Page 38 of Eldest (The Inheritance Cycle 2)

  Wagging a finger, Orik said, “The rock beneath you is flawed, Eragon. Don’t tempt fate. Arya…” He stopped, then growled and took another gulp of faelnirv. “Ah, it’s too late for thish. Who am I to say what is wisdom and what isn’t?”

  Saphira had closed her eyes a while ago. Without opening them, she asked, Are you married, Orik? The question surprised Eragon; he had never stopped to wonder about Orik’s personal life.

  “Eta,” said Orik. “Although I’m promished to fair Hvedra, daughter of Thorgerd One-eye and Himinglada. We were to be wed thish spring, until the Urgals attacked and Hrothgar sent me on this accursed trip.”

  “Is she of Dûrgrimst Ingeitum?” asked Eragon.

  “Of coursh!” roared Orik, pounding his fist on the side of the chair. “Thinkest thou I would marry outside my clan? She’s the granddaughter of mine aunt Vardrûn, Hrothgar’s coushin twice removed, with white, round calves as smooth as satin, cheeks as red as apples, and the prettiesht dwarf maid who ever did exist.”

  Undoubtedly, said Saphira.

  “I’m sure it won’t be long before you see her again,” said Eragon.

  “Hmph.” Orik squinted at Eragon. “Do you believe in giants? Tall giants, shtrong giants, thick and bearded giants with fingers like spadeses?”

  “I’ve never seen nor heard of them,” said Eragon, “except in stories. If they do exist, it’s not in Alagaësia.”

  “Ah, but they do! They do!” exclaimed Orik, waving the bottle about his head. “Tell me, O Rider, if a fearshome giant were to meet you on the garden path, what might he call you, if not dinner?”

  “Eragon, I would presume.”

  “No, no. He’d call you a dwarf, for dwarf you’d be to him.” Orik guffawed and nudged Eragon in the ribs with his hard elbow. “See you now? Humans and elvesh are the giants. The land’s full of them, here, there, and everywhere, stomping about with their big feet and casting us in endless shadowses.” He continued laughing, rocking back in his chair until it tipped over and he fell to the floor with a solid thump.

  Helping him upright, Eragon said, “I think you’d better stay here for the night. You’re in no condition to go down those stairs in the dark.”

  Orik agreed with cheery indifference. He allowed Eragon to remove his mail and bundle him onto one side of the bed. Afterward, Eragon sighed, covered the lights, and lay on his side of the mattress.

  He fell asleep hearing the dwarf mutter, “…Hvedra…Hvedra…Hvedra…”

  THE NATURE OF EVIL

  Bright morning arrived all too soon.

  Jolted to awareness by the buzz of the vibrating timepiece, Eragon grabbed his hunting knife and sprang out of bed, expecting an attack. He gasped as his body shrieked with protest from the abuse of the past two days.

  Blinking away tears, Eragon rewound the timepiece. Orik was gone; the dwarf must have slipped away in the wee hours of the morning. With a groan, Eragon hobbled to the wash closet for his daily ablutions, like an old man afflicted by rheumatism.

  He and Saphira waited by the tree for ten minutes before they were met by a solemn, black-haired elf. The elf bowed, touched two fingers to his lips—which Eragon mirrored—and then preempted Eragon by saying, “May good fortune rule over you.”

  “And may the stars watch over you,” replied Eragon. “Did Oromis send you?”

  The elf ignored him and said to Saphira, “Well met, dragon. I am Vanir of House Haldthin.” Eragon scowled with annoyance.

  Well met, Vanir.

  Only then did the elf address Eragon: “I will show you where you may practice with your blade.” He strode away, not waiting for Eragon to catch up.

  The sparring yard was dotted with elves of both sexes fighting in pairs and groups. Their extraordinary physical gifts resulted in flurries of blows so quick and fast, they sounded like bursts of hail striking an iron bell. Under the trees that fringed the yard, individual elves performed the Rimgar with more grace and flexibility than Eragon thought he would ever achieve.

  After everyone on the field stopped and bowed to Saphira, Vanir unsheathed his narrow blade. “If you will guard your sword, Silver Hand, we can begin.”

