The Inheritance Cycle - Brisingr Part 33

The three of them sat in silence through the next two contests, then Orik startled Eragon by grasping him by the shoulder and asking, "How would you like to see a forest of stone, Eragon?"

"No such thing exists, unless it is carved."

Orik shook his head, his eyes twinkling. "It is not carved, and it does exist. So I ask again, would you like to see a forest of stone?"

"If you are not jesting . . . yes, I would."

"Ah, I am glad you accepted. I do not jest, and I promise you that tomorrow you and I shall walk among trees of granite. It is one of the wonders of the Beor Mountains. Everyone who is a guest of Durgrimst Ingeitum should have an opportunity to visit it."

The following morning, Eragon rose from his too-small bed in his stone room with its low ceiling and half-sized furniture, washed his face in a basin of cold water, and, out of habit, reached with his mind toward Saphira. He felt only the thoughts of the dwarves and the animals in and around the hold. Eragon faltered and leaned forward, gripping the rim of the basin, overcome by his sense of isolation. He remained in that position, unable to move or think, until his vision turned crimson and flashing spots floated in front of his eyes. With a gasp, he exhaled and refilled his lungs.

I missed her during the trip from Helgrind, he thought, he thought, but at least I knew I was returning to her as fast as I could. Now I am traveling but at least I knew I was returning to her as fast as I could. Now I am traveling away away from her, and I do not know when we will be reunited from her, and I do not know when we will be reunited.

Shaking himself, he dressed and made his way through the winding corridors of Bregan Hold, bowing to the dwarves he pa.s.sed, who for their part greeted him with energetic reiterations of "Argetlam!"

He found Orik and twelve other dwarves in the courtyard of the hold, saddling a line of st.u.r.dy ponies, whose breath formed white plumes in the cold air. Eragon felt like a giant as the short, burly men moved about him.

Orik hailed him. "We have a donkey in our stables, if you would like to ride."

"No, I'll continue on foot, if it's all the same to you."

Orik shrugged. "As you wish."

When they were ready to depart, Hvedra descended the broad stone steps from the entrance to the main hall of Bregan Hold, her dress trailing behind her, and presented to Orik an ivory horn clad with gold filigree around the mouth and bell. She said, "This was mine father's when he rode with Grimstborith Aldhrim. I give it to you so you may remember me in the days to come." She said more in Dwarvish, so softly Eragon could not hear, and then she and Orik touched foreheads. Straightening in his saddle, Orik placed the horn to his lips and winded it. A deep, rousing note rang forth, increasing in volume until the air within the courtyard seemed to vibrate like a wind-sawed rope. A pair of black ravens rose from the tower above, cawing. The sound of the horn made Eragon's blood tingle. He shifted in place, eager to be gone.

Lifting the horn over his head and with a final look at Hvedra, Orik spurred his pony forward, trotted out of the main gates of Bregan Hold, and turned east, toward the head of the valley. Eragon and the twelve other dwarves followed close behind.

For three hours, they followed a well-worn trail across the side of Thardur mountain, climbing ever higher above the valley floor. The dwarves drove the ponies as fast as they could without injuring the animals, but their pace was still only a fraction of Eragon's speed when he was free to run unchecked. Although he was frustrated, Eragon refrained from complaining, for he realized that it was inevitable he would have to travel slower with any but elves or Kull.

He shivered and pulled his cloak closer around himself. The sun had yet to appear over the Beor Mountains, and a damp chill pervaded the valley, even though noon was only a few hours away.

Then they came upon a flat expanse of granite over a thousand feet wide, bordered on the right by a slanting cliff of naturally formed octagonal pillars. Curtains of shifting mist obscured the far end of the stone field.

Orik raised a hand and said, "Behold, Az Knurldrathn."

Eragon frowned. Stare as he might, he could discern nothing of interest in the barren location. "I see no forest of stone."

Clambering down from his pony, Orik handed the reins to the warrior behind him and said, "Walk with me, if you would, Eragon."

