the
594
clouds and struck the figure crossways from the west.
A red dragon floated above them, glowing and sparkling in the sun-
beam like a bed of blood-red coals. His wing membranes were the color
of wine held before a lantern. His claws and teeth and the spikes along
his spine were white as snow. In his vermilion eyes there gleamed a terri-
ble glee. On his back was fixed a saddle, and in that saddle sat a man
garbed in polished steel armor and armed with a hand-and-a-half sword.
Dread clutched at Eragon. Galbatorix managed to get another dragon to
hatch!
Then the man in steel raised his left hand and a shaft of crackling ruby
energy sprang from his palm and smote Hrothgar on the breast. The
dwarf spellcasters cried out with agony as the energy from their bodies
was consumed trying to block the attack. They collapsed, dead, then
Hrothgar clutched his heart and toppled to the ground. The dwarves gave
a great groan of despair as they saw their king fall.
“No!” cried Eragon, and Saphira roared in protest. He glared with hate
at the enemy Rider. I’ll kill you for that.
Eragon knew that, as they were, he and Saphira were too tired to con-
front such a mighty opponent. Glancing around, Eragon spotted a horse
lying in the mud, a spear through its side. The stallion was still alive. Er-
agon put his hand on its neck and murmured, Sleep, brother. Then he
transferred the horse’s remaining vitality into himself and Saphira. It was
not enough energy to restore all their strength, but it soothed their aching
muscles and stopped their limbs from shaking.
Rejuvenated, Eragon leaped onto Saphira, shouting, “Orik, take com-
mand of your kinsmen!” Across the field, he saw Arya gaze at him with
concern. He put her out of his mind as he tightened the saddle straps
around his legs. Then Saphira launched herself toward the red dragon,
pumping her wings at a furious rate to gain the necessary speed.
I hope you remember your lessons with Glaedr, he said. He tightened his
grip on his shield.
Saphira did not answer him but roared out with her thoughts at the
other dragon, Traitor! Egg breaker, oath breaker, murderer! Then as one,
she and Eragon assaulted the minds of the pair, seeking to overwhelm
their defenses. The consciousness of the Rider felt strange to Eragon, as if
it contained multitudes; scores of distinct voices whispered in the caverns
595
of his mind, like imprisoned spirits begging for release.
The instant they made contact, the Rider retaliated with a blast of pure