  Eragon eyed the inhuman swordsmanship of the other elves with trepidation. Why do I have to do this? he asked. I’ll just be humiliated.

  You’ll be fine, said Saphira, yet he could sense her concern for him.

  Right.

  As he prepared Zar’roc, Eragon’s hands trembled with dread. Instead of throwing himself into the fray, he fought Vanir from a distance, dodging, sidestepping, and doing everything possible to avoid triggering another fit. Despite Eragon’s evasions, Vanir touched him four times in rapid succession—once each on his ribs, shin, and both shoulders.

  Vanir’s initial expression of stoic impassivity soon devolved into open contempt. Dancing forward, he slid his blade up Zar’roc’s length while at the same time twirling Zar’roc in a circle, wrenching Eragon’s wrist. Eragon allowed Zar’roc to fly out of his hand rather than resist the elf’s superior strength.

  Vanir dropped his sword onto Eragon’s neck and said, “Dead.” Shrugging off the sword, Eragon trudged over to retrieve Zar’roc. “Dead,” said Vanir. “How do you expect to defeat Galbatorix like this? I expected better, even from a weakling human.”

  “Then why don’t you fight Galbatorix yourself instead of hiding in Du Weldenvarden?”

  Vanir stiffened with outrage. “Because,” he said, cool and haughty, “I’m not a Rider. And if I were, I would not be such a coward as you.”

  No one moved or spoke on the field.

  His back to Vanir, Eragon leaned on Zar’roc and craned his neck toward the sky, snarling to himself. He knows nothing. This is just one more test to overcome.

  “Coward, I say. Your blood is as thin as the rest of your race’s. I think that Saphira was confused by Galbatorix’s wiles and made the wrong choice of Rider.” The spectating elves gasped at Vanir’s words and muttered among themselves with open disapproval for his atrocious breach of etiquette.

  Eragon ground his teeth. He could stand insults to himself, but not to Saphira. She was already moving when his pent-up frustration, fear, and pain burst within him and he whirled around, the tip of Zar’roc whistling through the air.

  The blow would have killed Vanir had he not blocked it at the last second. He looked surprised by the ferocity of the attack. Holding nothing in reserve, Eragon drove Vanir to the center of the field, jabbing and slashing like a madman—determined to hurt the elf however he could. He nicked Vanir on the hip with enough force to draw blood, even with Zar’roc’s blunted edge.

  At that instant, Eragon’s back ruptured in an explosion of agony so intense, he experienced it with all five senses: as a deafening, crashing waterfall of sound; a metallic taste that coated his tongue; an acrid, eye-watering stench in his nostrils, redolent of vinegar; pulsing colors; and, above all, the feeling that Durza had just laid open his back.

  He could see Vanir standing over him with a derisive sneer. It occurred to Eragon that Vanir was very young.

  After the seizure, Eragon wiped the blood from his mouth with his hand and showed it to Vanir, asking, “Thin enough?” Vanir did not deign to respond, but rather sheathed his sword and walked away.

  “Where are you going?” demanded Eragon. “We have unfinished business, you and I.”

  “You are in no fit condition to spar,” scoffed the elf.

  “Try me.” Eragon might be inferior to the elves, but he refused to give them the satisfaction of fulfilling their low expectations of him. He would earn their respect through sheer persistence, if nothing else.

  He insisted on completing Oromis’s assigned hour, after which Saphira marched up to Vanir and touched him on the chest with the point of one of her ivory talons. Dead, she said. Vanir paled. The other elves edged away from him.

  Once they were in the air, Saphira said, Oromis was right.

  About what?

  You give more of yourself when you

have an opponent.

  At Oromis’s hut, the day resumed its usual pattern: Saphira accompanied Glaedr for her instruction while Eragon remained with Oromis.

  Eragon was horrified when he discovered that Oromis expected him to do the Rimgar in addition to his earlier exercises. It took all of his courage to obey. His apprehension proved groundless, though, for the Dance of Snake and Crane was too gentle to injure him.

  That, coupled with his meditation in the secluded glade, provided Eragon with his first opportunity since the previous day to order his thoughts and consider the question that Oromis had posed him.