Together they strode toward the twisting bank of fog, Eragon shortening his steps to match Orik's. The mist kissed Eragon's face, cool and moist. The vapor became so thick that it obscured the rest of the valley, enveloping them in a featureless gray landscape where even up and down seemed arbitrary. Undaunted, Orik proceeded with a confident gait. Eragon, however, felt disoriented and slightly unsteady, and he walked with a hand held out in front of him, in case he should b.u.mp into anything hidden within the fog.

Orik stopped at the edge of a thin crack that defaced the granite they stood on and said, "What see you now?"

Squinting, Eragon swept his gaze back and forth, but the fog seemed as monotonous as ever. He opened his mouth to say as much but then noticed a slight irregularity in the texture of the mist to his right, a faint pattern of light and dark that held its shape even while the mist drifted past. He became aware of other areas that were static as well: strange, abstract patches of contrast that formed no recognizable objects.

"I don't . . . ," he started to say when a breath of wind ruffled his hair. Under the gentle encouragement of the newborn breeze, the fog thinned and the disjoined patterns of shade resolved into the boles of large, ash-colored trees with bare and broken limbs. Dozens of the trees surrounded him and Orik, the pale skeletons of an ancient forest. Eragon pressed his palm against a trunk. The bark was as cold and hard as a boulder. Blotches of pallid lichen clung to the surface of the tree. The back of Eragon's neck p.r.i.c.kled. Although he did not consider himself overly superst.i.tious, the ghostly mist and the eerie half-light and the appearance of the trees themselves-grim and foreboding and mysterious-ignited a spark of fear inside of him.

He wet his lips and asked, "How did these come to be?"

Orik shrugged. "Some claim that Guntera must have placed them here when he created Alagaesia out of nothingness. Others claim Helzvog made them, for stone is his favorite element, and would not the G.o.d of stone have trees of stone for his garden? And still others say no, that once these were trees like any others, and a great catastrophe eons ago must have buried them in the ground, and that over time, wood became dirt, and dirt became stone."

"Is that possible?"

"Only the G.o.ds know for certain. Who besides them can hope to understand the whys and wherefores of the world?" Orik shifted his position. "Our ancestors discovered the first of the trees while quarrying granite here, over a thousand years ago. The then grimstborith of Durgrimst Ingeitum, Hvalmar Lackhand, stopped the mining and, instead, had his masons chisel out the trees from the surrounding stone. When they had excavated nigh on fifty trees, Hvalmar realized that there might be hundreds, or even thousands, of stone trees entombed within the side of Mount Thardur, and so he ordered his men to abandon the project. This place, however, captured the imagination of our race, and ever since, knurlan from every clan have traveled here and labored to extricate more trees from the grip of the granite. There are even knurlan who have dedicated their lives to the task. It has also become a tradition to send troublesome offspring here to chisel out a tree or two while under the supervision of a master mason."

"That sounds tedious."

"It gives them time to repent of their ways." With one hand, Orik stroked his braided beard. "I spent some months here myself when I was a rambunctious lad of four-and-thirty."

"And did you repent of your ways?"

"Eta. No. It was too . . . tedious tedious. After all those weeks, I had freed only a single branch from the granite, so I ran away and fell in with a group of Vrenshrrgn-"

"Dwarves from the clan Vrenshrrgn?"

"Yes, knurlagn of the clan Vrenshrrgn, War Wolves, Wolves of War, however you might say it in this tongue. I fell in with them, became drunk on ale, and as they were hunting Nagran, decided that I too should kill a boar and bring it to Hrothgar to appease his anger at me. It wasn't the wisest thing I have done. Even our most skilled warriors fear to hunt Nagran, and I was still more boy than man. Once my mind cleared, I cursed myself for a fool, but I had sworn I would, so I had no choice but to fulfill my oath."

When Orik paused, Eragon asked, "What happened?"

"Oh, I killed a Nagra, with help from the Vrenshrrgn, but the boar gored me in the shoulder and tossed me into the branches of a nearby tree. The Vrenshrrgn had to carry the both of us, the Nagra and me, back to Bregan Hold. The boar pleased Hrothgar, and I . . . I, despite the ministrations of our best healers, I had to spend the next month resting in bed, which Hrothgar said was punishment enough for defying his orders."

