Inheritance by Christopher Paolini
Werecats and elves gathered around Roran. Behind them, he was half-aware of the warriors he had brought with him holding off the soldiers, along with Jörmundur’s men.
Just when Roran was beginning to think that Barst’s wards would never give way, one of the Kull uttered a triumphant shout, and Roran saw the creature’s ax glance off the front of Barst’s armor, denting it.
“Again!” shouted Roran. “Now! Kill him!”
The Kull lifted his ax out of the way, and Garzhvog swung his ironbound club toward Barst’s head.
Roran saw a flurry of motion, and then there was a loud thud as the club struck Barst’s shield, which the man had pulled over himself.
Blast it!
Before the Urgals could attack again, Barst rolled up against the legs of one of the Kull, and his hand latched on to the back of the Kull’s right knee. The Kull bellowed with pain and hopped backward, pulling Barst out of the knot of Kull.
The Urgals and two elves closed in around Barst once more, and for a number of heartbeats, it seemed as if they might subdue him.
Then one of the elves went flying, her neck crooked at an odd angle. A Kull fell onto his side, shouting in his native language. Bone protruded from his left forearm. Garzhvog snarled and jumped back, blood streaming from a fist-sized hole in his side.
No! thought Roran, going cold. It can’t end like this. I won’t let it!
Shouting, he ran forward and slipped between two of the giant Urgals. He barely had time to see Barst—bloody and enraged, with his shield in one hand and a sword in the other—before Barst swung his shield and struck Roran on the left side of his body.
The air rushed out of Roran’s lungs, and the sky and the ground spun around him, and he felt his helmet-covered head bouncing against the cobblestones.
The world seemed to keep moving beneath him even when he rolled to a stop.
He lay where he was for a time, struggling to breathe. At last he was able to fill his lungs with air, and he thought he had never been so grateful for anything as he was for that breath. He gasped. Then he howled as his body filled with pain. His left arm felt numb, but every other muscle and sinew burned with agony.
He tried to push himself upright and fell back onto his stomach, too dizzy and hurt to stand. Before him was a fragment of yellowish stone, veined with coiled branches of red agate. He stared at it for a while, panting, and the whole time, the only thought running through his mind was: Have to get up. Have to get up. Have to get up. …
When he felt ready, he tried again. His left arm refused to work, so he was forced to rely on his right alone. Hard as it was, he got his legs underneath him, and then he slowly rose to his feet, shaking and unable to take more than shallow breaths.
As he straightened, something pulled in his left shoulder, and he uttered a silent scream. It felt as if a red-hot knife were buried in the joint. Looking down, he saw that his arm was dislocated. Of his shield, nothing remained but a splintered board still attached to the strap around his forearm.
Roran turned, searching for Barst, and saw the man thirty yards away, covered in clawing werecats.
Satisfied that Barst would be occupied for at least a few more seconds, Roran returned his gaze to his dislocated arm. At first he could not remember what his mother had taught him, but then her words returned to him, faint and blurred by the passage of time. He pulled off the remnants of his shield.
“Make a fist,” mumbled Roran, and he did so with his left hand. “Bend your arm so your fist points forward.” That he did, though it worsened his pain. “Then turn your arm outward, away from your …” He screamed a curse as his shoulder grated, the muscles and tendons pulling in ways they were not supposed to stretch. He kept turning his arm and he kept clenching his fist, and after a few seconds, the bone popped back into the socket.
His relief was immediate. He still hurt elsewhere—especially his lower back and ribs—but at least he could use his arm again, and the pain was not so excruciating.
Then Roran looked toward Barst again.
What he saw sickened him.
Barst was standing in a circle of dead werecats. Blood streaked his dented breastplate, and clumps of fur clung to his mace, which he had retrieved. His cheeks were scratched deeply, and the right sleeve of his mail hauberk was torn, but otherwise he appeared unharmed. The few werecats who still faced him were careful to keep their distance, and it looked to Roran as if they were about to turn tail and run. Behind Barst lay the bodies of the Kull and the elves he had been fighting. All of Roran’s warriors seemed to have disappeared, for none but soldiers surrounded Roran, Barst, and the werecats: a seething mass of crimson tunics, the men pushing and shoving as they struggled against the eddies of the battle.
“Shoot him!” Roran shouted, but no one seemed to hear.
Barst noticed, however, and he began to lumber toward Roran. “Lackhammer!” he roared. “I’ll have your head for this!”
Roran saw a spear on the ground. He knelt and picked it up. The motion made him light-headed. “Let’s see you try!” he replied. But the words sounded hollow, and his mind filled with thoughts of Katrina and their child who was yet to be.
Then one of the werecats—who was in the form of a white-haired woman no taller than Roran’s elbow—ran forward and cut Barst along the side of his left thigh.
Barst snarled and twisted, but the werecat was already retreating, hissing at him while she did. A moment more Barst waited, to ensure that she would not trouble him again, and then he continued walking toward Roran, limping now as his new wound exacerbated the hitch in his stride. Blood sheeted down his leg.
