Page 35 of Eragon (The Inheritance Cycle 1)

  “Upset!” exploded Eragon. “I’m well past that! Did it even occur to you that we could just leave him here and continue on our way? No! Instead you turn into an executioner and chop off his head. He was defenseless!”

  Murtagh seemed perplexed by Eragon’s wrath. “Well, we couldn’t keep him around—he was dangerous. The others ran off . . . without a horse he wouldn’t have made it far. I didn’t want the Urgals to find him and learn about Arya. So I thought it would—”

  “But to kill him?” interrupted Eragon. Saphira sniffed Torkenbrand’s head curiously. She opened her mouth slightly, as if to snap it up, then appeared to decide better of it and prowled to Eragon’s side.

  “I’m only trying to stay alive,” stated Murtagh. “No stranger’s life is more important than my own.”

  “But you can’t indulge in wanton violence. Where is your empathy?” growled Eragon, pointing at the head.

  “Empathy? Empathy? What empathy can I afford my enemies? Shall I dither about whether to defend myself because it will cause someone pain? If that had been the case, I would have died years ago! You must be willing to protect yourself and what you cherish, no matter what the cost.”

  Eragon slammed Zar’roc back into its sheath, shaking his head savagely. “You can justify any atrocity with that reasoning.”

  “Do you think I enjoy this?” Murtagh shouted. “My life has been threatened from the day I was born! All of my waking hours have been spent avoiding danger in one form or another. And sleep never comes easily because I always worry if I’ll live to see the dawn. If there ever was a time I felt secure, it must have been in my mother’s womb, though I wasn’t safe even there! You don’t understand—if you lived with this fear, you would have learned the same lesson I did: Do not take chances.” He gestured at Torkenbrand’s body. “He was a risk that I removed. I refuse to repent, and I won’t plague myself over what is done and past.”

  Eragon shoved his face into Murtagh’s. “It was still the wrong thing to do.” He lashed Arya to Saphira, then climbed onto Snowfire. “Let’s go.” Murtagh guided Tornac around Torkenbrand’s prone form in the bloodstained dust.

  They rode at a rate that Eragon would have thought impossible a week ago; leagues melted away before them as if wings were attached to their feet. They turned south, between two outstretched arms of the Beor Mountains. The arms were shaped like pincers about to close, the tips a day’s travel apart. Yet the distance seemed less because of the mountains’ size. It was as if they were in a valley made for giants.

  When they stopped for the day, Eragon and Murtagh ate dinner in silence, refusing to look up from their food. Afterward, Eragon said tersely, “I’ll take the first watch.” Murtagh nodded and lay on his blankets with his back to Eragon.

  Do you want to talk? asked Saphira.

  Not right now, murmured Eragon. Give me some time to think; I’m . . . confused.

  She withdrew from his mind with a gentle touch and a whisper. I love you, little one.

  And I you, he said. She curled into a ball next to him, lending him her warmth. He sat motionless in the dark, wrestling with his disquiet.

  FLIGHT THROUGH

  THE VALLEY

  In the morning Saphira took off with both Eragon and Arya. Eragon wanted to get away from Murtagh for a time. He shivered, pulling his clothes tighter. It looked like it might snow. Saphira ascended lazily on an updraft and asked, What are you thinking?

  Eragon contemplated the Beor Mountains, which towered above them even though Saphira flew far above the ground. That was murder yesterday. I’ve no other word for it.

  Saphira banked to the left. It was a hasty deed and ill considered, but Murtagh tried to do the right thing. The men who buy and sell other humans deserve every misfortune that befalls them. If we weren’t committed to helping Arya, I would hunt down every slaver and tear them apart!

  Yes, said Eragon miserably, but Torkenbrand was helpless. He couldn’t shield himself or run. A moment more and he probably would have surrendered. Murtagh didn’t give him that chance. If Torkenbrand had at least been able to fight, it wouldn’t have been so bad.

  Eragon, even if Torkenbrand had fought, the results would have been the same. You know as well as I do that few can equal you or Murtagh with the blade. Torkenbrand would have still died, though you seem to think it would have been more just or honorable in a mismatched duel.

  I don’t know what’s right! admitted Eragon, distressed. There aren’t any answers that make sense.