Eragon watched the dwarf for a while. "You miss him."

Orik stood for a moment with his chin tucked against his stocky chest. Lifting his ax, he struck the granite with the end of the haft, producing a sharp clack that echoed among the trees. "It has been nigh on two centuries since the last durgrimstvren, the last clan war, racked our nation, Eragon. But by Morgothal's black beard, we stand on the brink of another one now."

"Now, of all times?" exclaimed Eragon, appalled. "Is it really that bad?"

Orik scowled. "It is worse. Tensions between the clans are higher than they have ever been in living memory. Hrothgar's death and Nasuada's invasion of the Empire have served to inflame pa.s.sions, aggravate old rivalries, and lend strength to those who believe it is folly to cast our lot with the Varden."

"How can they believe that when Galbatorix has already attacked Tronjheim with the Urgals?"

"Because," said Orik, "they are convinced it is impossible to defeat Galbatorix, and their argument holds much sway with our people. Can you honestly tell me, Eragon, that if Galbatorix were to confront you and Saphira this very instant, that the two of you could best him?"

Eragon's throat tightened. "No."

"I thought not. Those who are opposed to the Varden have blinded themselves to Galbatorix's threat. They say that if we had refused shelter to the Varden, if we had not accepted you and Saphira into fair Tronjheim, then Galbatorix would have had no reason to make war on us. They say that if we just keep to ourselves and remain hidden in our caves and tunnels, we shall have nothing to fear from Galbatorix. They do not realize that Galbatorix's hunger for power is insatiable and that he will not rest until all of Alagaesia lies at his feet." Orik shook his head, and the muscles in his forearms bunched and knotted as he pinched the ax blade between his wide fingers. "I will not allow our race to cower in tunnels like frightened rabbits until the wolf outside digs his way in and eats us all. We must continue fighting out of the hope that somehow we can find a way to kill Galbatorix. And I will not allow our nation to disintegrate into a clan war. With circ.u.mstances as they are, another durgrimstvren would destroy our civilization and possibly doom the Varden as well." His jaw set, Orik turned toward Eragon. "For the good of my people, I intend to seek the throne myself. Durgrimstn Gedthrall, Ledwonnu, and Nagra have already pledged their support to me. However, there are many who stand between me and the crown; it will not be easy to garner enough votes to become king. I need to know, Eragon, will you back me in this?"

Crossing his arms, Eragon walked from one tree to the next and then back again. "If I do, my support might turn the other clans against you. Not only will you be asking your people to ally themselves with the Varden, you will be asking them to accept a Dragon Rider as one of their own, which they have never done before and I doubt they will want to now."

"Aye, it may turn some against me," said Orik, "but it may also gain me the votes of others. Let me be the judge of that. All I wish to know is, Will you back me? . . . Eragon, why do you hesitate?"

Eragon stared at a gnarled root that rose out of the granite by his feet, avoiding Orik's eyes. "You are concerned about the good of your people, and rightly so. But my concerns are broader; they encompa.s.s the good of the Varden and the elves and everyone else who opposes Galbatorix. If . . . if it is not likely you can win the crown, and there is another clan chief who could, and who is not unsympathetic to the Varden-"

"No one would be a more sympathetic grimstnzborith than I!"

"I'm not questioning your friendship," Eragon protested. "But if what I said came to pa.s.s and my support might ensure that such a clan chief won the throne, for the good of your people and for the good of the rest of Alagaesia, shouldn't I back the dwarf who has the best chance of succeeding?"

In a deadly quiet voice, Orik said, "You swore a blood-oath on the Knurlnien, Eragon. By every law of our realm, you are a member of Durgrimst Ingeitum, no matter how greatly others may disapprove. What Hrothgar did by adopting you has no precedent in all of our history, and it cannot be undone unless, as grimstborith, I banish you from our clan. If you turn against me, Eragon, you will shame me in front of our entire race and none will ever trust my leadership again. Moreover, you will prove to your detractors that we cannot trust a Dragon Rider. Clan members do not betray each other to other clans, Eragon. It is not done, not unless you wish to wake up one night with a dagger buried in your heart."