  While he did, he observed his red ants invade a smaller, rival anthill, overrunning the inhabitants and stealing their resources. By the end of the massacre, only a handful of the rival ants were left alive, alone and purposeless in the vast and hostile pine-needle barrens.

  Like the dragons in Alagaësia, thought Eragon. His connection to the ants vanished as he considered the dragons’ unhappy fate. Bit by bit, an answer to his problem revealed itself to him, an answer that he could live with and believe in.

  He finished his meditations and returned to the hut. This time Oromis seemed reasonably satisfied with what Eragon had accomplished.

  As Oromis served the midday meal, Eragon said, “I know why fighting Galbatorix is worth it, though thousands of people may die.”

  “Oh?” Oromis seated himself. “Do tell me.”

  “Because Galbatorix has already caused more suffering over the past hundred years than we ever could in a single generation. And unlike a normal tyrant, we cannot wait for him to die. He could rule for centuries or millennia—persecuting and tormenting people the entire time—unless we stop him. If he became strong enough, he would march on the dwarves and you here in Du Weldenvarden and kill or enslave both races. And…,” Eragon rubbed the heel of his palm against the edge of the table, “…because rescuing the two eggs from Galbatorix is the only way to save the dragons.”

  The strident warble of Oromis’s teakettle intruded, escalating in volume until Eragon’s ears rang. Standing, Oromis hooked the kettle off the cookfire and poured the water for blueberry tea. The creases around his eyes softened. “Now,” he said, “you understand.”

  “I understand, but I take no pleasure in it.”

  “Nor should you. But now we can be confident that you won’t shrink from the path when you are confronted by the injustices and atrocities that the Varden will inevitably commit. We cannot afford to have you consumed by doubts when your strength and focus are most needed.” Oromis steepled his fingers and gazed into the dark mirror of his tea, contemplating whatever he saw in its tenebrous reflection. “Do you believe that Galbatorix is evil?”

  “Of course!”

  “Do you believe that he considers himself evil?”

  “No, I doubt it.”

  Oromis tapped his forefingers against each other. “Then you must also believe that Durza was evil?”

  The fragmented memories Eragon had gleaned from Durza when they fought in Tronjheim returned to him now, reminding him how the young Shade—Carsaib, then—had been enslaved by the wraiths he had summoned to avenge the death of his mentor, Haeg. “He wasn’t evil himself, but the spirits that controlled him were.”

  “And what of the Urgals?” asked Oromis, sipping his tea. “Are they evil?”

  Eragon’s knuckles whitened as he gripped his spoon. “When I think of death, I see an Urgal’s face. They’re worse than beasts. The things they have done…” He shook his head, unable to continue.

  “Eragon, what kind of opinion would you form of humans if all you knew of them were the actions of your warriors on the field of battle?”

  “That’s not…” He took a deep breath. “It’s different. Urgals deserve to be wiped out, every last one of them.”

  “Even their females and children? The ones who haven’t harmed you and likely never will? The innocents? Would you kill them and condemn an entire race to the void?”

  “They wouldn’t spare us, given the chance.”

  “Eragon!” exclaimed Oromis in biting tones. “I never want to hear you use that excuse again, that because someone else has done—or would do—something means that you should too. It’s lazy, repugnant, and indicative of an inferior mind. Am I clear?”

  “Yes, Master.”

  The elf raised his mug to his lips and drank, his bright eyes fixed on Eragon the entire time. “What do you actually know of Urgals?”

  “I know their strengths, weaknesses, and how to kill them. It’s all I need to know.”

  “Why do they hate and fight humans, though? What about their history and legends, or the way in which they live?”

  “Does it matter?”

  Oromis sighed. “Just remember,” he said gently, “that at a certain point, your enemies may have to become your allies. Such is the nature of life.”

  Eragon resisted the urge to argue. He swirled his own tea in its mug, accelerating the liquid into a black whirlpool with a white lens of foam at the bottom of the vortex. “Is that why Galbatorix enlisted the Urgals?”

  “That is not an example I would have chosen, but yes.”