  Sometimes, said Saphira gently, there are no answers. Learn what you can about Murtagh from this. Then forgive him. And if you can’t forgive, at least forget, for he meant you no harm, however rash the act was. Your head is still attached, yes?

  Frowning, Eragon shifted in the saddle. He shook himself, like a horse trying to rid itself of a fly, and checked Murtagh’s position over Saphira’s shoulder. A patch of color farther back along their route caught his attention.

  Camped by a streambed they had crossed late yesterday were the Urgals. Eragon’s heartbeat quickened. How could the Urgals be on foot, yet still gain on them? Saphira saw the monsters as well and tilted her wings, brought them close to her body, and slipped into a steep dive, splitting the air. I don’t think they spotted us, she said.

  Eragon hoped not. He squinted against the blast of air as she increased the angle of their dive. Their chieftain must be driving them at a breakneck pace, he said.

  Yes—maybe they’ll all die of exhaustion.

  When they landed, Murtagh asked curtly, “What now?”

  “The Urgals are overtaking us,” said Eragon. He pointed back toward the column’s camp.

  “How far do we still have to go?” asked Murtagh, putting his hands against the sky and measuring the hours until sunset.

  “Normally? . . . I would guess another five days. At the speed we’ve been traveling, only three. But unless we get there tomorrow, the Urgals will probably catch us, and Arya will certainly die.”

  “She might last another day.”

  “We can’t count on it,” objected Eragon. “The only way we can get to the Varden in time is if we don’t stop for anything, least of all sleep. That’s our only chance.”

  Murtagh laughed bitterly. “How can you expect to do that? We’ve already gone days without adequate sleep. Unless Riders are made of different stuff than us mortals, you’re as tired as I am. We’ve covered a staggering distance, and the horses, in case you haven’t noticed, are ready to drop. Another day of this might kill us all.”

  Eragon shrugged. “So be it. We don’t have a choice.”

  Murtagh gazed at the mountains. “I could leave and let you fly ahead with Saphira. . . . That would force the Urgals to divide their troops and would give you a better chance of reaching the Varden.”

  “It would be suicide,” said Eragon, crossing his arms. “Somehow those Urgals are faster on foot than we are on horseback. They would run you down like a deer. The only way to evade them is to find sanctuary with the Varden.” Despite his words, he was unsure if he wanted Murtagh to stay. I like him, Eragon confessed to himself, but I’m no longer certain if that’s a good thing.

  “I’ll escape later,” said Murtagh abruptly. “When we get to the Varden, I can disappear down a side valley and find my way to Surda, where I can hide without attracting too much attention.”

  “So you’re staying?”

  “Sleep or no sleep, I’ll see you to the Varden,” promised Murtagh.

  With newfound determination, they struggled to distance themselves from the Urgals, yet their pursuers continued to creep nearer. At nightfall the monsters were a third closer than they had been that morning. As fatigue eroded his and Murtagh’s strength, they slept in turns on the horses, while whoever was awake led the animals in the right direction.

  Eragon relied heavily on Arya’s memories to guide them. Because of the alien nature of her mind, he sometimes made mistakes as to the route, costing them precious time. They gradual

ly angled toward the foothills of the eastern arm of mountains, looking for the valley that would lead them to the Varden. Midnight arrived and passed without any sign of it.

  When the sun returned, they were pleased to see that the Urgals were far behind. “This is the last day,” said Eragon, yawning widely. “If we’re not reasonably close to the Varden by noon, I’m going to fly ahead with Arya. You’ll be free to go wherever you want then, but you’ll have to take Snowfire with you. I won’t be able to come back for him.”

  “That might not be necessary; we could still get there in time,” said Murtagh. He rubbed the pommel of his sword.

  Eragon shrugged. “We could.” He went to Arya and put a hand on her forehead. It was damp and dangerously hot. Her eyes wandered uneasily beneath her eyelids, as if she suffered a nightmare. Eragon pressed a damp rag to her brow, wishing he could do more.

  Late in the morning, after they circumnavigated an especially broad mountain, Eragon saw a narrow valley tucked against its far side. The valley was so restricted it could easily be overlooked. The Beartooth River, which Arya had mentioned, flowed out of it and looped carelessly across the land. He smiled with relief; that was where they needed to go.