"Are you threatening me?" asked Eragon, just as quietly.

Orik swore and banged his ax against the granite again. "No! I would never lift a hand against you, Eragon! You are my foster brother, you are the only Rider free of Galbatorix's influence, and blast it if I have not become fond of you during our travels together. But even though I would not harm you, that does not mean the rest of the Ingeitum would be so forbearing. I say that not as a threat but as a statement of fact. You must understand this, Eragon. If the clan hears you have given your support to another, I may not be able to restrain them. Even though you are our guest and the rules of hospitality protect you, if you speak out against the Ingeitum, the clan will see you as having betrayed them, and it is not our custom to allow traitors to remain within our midst. Do you understand me, Eragon?"

"What do you expect of me?" shouted Eragon. He flung his arms outward and paced back and forth in front of Orik. "I swore an oath to Nasuada as well, and those were the orders she gave me."

"And you also pledged yourself to Durgrimst Ingeitum!" roared Orik.

Eragon stopped and stared at the dwarf. "Would you have me doom all of Alagaesia just so you can maintain your standing among the clans?"

"Do not insult me!"

"Then don't ask the impossible of me! I will back you if it seems likely you can ascend to the throne, and if not, then I won't. You worry about Durgrimst Ingeitum and your race as a whole, while it is my duty to worry about them and all of Alagaesia as well." Eragon slumped against the cold trunk of a tree. "And I cannot afford to offend you or your-I mean, our our-clan or the rest of dwarfdom."

In a kinder tone, Orik said, "There is another way, Eragon. It would be more difficult for you, but it would resolve your quandary."

"Oh? What wondrous solution would this be?"

Sliding his ax back under his belt, Orik walked over to Eragon, grasped him by the forearms, and gazed up at him through bushy eyebrows. "Trust me to do the right thing, Eragon Shadeslayer. Give me the same loyalty you would if you were indeed born of Durgrimst Ingeitum. Those under me would never presume to speak out against their own grimstborith in favor of another clan. If a grimstborith strikes the rock wrong, it is his responsibility alone, but that does not mean I am oblivious to your concerns." He glanced down for a moment, then said, "If I cannot be king, trust me not to be so blinded by the prospect of power that I cannot recognize when my bid has failed. If that should happen-not that I believe it shall-then I will, of my own volition, lend my support to one of the other candidates, for I have no more desire than you to see a grimstnzborith elected who is hostile to the Varden. And if I should help promote another to the throne, the status and prestige I will place at the service of that clan chief shall, of its very nature, include your own, since you are Ingeitum. Will you trust me, Eragon? Will you accept me as your grimstborith, as the rest of my hall-sworn subjects do?"

Eragon groaned and leaned his head against the rough tree and peered up at the crooked, bone-white branches wreathed in mist. Trust Trust. Of all the things Orik could have asked of him, that was the most difficult to grant. Eragon liked Orik, but to subordinate himself to the dwarf's authority when so much was at stake would be to relinquish even more of his freedom, a prospect he loathed. And along with his freedom, he would also be relinquishing part of his responsibility for the fate of Alagaesia. Eragon felt as if he were hanging off the edge of a precipice and Orik was trying to convince him there was a ledge only a few feet below him, but Eragon could not bring himself to release his grip, for fear he would fall to his doom.

He said, "I would not be a mindless servant for you to order about. When it came to matters of Durgrimst Ingeitum, I would defer to you, but in all else, you would have no hold over me."

Orik nodded, his face serious. "I'm not worried about what mission Nasuada might send you on, nor whom you might kill while fighting the Empire. No, what gives me restless nights when I ought to be sleeping sound as Arghen in his cave is imagining you attempting to influence the clanmeet's voting. Your intentions are n.o.ble, I know, but n.o.ble or not, you are unfamiliar with our politics, no matter how well Nasuada may have schooled you. This is mine area of expertise, Eragon. Let me conduct it in the manner I deem appropriate. It is what Hrothgar groomed me for my entire life."

