Eragon: Book One (The Inheritance cycle 1)
Eragon: Chapter 57

SAPHIRA WOKE ERAGON with a sharp rap of her snout, bruising him with her hard jaw. “Ouch!” he exclaimed, sitting upright. The cave was dark except for a faint glow emanating from the shuttered lantern. Outside in the dragonhold, Isidar Mithrim glittered with a thousand different colors, illuminated by its girdle of lanterns.

An agitated dwarf stood in the entrance to the cave, wringing his hands. “You must come, Argetlam! Great trouble—Ajihad summons you. There is no time!”

“What’s wrong?” asked Eragon.

The dwarf only shook his head, beard wagging. “Go, you must! Carkna bragha! Now!”

Eragon belted on Zar’roc, grabbed his bow and arrows, then strapped the saddle onto Saphira. So much for a good night’s sleep, she groused, crouching low to the floor so he could clamber onto her back. He yawned loudly as Saphira launched herself from the cave.

Orik was waiting for them with a grim expression when they landed at Tronjheim’s gates. “Come, the others are waiting.” He led them through Tronjheim to Ajihad’s study. On the way, Eragon plied him with questions, but Orik would only say, “I don’t know enough myself—wait until you hear Ajihad.”

The large study door was opened by a pair of burly guards. Ajihad stood behind his desk, bleakly inspecting a map. Arya and a man with wiry arms were there as well. Ajihad looked up. “Good, you’re here, Eragon. Meet Jörmundur, my second in command.”

They acknowledged each other, then turned their attention to Ajihad. “I roused the five of you because we are all in grave danger. About half an hour ago a dwarf ran out of an abandoned tunnel under Tronjheim. He was bleeding and nearly incoherent, but he had enough sense left to tell the dwarves what was pursuing him: an army of Urgals, maybe a day’s march from here.”

Shocked silence filled the study. Then Jörmundur swore explosively and began asking questions at the same time Orik did. Arya remained silent. Ajihad raised his hands. “Quiet! There is more. The Urgals aren’t approaching over land, but under it. They’re in the tunnels … we’re going to be attacked from below.”

Eragon raised his voice in the din that followed. “Why didn’t the dwarves know about this sooner? How did the Urgals replace the tunnels?”

“We’re lucky to know about it this early!” bellowed Orik. Everyone stopped talking to hear him. “There are hundreds of tunnels throughout the Beor Mountains, uninhabited since the day they were mined. The only dwarves who go in them are eccentrics who don’t want contact with anyone. We could have just as easily received no warning at all.”

Ajihad pointed at the map, and Eragon moved closer. The map depicted the southern half of Alagaësia, but unlike Eragon’s, it showed the entire Beor Mountain range in detail. Ajihad’s finger was on the section of the Beor Mountains that touched Surda’s eastern border. “This,” he said, “is where the dwarf claimed to have come from.”

“Orthíad!” exclaimed Orik. At Jörmundur’s puzzled inquiry, he explained, “It’s an ancient dwelling of ours that was deserted when Tronjheim was completed. During its time it was the greatest of our cities. But no one’s lived there for centuries.”

“And it’s old enough for some of the tunnels to have collapsed,” said Ajihad. “That’s how we surmise it was discovered from the surface. I suspect that Orthíad is now being called Ithrö Zhâda. That’s where the Urgal column that was chasing Eragon and Saphira was supposed to go, and I’m sure it’s where the Urgals have been migrating all year. From Ithrö Zhâda they can travel anywhere they want in the Beor Mountains. They have the power to destroy both the Varden and the dwarves.”

Jörmundur bent over the map, eyeing it carefully. “Do you know how many Urgals there are? Are Galbatorix’s troops with them? We can’t plan a defense without knowing how large their army is.”

Ajihad replied unhappily, “We’re unsure about both those things, yet our survival rests on that last question. If Galbatorix has augmented the Urgals’ ranks with his own men, we don’t stand a chance. But if he hasn’t—because he still doesn’t want his alliance with the Urgals revealed, or for some other reason—it’s possible we can win. Neither Orrin nor the elves can help us at this late hour. Even so, I sent runners to both of them with news of our plight. At the very least they won’t be caught by surprise if we fall.”