  Looking back, Eragon was alarmed to see that the distance between them and the Urgals had shrunk to little more than a league. He pointed out the valley to Murtagh. “If we can slip in there without being seen, it might confuse them.”

  Murtagh looked skeptical. “It’s worth a try. But they’ve followed us easily enough so far.”

  As they approached the valley, they passed under the knotted branches of the Beor Mountains’ forest. The trees were tall, with creviced bark that was almost black, dull needles of the same color, and knobby roots that rose from the soil like bare knees. Cones littered the ground, each the size of a horse’s head. Sable squirrels chattered from the treetops, and eyes gleamed from holes in the trunks. Green beards of tangled wolfsbane hung from the gnarled branches.

  The forest gave Eragon an uneasy feeling; the hair on the back of his neck prickled. There was something hostile in the air, as if the trees resented their intrusion. They are very old, said Saphira, touching a trunk with her nose.

  Yes, said Eragon, but not friendly. The forest grew denser the farther in they traveled. The lack of space forced Saphira to take off with Arya. Without a clear trail to follow, the tough underbrush slowed Eragon and Murtagh. The Beartooth River wound next to them, filling the air with the sound of gurgling water. A nearby peak obscured the sun, casting them into premature dusk.

  At the valley’s mouth, Eragon realized that although it looked like a slim gash between the peaks, the valley was really as wide as many of the Spine’s vales. It was only the enormous size of the ridged and shadowy mountains that made it appear so confined. Waterfalls dotted its sheer sides. The sky was reduced to a thin strip winding overhead, mostly hidden by gray clouds. From the dank ground rose a clinging fog that chilled the air until their breath was visible. Wild strawberries crawled among a carpet of mosses and ferns, fighting for the meager sunlight. Sprouting on piles of rotting wood were red and yellow toadstools.

  All was hushed and quiet, sounds dampened by the heavy air. Saphira landed by them in a nearby glade, the rush of her wings strangely muted. She took in the view with a swing of her head. I just passed a flock of birds that were black and green with red markings on their wings. I’ve never seen birds like that before.

  Everything in these mountains seems unusual, replied Eragon. Do you mind if I ride you awhile? I want to keep an eye on the Urgals.

  Of course.

  He turned to Murtagh. “The Varden are hidden at the end of this valley. If we hurry, we might get there before nightfall.”

  Murtagh grunted, hands on his hips. “How am I going to get out of here? I don’t see any valleys joining this one, and the Urgals are going to hem us in pretty soon. I need an escape route.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” said Eragon impatiently. “This is a long valley; there’s sure to be an exit further in.” He released Arya from Saphira and lifted the elf onto Snowfire. “Watch Arya—I’m going to fly with Saphira. We’ll meet you up ahead.” He scrambled onto Saphira’s back and strapped himself onto her saddle.

  “Be careful,” Murtagh warned, his brow furrowed in thought, then clucked to the horses and hurried back into the forest.

  As Saphira jumped toward the sky, Eragon said, Do you think you could fly up to one of those peaks? We might be able to spot our destination, as well as a passage for Murtagh. I don’t want to listen to him griping through the entire valley.

  We can try, agreed Saphira, but it will get much colder.

  I’m dressed warmly.

  Hold on, then! Saphira suddenly swooped straight up, throwing him back in the saddle. Her wings flapped strongly, driving their weight upward. The valley shrank to a green line below them. The Beartooth River shimmered like braided silver where light struck it.

  They rose to the cloud layer, and icy moisture saturated the air. A formless gray blanket engulfed them, limiting their vision to an arm’s length. Eragon hoped they would not collide with anything in the murk. He stuck out a hand experimentally, swinging it through the air. Water condensed on it and ran down his arm, soaking his sleeve.

  A blurred gray mass fluttered past his head, and he glimpsed a dove, its wings pumping frantically. There was a white band around its leg. Saphira struck at the bird, tongue lashing out, jaws gaping. The dove squawked as Saphira’s sharp teeth snapped together a hair’s breadth behind its tail feathers. Then it darted away and disappeared into the haze, the frenzied thumping of its wings fading to silence.