Eragon sighed, and with a sensation of falling, he said, "Very well. I will do as you think best about the succession, Grimstborith Orik."

A broad smile spread across Orik's face. He tightened his grip on Eragon's forearms, then released him, saying, "Ah, thank you, Eragon. You don't know what this means to me. It is good of you, very good of you, and I won't forget it, not if I live to be two hundred years old and my beard grows so long, it drags in the dirt."

Despite himself, Eragon chuckled. "Well, I hope it doesn't grow that long. You would trip over it all the time!"

"Perhaps I would at that," said Orik, laughing. "Besides, I rather think Hvedra would cut it short once it reached my knees. She has very definite opinions about the proper length of a beard."

Orik led the way as the two of them departed the forest of stone trees, striding through the colorless mist that swirled among the calcified trunks. They rejoined Orik's twelve warriors, then began to descend the side of Mount Thardur. At the bottom of the valley, they continued in a straight line to the other side, and there the dwarves brought Eragon to a tunnel hidden so cleverly within the rock face, he never would have found the entrance on his own.

It was with regret that Eragon left behind the pale sunshine and fresh mountain air for the darkness of the tunnel. The pa.s.sageway was eight feet wide and six feet high-which made it feel quite low to Eragon-and like all the dwarf tunnels he had visited, it was as straight as an arrow for as far as he could see. He looked back over his shoulder just in time to see the dwarf Farr swing closed the hinged slab of granite that served as a door to the tunnel, plunging their party into night. A moment later, fourteen glowing orbs of differing colors appeared as the dwarves removed flameless lanterns from their saddlebags. Orik handed one to Eragon.

Then they started forward under the roots of the mountain, and the ponies' hooves filled the tunnel with clashing echoes that seemed to shout at them like angry wraiths. Eragon grimaced, knowing they would have to listen to the din all the way to Farthen Dur, for that was where the tunnel ended, many leagues thence. He hunched his shoulders and tightened his grip on the straps of his pack and wished he were with Saphira, flying high above the ground.

THE L LAUGHING D DEAD Roran squatted and gazed through the latticework of willow branches.

Two hundred yards away, fifty-three soldiers and wagon drivers sat around three separate cookfires, eating their dinner as dusk rapidly settled over the land. The men had stopped for the night on the broad, gra.s.s-covered bank next to a nameless river. The wagons full of supplies for Galbatorix's troops were parked in a rough half circle around the fires. Scores of hobbled oxen grazed behind the camp, lowing occasionally to each other. Twenty yards or so downstream, however, a soft earth shelf reared high out of the ground, which prevented any attack or escape from that quarter.

What were they thinking? Roran wondered. It was only prudent, when in hostile territory, to camp in a defensible location, which usually meant finding a natural formation to protect your back. Even so, you had to be careful to choose a resting place you could flee from if ambushed. As it was, it would be childishly easy for Roran and the other warriors under Martland's command to sweep out of the brush where they were hiding and pin the men of the Empire in the tip of the V formed by the earthen shelf and the river, where they could pick off the soldiers and drivers at their leisure. It puzzled Roran that trained soldiers would make such an obvious mistake. Roran wondered. It was only prudent, when in hostile territory, to camp in a defensible location, which usually meant finding a natural formation to protect your back. Even so, you had to be careful to choose a resting place you could flee from if ambushed. As it was, it would be childishly easy for Roran and the other warriors under Martland's command to sweep out of the brush where they were hiding and pin the men of the Empire in the tip of the V formed by the earthen shelf and the river, where they could pick off the soldiers and drivers at their leisure. It puzzled Roran that trained soldiers would make such an obvious mistake. Maybe they are from a city, Maybe they are from a city, he thought. he thought. Or maybe they are merely inexperienced Or maybe they are merely inexperienced. He frowned. Then why would they be entrusted with such a crucial mission? Then why would they be entrusted with such a crucial mission?