He drew a hand across his coal-black brow. “I’ve already talked with Hrothgar, and we’ve decided on a course of action. Our only hope is to contain the Urgals in three of the larger tunnels and channel them into Farthen Dûr so they don’t swarm inside Tronjheim like locusts.

“I need you, Eragon and Arya, to help the dwarves collapse extraneous tunnels. The job is too big for normal means. Two groups of dwarves are already working on it: one outside Tronjheim, the other beneath it. Eragon, you’re to work with the group outside. Arya, you’ll be with the one underground; Orik will guide you to them.”

“Why not collapse all the tunnels instead of leaving the large ones untouched?” asked Eragon.

“Because,” said Orik, “that would force the Urgals to clear away the rubble, and they might decide to go in a direction we don’t want them to. Plus, if we cut ourselves off, they could attack other dwarf cities—which we wouldn’t be able to assist in time.”

“There’s also another reason,” said Ajihad. “Hrothgar warned me that Tronjheim sits on such a dense network of tunnels that if too many are weakened, sections of the city will sink into the ground under their own weight. We can’t risk that.”

Jörmundur listened intently, then asked, “So there won’t be any fighting inside Tronjheim? You said the Urgals would be channeled outside the city, into Farthen Dûr.”

Ajihad responded quickly, “That’s right. We can’t defend Tronjheim’s entire perimeter—it’s too big for our forces—so we’re going to seal all the passageways and gates leading into it. That will force the Urgals out onto the flats surrounding Tronjheim, where there’s plenty of maneuvering room for our armies. Since the Urgals have access to the tunnels, we cannot risk an extended battle. As long as they are here, we will be in constant danger of them quarrying up through Tronjheim’s floor. If that happens, we’ll be trapped, attacked from both the outside and inside. We have to prevent the Urgals from taking Tronjheim. If they secure it, it’s doubtful we will have the strength to roust them.”

“And what of our families?” asked Jörmundur. “I won’t see my wife and son murdered by Urgals.”

The lines deepened on Ajihad’s face. “All the women and children are being evacuated into the surrounding valleys. If we are defeated, they have guides who will take them to Surda. That’s all I can do, under the circumstances.”

Jörmundur struggled to hide his relief. “Sir, is Nasuada going as well?”

“She is not pleased, but yes.” All eyes were on Ajihad as he squared his shoulders and announced, “The Urgals will arrive in a matter of hours. We know their numbers are great, but we must hold Farthen Dûr. Failure will mean the dwarves’ downfall, death to the Varden—and eventual defeat for Surda and the elves. This is one battle we cannot lose. Now go and complete your tasks! Jörmundur, ready the men to fight.”

They left the study and scattered: Jörmundur to the barracks, Orik and Arya to the stairs leading underground, and Eragon and Saphira down one of Tronjheim’s four main halls. Despite the early hour, the city-mountain swarmed like an anthill. People were running, shouting messages, and carrying bundles of belongings.

Eragon had fought and killed before, but the battle that awaited them sent stabs of fear into his chest. He had never had a chance to anticipate a fight. Now that he did, it filled him with dread. He was confident when facing only a few opponents—he knew he could easily defeat three or four Urgals with Zar’roc and magic—but in a large conflict, anything could happen.

They exited Tronjheim and looked for the dwarves they were supposed to help. Without the sun or moon, the inside of Farthen Dûr was dark as lampblack, punctuated by glittering lanterns bobbing jerkily in the crater. Perhaps they’re on the far side of Tronjheim, suggested Saphira. Eragon agreed and swung onto her back.

They glided around Tronjheim until a clump of lanterns came into sight. Saphira angled toward them, then with no more than a whisper landed beside a group of startled dwarves who were busy digging with pickaxes. Eragon quickly explained why he was there. A sharp-nosed dwarf told him, “There’s a tunnel about four yards directly underneath us. Any help you could give us would be appreciated.”