  “It seems strange that he befriended them. After all, they were the ones who killed his dragon. Look what he did to us, the Riders, and we weren’t even responsible for his loss.”

  “Ah,” said Oromis, “mad Galbatorix may be, but he’s still as cunning as a fox. I guess that he intended to use the Urgals to destroy the Varden and the dwarves—and others, if he had triumphed in Farthen Dûr—thereby removing two of his enemies while simultaneously weakening the Urgals so that he could dispose of them at his leisure.”

  Study of the ancient language devoured the afternoon, whereupon they took up the practice of magic. Much of Oromis’s lectures concerned the proper way in which to control various forms of energy, such as light, heat, electricity, and even gravity. He explained that since these forces consumed strength faster than any other type of spell, it was safer to find them already in existence in nature and then shape them with gramarye, instead of trying to create them from nothing.

  Abandoning the subject, Oromis asked, “How would you kill with magic?”

  “I’ve done it many ways,” said Eragon. “I’ve hunted with a pebble—moving and aiming it with magic—as well as using the word jierda to break Urgals’ legs and necks. Once, with thrysta, I stopped a man’s heart.”

  “There are more efficient methods,” revealed Oromis. “What does it take to kill a man, Eragon? A sword through the chest? A broken neck? The loss of blood? All it takes is for a single artery in the brain to be pinched off, or for certain nerves to be severed. With the right spell, you could obliterate an army.”

  “I should have thought of that in Farthen Dûr,” said Eragon, disgusted with himself. Not just Farthen Dûr either, but also when the Kull chased us from the Hadarac Desert. “Again, why didn’t Brom teach me this?”

  “Because he did not expect you to face an army for months or years to come; it is not a tool given to untested Riders.”

  “If it’s so easy to kill people, though, what’s the point of us or Galbatorix raising an army?”

  “To be succinct, tactics. Magicians are vulnerable to physical attack when they are embroiled in their mental struggles. Therefore, they need warriors to protect them. And the warriors must be shielded, at least in part, from magical attacks, else they would be slain within minutes. These limitations mean that when armies confront one another, their magicians are scattered throughout the bulk of their forces, close to the edge but not so close as to be in danger. The magicians on both sides open their minds and attempt to sense if anyone is using or is about to use magic. Since their enemies might be beyond their mental reach, magicians also erect wards around themselves and their warriors to stop or lessen long-range attacks, such as a pebble sent flying toward their head from a mile away.”

  “Surely one man can’t defend an entire army,” said Eragon.

; “Not alone, but with enough magicians, you can provide a reasonable amount of protection. The greatest danger in this sort of conflict is that a clever magician may think of a unique attack that can bypass your wards without tripping them. That itself could be enough to decide a battle.

  “Also,” said Oromis, “you must keep in mind that the ability to use magic is exceedingly rare among the races. We elves are no exception, although we have a greater allotment of spellweavers than most, as a result of oaths we bound ourselves with centuries ago. The majority of those blessed with magic have little or no appreciable talent; they struggle to heal even so much as a bruise.”

  Eragon nodded. He had encountered magicians like that in the Varden. “But it still takes the same amount of energy to accomplish a task.”

  “Energy, yes, but lesser magicians find it harder than you or I do to feel the flow of magic and immerse themselves in it. Few magicians are strong enough to pose a threat to an entire army. And those who are usually spend the bulk of their time during battles evading, tracking, or fighting their opposites, which is fortunate from the standpoint of ordinary warriors, else they would all soon be killed.”

  Troubled, Eragon said, “The Varden don’t have many magicians.”

  “That is one reason why you are so important.”

  A moment passed as Eragon reflected on what Oromis had told him. “These wards, do they only drain energy from you when they are activated?”

  “Aye.”

  “Then, given enough time, you could acquire countless layers of wards. You could make yourself…” He struggled with the ancient language as he attempted to express himself. “…untouchable?…impregnable?…impregnable to any assault, magical or physical.”

  “Wards,” said Oromis, “rely upon the strength of your body. If that strength is exceeded, you die. No matter how many wards you have, you will only be able to block attacks so long as your body can sustain the output of energy.”

  “And Galbatorix’s strength has been increasing each year…. How is that possible?”