"Have you detected any traps?" he asked. He did not have to turn his head to know that Carn was close beside him, as well as Halmar and two other men. Save the four swordsmen who had joined Martland's company to replace those who had died or been irreparably wounded during their last engagement, Roran had fought alongside all of the men in their group. While he did not like every single one, he trusted them with his life, as he knew they trusted him. It was a bond that transcended age or upbringing. After his first battle, Roran had been surprised by how close he felt to his companions, as well as by how warm they were to him in turn.

"None that I can tell," murmured Carn. "But then-"

"They may have invented new spells you cannot detect, yes, yes. Is there a magician with them, though?"

"I can't tell for sure, but no, I don't think so."

Roran pushed away a shock of narrow willow leaves to better see the layout of the wagons. "I don't like it," he grumbled. "A magician accompanied the other convoy. Why not this one?"

"There are fewer of us than you might imagine."

"Mmh." Roran scratched his beard, still bothered by the soldiers' apparent disregard of common sense. Could they be trying to invite an attack? They don't seem prepared for one, but appearances are hardly everything. What sort of trap could they have prepared for us? No one else is within thirty leagues, and Murtagh and Thorn were last spotted flying north from Feinster Could they be trying to invite an attack? They don't seem prepared for one, but appearances are hardly everything. What sort of trap could they have prepared for us? No one else is within thirty leagues, and Murtagh and Thorn were last spotted flying north from Feinster. "Send the signal," he said. "But tell Martland it bothers me they camped here. Either they're idiots or they have some sort of defense invisible to us: magic or other trickery of the king."

Silence, then: "I sent it. Martland says he shares your concern, but unless you want to run back to Nasuada with your tail tucked between your legs, we try our luck."

Roran grunted and turned away from the soldiers. He gestured with his chin, and the other men scampered with him on hands and knees to where they had left their horses.

Standing, Roran mounted Snowfire.

"Whoa, steady, boy," he whispered, petting Snowfire as the stallion tossed his head. In the dim light, Snowfire's mane and hide gleamed like silver. Not for the first time, Roran wished his horse were a less visible shade, a nice bay or chestnut perhaps.

Taking his shield from where it hung by his saddle, Roran fit his left arm through the straps, then pulled his hammer from his belt.

He dry-swallowed, a familiar tightness between his shoulders, and readjusted his grip on the hammer.

When the five men were ready, Carn raised a finger and his eyelids drifted half closed and his lips twitched, as if he were talking with himself. A cricket sounded nearby.

Carn's eyelids snapped open. "Remember, keep your gaze directed downward until your vision adjusts, and even then, don't look at the sky." Then he began to chant in the ancient language, incomprehensible words that shivered with power.

Roran covered himself with his shield and squinted at his saddle as a pure white light, bright as the noonday sun, illuminated the landscape. The stark glow originated from a point somewhere above the camp; Roran resisted the temptation to see exactly where.

Shouting, he kicked Snowfire in the ribs and hunched over the horse's neck as his steed leaped forward. On either side, Carn and the other warriors did the same, brandishing their weapons. Branches tore at Roran's head and shoulders, and then Snowfire broke free of the trees and raced toward the camp at full gallop.

Two other groups of hors.e.m.e.n also thundered toward the camp, one led by Martland, the other Ulhart.

The soldiers and drivers cried out in alarm and covered their eyes. Staggering about like blind men, they scrabbled after their weapons while trying to position themselves to repel the attack.

Roran made no attempt to slow Snowfire. Spurring the stallion once more, he rose high in the stirrups and held on with all his strength as Snowfire jumped over the slight gap between two wagons. His teeth clattered as they landed. Snowfire kicked dirt into one of the fires, sending up a burst of sparks.

The rest of Roran's group jumped the wagons as well. Knowing they would attend to the soldiers behind him, Roran concentrated on those in front. Aiming Snowfire at one of the men, he jabbed at the soldier with the end of his hammer and broke the man's nose, splashing crimson blood across his face. Roran dispatched the man with a second blow to the head, then parried a sword from another soldier.