“If you clear the area over the tunnel, I’ll see what I can do.” The sharp-nosed dwarf looked doubtful, but ordered the diggers off the site.

Breathing slowly, Eragon prepared to use magic. It might be possible to actually move all the dirt off the tunnel, but he needed to conserve his strength for later. Instead, he would try to collapse the tunnel by applying force to weak sections of its ceiling.

“Thrysta deloi,” he whispered and sent tentacles of power into the soil. Almost immediately they encountered rock. He ignored it and reached farther down until he felt the hollow emptiness of the tunnel. Then he began searching for flaws in the rock. Every time he found one, he pushed on it, elongating and widening it. It was strenuous work, but no more than it would have been to split the stone by hand. He made no visible progress—a fact that was not lost on the impatient dwarves.

Eragon persevered. Before long he was rewarded by a resounding crack that could be heard clearly on the surface. There was a persistent screech, then the ground slid inward like water draining from a tub, leaving a gaping hole seven yards across.

As the delighted dwarves walled off the tunnel with rubble, the sharp-nosed dwarf led Eragon to the next tunnel. This one was much more difficult to collapse, but he managed to duplicate the feat. Over the next few hours, he collapsed over a half-dozen tunnels throughout Farthen Dûr, with Saphira’s help.

Light crept into the small patch of sky above them as he worked. It was not enough to see by, but it bolstered Eragon’s confidence. He turned away from the crumpled ruins of the latest tunnel and surveyed the land with interest.

A mass exodus of women and children, along with the Varden’s elders, streamed out of Tronjheim. Everyone carried loads of provisions, clothes, and belongings. A small group of warriors, predominantly boys and old men, accompanied them.

Most of the activity, however, was at the base of Tronjheim, where the Varden and dwarves were assembling their army, which was divided into three battalions. Each section bore the Varden’s standard: a white dragon holding a rose above a sword pointing downward on a purple field.

The men were silent, ironfisted. Their hair flowed loosely from under their helmets. Many warriors had only a sword and a shield, but there were several ranks of spear- and pikemen. In the rear of the battalions, archers tested their bowstrings.

The dwarves were garbed in heavy battle gear. Burnished steel hauberks hung to their knees, and thick roundshields, stamped with the crests of their clan, rested on their left arms. Short swords were sheathed at their waists, while in their right hands they carried mattocks or war axes. Their legs were covered with extra-fine mail. They wore iron caps and brass-studded boots.

A small figure detached itself from the far battalion and hurried toward Eragon and Saphira. It was Orik, clad like the other dwarves. “Ajihad wants you to join the army,” he said. “There are no more tunnels to cave in. Food is waiting for both of you.”

Eragon and Saphira accompanied Orik to a tent, where they found bread and water for Eragon and a pile of dried meat for Saphira. They ate it without complaint; it was better than going hungry.

When they finished, Orik told them to wait and disappeared into the battalion’s ranks. He returned, leading a line of dwarves burdened with tall piles of plate armor. Orik lifted a section of it and handed it to Eragon.

“What is this?” asked Eragon, fingering the polished metal. The armor was intricately wrought with engraving and gold filigree. It was an inch thick in places and very heavy. No man could fight under that much weight. And there were far too many pieces for one person.

“A gift from Hrothgar,” said Orik, looking pleased with himself. “It has lain so long among our other treasures that it was almost forgotten. It was forged in another age, before the fall of the Riders.”

“But what’s it for?” asked Eragon.

“Why, it’s dragon armor, of course! You don’t think that dragons went into battle unprotected? Complete sets are rare because they took so long to make and because dragons were always growing. Still, Saphira isn’t too big yet, so this should fit her reasonably well.”

Dragon armor! As Saphira nosed one of the pieces, Eragon asked, What do you think?

Let’s try it on, she said, a fierce gleam in her eye.