  When they breached the top of the clouds, Saphira’s scales were covered with thousands of water droplets that reflected tiny rainbows and shimmered with the blue of her scales. Eragon shook himself, spraying water from his clothes, and shivered. He could no longer see the ground, only hills of clouds snaking between the mountains.

  The trees on the mountains gave way to thick glaciers, blue and white under the sun. The glare from the snow forced Eragon to close his eyes. He tried to open them after a minute, but the light dazzled him. Irritated, he stared into the crook of his arm. How can you stand it? he asked Saphira.

  My eyes are stronger than yours, she replied.

  It was frigid. The water in Eragon’s hair froze, giving him a shiny helmet. His shirt and pants were hard shells around his limbs. Saphira’s scales became slick with ice; hoarfrost laced her wings. They had never flown this high before, yet the mountaintops were still miles above them.

  Saphira’s flapping gradually slowed, and her breathing became labored. Eragon gasped and panted; there didn’t seem to be enough air. Fighting back panic, he clutched Saphira’s neck spikes for support.

  We . . . have to get out of here, he said. Red dots swam before his eyes. I can’t . . . breathe. Saphira seemed not to hear him, so he repeated the message, louder this time. Again there was no response. She can’t hear me, he realized. He swayed, finding it hard to think, then pounded on her side and shouted, “Take us down!”

  The effort made him lightheaded. His vision faded into swirling darkness.

  He regained consciousness as they emerged from the bottom of the clouds. His head was pounding. What happened? he asked, pushing himself upright and looking around with confusion.

  You blacked out, answered Saphira.

  He tried to run his fingers through his hair, but stopped when he felt icicles. Yes, I know that, but why didn’t you answer me?

  My brain was confused. Your words didn’t make any sense. When you lost consciousness, I knew something was wrong and descended. I didn’t have to sink far before I realized what had occurred.

  It’s a good thing you didn’t pass out as well, said Eragon with a nervous laugh. Saphira only swished her tail. He looked wistfully at where the mountain peaks were now concealed by clouds. A pity we couldn’t stand upon one of those summits. . . . Well, now we know: we can only fl

y out of this valley the way we came in. Why did we run out of air? How can we have it down here, but not up above?

  I don’t know, but I’ll never dare to fly so close to the sun again. We should remember this experience. The knowledge may be useful if we ever have to fight another Rider.

  I hope that never happens, said Eragon. Let’s stay down below for now. I’ve had enough adventure for one day.

  They floated on the gentle air currents, drifting from one mountain to the next, until Eragon saw that the Urgal column had reached the valley’s mouth. What drives them to such speed, and how can they bear to sustain it?

  Now that we are closer to them, Saphira said, I can see that these Urgals are bigger than the ones we’ve met before. They would stand chest and shoulders over a tall man. I don’t know what land they march from, but it must be a fierce place to produce such brutes.

  Eragon glared at the ground below—he could not see the detail that she did. If they keep to this pace, they’ll catch Murtagh before we find the Varden.

  Have hope. The forest may hamper their progress. . . . Would it be possible to stop them with magic?

  Eragon shook his head. Stop them . . . no. There are too many. He thought of the thin layer of mist on the valley floor and grinned. But I might be able to delay them a bit. He closed his eyes, selected the words he needed, stared at the mist, and then commanded, “Gath un reisa du rakr!”

  There was a disturbance below. From above, it looked as if the ground was flowing together like a great sluggish river. A leaden band of mist gathered in front of the Urgals and thickened into an intimidating wall, dark as a thunderhead. The Urgals hesitated before it, then continued forward like an unstoppable battering ram. The barrier swirled around them, concealing the lead ranks from view.

  The drain on Eragon’s strength was sudden and massive, making his heart flutter like a dying bird. He gasped, eyes rolling. He struggled to sever the magic’s hold on him—to plug the breach through which his life streamed. With a savage growl he jerked away from the magic and broke contact. Tendrils of magic snapped through his mind like decapitated snakes, then reluctantly retreated from his consciousness, clutching at the dregs of his strength. The wall of mist dissipated, and the fog sluggishly collapsed across the ground like a tower of mud sliding apart. The Urgals had not been hindered at all.