After a good deal of struggling, Eragon and Orik stepped back to admire the result. Saphira’s entire neck—except for the spikes along its ridge—was covered with triangular scales of overlapping armor. Her belly and chest were protected by the heaviest plates, while the lightest ones were on her tail. Her legs and back were completely encased. Her wings were left bare. A single molded plate lay on top of her head, leaving her lower jaw free to bite and snap.

Saphira arched her neck experimentally, and the armor flexed smoothly with her. This will slow me down, but it’ll help stop the arrows. How do I look?

Very intimidating, replied Eragon truthfully. That pleased her.

Orik picked up the remaining items from the ground. “I brought you armor as well, though it took much searching to replace your size. We rarely forge arms for men or elves. I don’t know who this was made for, but it has never been used and should serve you well.”

Over Eragon’s head went a stiff shirt of leather-backed mail that fell to his knees like a skirt. It rested heavily on his shoulders and clinked when he moved. He belted Zar’roc over it, which helped keep the mail from swinging. On his head went a leather cap, then a mail coif, and finally a gold-and-silver helm. Bracers were strapped to his forearms, and greaves to his lower legs. For his hands there were mail-backed gloves. Last, Orik handed him a broad shield emblazoned with an oak tree.

Knowing that what he and Saphira had been given was worth several fortunes, Eragon bowed and said, “Thank you for these gifts. Hrothgar’s presents are greatly appreciated.”

“Don’t give thanks now,” said Orik with a chuckle. “Wait until the armor saves your life.”

The warriors around them began marching away. The three battalions were repositioning themselves in different parts of Farthen Dûr. Unsure of what they should do, Eragon looked at Orik, who shrugged and said, “I suppose we should accompany them.” They trailed behind a battalion as it headed toward the crater wall. Eragon asked about the Urgals, but Orik only knew that scouts had been posted underground in the tunnels and that nothing had been seen or heard yet.

The battalion halted at one of the collapsed tunnels. The dwarves had piled the rubble so that anyone inside the tunnel could easily climb out. This must be one of the places they’re going to force the Urgals to surface, Saphira pointed out.

Hundreds of lanterns were fixed atop poles and stuck into the ground. They provided a great pool of light that glowed like an evening sun. Fires blazed along the rim of the tunnel’s roof, huge cauldrons of pitch heating over them. Eragon looked away, fighting back revulsion. It was a terrible way to kill anyone, even an Urgal.

Rows of sharpened saplings were being pounded into the ground to provide a thorny barrier between the battalion and the tunnel. Eragon saw an opportunity to help and joined a group of men digging trenches between the saplings. Saphira assisted as well, scooping out the dirt with her giant claws. While they labored, Orik left to supervise the construction of a barricade to shield the archers. Eragon drank gratefully from the wineskin whenever it was passed around. After the trenches were finished and filled with pointed stakes, Saphira and Eragon rested.

Orik returned to replace them seated together. He wiped his brow. “All the men and dwarves are on the battlefield. Tronjheim has been sealed off. Hrothgar has taken charge of the battalion to our left. Ajihad leads the one ahead of us.”

“Who commands this one?”

“Jörmundur.” Orik sat with a grunt and placed his war ax on the ground.

Saphira nudged Eragon. Look. His hand tightened on Zar’roc as he saw Murtagh, helmed, carrying a dwarven shield and his hand-and-a-half sword, approaching with Tornac.

Orik cursed and leapt to his feet, but Murtagh said quickly, “It’s all right; Ajihad released me.”

“Why would he do that?” demanded Orik.

Murtagh smiled wryly. “He said this was an opportunity to prove my good intentions. Apparently, he doesn’t think I would be able to do much damage even if I did turn on the Varden.”

Eragon nodded in welcome, relaxing his grip. Murtagh was an excellent and merciless fighter—exactly whom Eragon wanted by his side during battle.

“How do we know you’re not lying?” asked Orik.

“Because I say so,” announced a firm voice. Ajihad strode into their midst, armed for battle with a breastplate and an ivory-handled sword. He put a strong hand on Eragon’s shoulder and drew him away where the others could not hear. He cast an eye over Eragon’s armor. “Good, Orik outfitted you.”

“Yes … has anything been seen in the tunnels?”

“Nothing.” Ajihad leaned on his sword. “One of the Twins is staying in Tronjheim. He’s going to watch the battle from the dragonhold and relay information through his brother to me. I know you can speak with your mind. I need you to tell the Twins anything, anything, unusual that you see while fighting. Also, I’ll relay orders to you through them. Do you understand?”

The thought of being linked to the Twins filled Eragon with loathing, but he knew it was necessary. “I do.”

Ajihad paused. “You’re not a foot soldier or horseman, nor any other type of warrior I’m used to commanding. Battle may prove differently, but I think you and Saphira will be safer on the ground. In the air, you’ll be a choice target for Urgal archers. Will you fight from Saphira’s back?”

Eragon had never been in combat on horseback, much less on Saphira. “I’m not sure what we’ll do. When I’m on Saphira, I’m up too high to fight all but a Kull.”

“There will be plenty of Kull, I’m afraid,” said Ajihad. He straightened, pulling his sword out of the ground. “The only advice I can give you is to avoid unnecessary risks. The Varden cannot afford to lose you.” With that, he turned and left.

Eragon returned to Orik and Murtagh and hunkered next to Saphira, leaning his shield against his knees. The four of them waited in silence like the hundreds of warriors around them. Light from Farthen Dûr’s opening waned as the sun crept below the crater rim.

Eragon turned to scan the encampment and froze, heart jolting. About thirty feet away sat Arya with her bow in her lap. Though he knew it was unreasonable, he had hoped she might accompany the other women out of Farthen Dûr. Concerned, he hastened to her. “You will fight?”

“I do what I must,” Arya said calmly.

“But it’s too dangerous!”

Her face darkened. “Do not pamper me, human. Elves train both their men and women to fight. I am not one of your helpless females to run away whenever there is danger. I was given the task of protecting Saphira’s egg … which I failed. My breoal is dishonored and would be further shamed if I did not guard you and Saphira on this field. You forget that I am stronger with magic than any here, including you. If the Shade comes, who can defeat him but me? And who else has the right?”

Eragon stared at her helplessly, knowing she was right and hating the fact. “Then stay safe.” Out of desperation, he added in the ancient language, “Wiol pömnuria ilian.” For my happiness.

Arya turned her gaze away uneasily, the fringe of her hair obscuring her face. She ran a hand along her polished bow, then murmured, “It is my wyrd to be here. The debt must be paid.”

He abruptly retreated to Saphira. Murtagh looked at him curiously. “What did she say?”

“Nothing.”

Wrapped in their own thoughts, the defenders sank into a brooding silence as the hours crawled by. Farthen Dûr’s crater again grew black, except for the sanguine lantern glow and the fires heating the pitch. Eragon alternated between myopically examining the links of his mail and spying on Arya. Orik repeatedly ran a whetstone over the blade of his ax, periodically eyeing the edge between strokes; the rasp of metal on stone was irritating. Murtagh just stared into the distance.

Occasionally, messengers ran through the encampment, causing the warriors to surge to their feet. But it always proved to be a false alarm. The men and dwarves became strained; angry voices were often heard. The worst part about Farthen Dûr was the lack of wind—the air was dead, motionless. Even when it grew warm and stifling and filled with smoke, there was no reprieve.

As the night dragged on, the battlefield stilled, silent as death. Muscles stiffened from the waiting. Eragon stared blankly into the darkness with heavy eyelids. He shook himself to alertness and tried to focus through his stupor.

Finally Orik said, “It’s late. We should sleep. If anything happens, the others will wake us.” Murtagh grumbled, but Eragon was too tired to complain. He curled up against Saphira, using his shield as a pillow. As his eyes closed, he saw that Arya was still awake, watching over them.

His dreams were confused and disturbing, full of horned beasts and unseen menaces. Over and over he heard a deep voice ask, “Are you ready?” But he never had an answer. Plagued by such visions, his sleep was shallow and uneasy until something touched his arm. He woke with a start.