Roran wet his lips, unable to look away from his approaching foe. He had only the spear. He had no shield. He could not outrun Barst, and he could not hope to match Barst’s unnatural strength or speed. Nor was there anyone nearby to help him.
It was an impossible situation, but Roran refused to admit defeat. He had given up once before, and he would never do so again, even though reason told him that he was about to die.
Then Barst was upon him, and Roran stabbed at his right knee, in the desperate hope that he might by some chance cripple him. Barst deflected the spear with his mace, then swung at Roran.
Roran had anticipated the counterattack and was already stumbling backward as fast as his legs would allow. A gust of wind touched his face as the head of the mace swept past, inches from his skin.
Barst showed his teeth in a grim smile, and he was about to strike again when a shadow fell on him from above, and he looked up.
Islanzadí’s white raven dropped out of the sky and landed on Barst’s face. The raven screeched with fury as it pecked and clawed at Barst, and Roran was astonished to hear the raven say, “Die! Die! Die!”
Barst swore and dropped his shield. With his free hand, he batted the raven away, breaking its already-injured wing. Ribbons of flesh hung loose from his brow, and blood painted his cheeks and chin crimson.
Roran lunged forward and stabbed Barst’s other hand with his spear, causing Barst to drop his mace as well.
Then Roran seized his chance and stabbed at Barst’s exposed throat. However, Barst caught the spear with one hand, tore it from Roran’s grip, and broke it between his fingers as easily as Roran might break a dry twig.
“Now you die,” said Barst, spitting blood. His lips were torn and his right eye was ruined, but he could still see out of his remaining orb.
The man reached for Roran, seeking to envelop him in a deadly embrace. Roran could not have escaped even if he had wanted to, but as Barst’s arms closed about him, Roran grasped Barst’s waist and twisted with all his might, putting as much weight and pressure as he could on Barst’s wounded leg, the leg with the hitch.
Barst held for a moment; then his knee buckled, and with a cry of pain, he fell forward onto one leg and caught himself with his left hand. Squirming around, Roran slipped out from under Barst’s right arm. The blood on Barst’s breastplate made it that much easier to w
Roran tried to grab Barst’s throat from behind, but Barst tucked his chin, preventing Roran from getting a grip. So, instead, Roran wrapped his arms around Barst’s chest, hoping to restrain him until someone else could help kill him.
Barst growled and threw himself onto his side, jarring Roran’s injured shoulder and causing him to grunt with pain. The cobblestones dug into Roran’s arms and back as Barst rolled three times. When the bulk of the man was atop him, Roran had trouble breathing. Yet still Roran maintained his grip. One of Barst’s elbows slammed into his side, and Roran felt several of his ribs break.
Roran clenched his teeth and tightened his arms, squeezing as hard as he could.
Katrina, he thought.
Again Barst’s elbow slammed into him.
Roran howled, and flashing lights appeared before his eyes. He squeezed even harder.
Again the elbow, like an anvil pounding into his side.
“You … shall … not … win, … Lackhammer,” grunted Barst. He staggered to his feet, dragging Roran with him.
Though he thought he might tear the muscles from his bones, Roran tightened his embrace even further. He screamed, but he could not hear his voice, and he felt veins pop and tendons snap.
And then Barst’s breastplate caved in, giving way where the Kull had dented it, and there was the sound of crystal breaking.
“No!” shouted Barst even as a pure white light erupted from the edges of his armor. He went rigid, as if chains had pulled every limb to its farthest reach, and he began to shake uncontrollably.
The light blinded Roran and burned his arms and face. He released Barst and fell to the ground, where he covered his eyes with his forearm.
The light continued to pour out from under Barst’s breastplate until the edges of the metal began to glow. Then the blaze ceased, leaving the world darker than before, and what little remained of Lord Barst tumbled backward and lay smoking on the cobblestones.
Roran blinked as he stared at the featureless sky. He knew he should rise, for there were soldiers nearby, but the cobblestones seemed soft beneath him, and all he really wanted to do was to close his eyes and rest. …
When he next opened his eyes, he saw Orik and Horst and a number of elves gathered around him.
“Roran, can you hear me?” said Horst, peering at him with concern.
Roran tried to speak, but he could not form the words.
“Can you hear me? Listen to me. You have to stay awake. Roran! Roran!”
Again Roran felt himself sinking into blackness. It was a comforting sensation, like wrapping himself in a soft woolen blanket. Warmth spread through him, and the last thing he remembered was Orik bending over him and saying something in Dwarvish that sounded like a prayer.
THE GIFT OF KNOWLEDGE
EYES LOCKED, ERAGON and Murtagh slowly circled each other, trying to anticipate where and how the other would move. Murtagh appeared fit as ever, but there were dark circles under his eyes and his face was haggard; Eragon suspected that he had been under a great strain. He wore the same pieces of armor as did Eragon: mail hauberk, gauntlets, bracers, and greaves, but his shield was longer and thinner than Eragon’s. As for their swords, Brisingr, with its hand-and-a-half hilt, had the advantage of length, while Zar’roc, with its wider blade, had the advantage of weight.
They began to edge closer, and when they were about ten feet apart, Murtagh, who had his back to Galbatorix, said in a low, anger-filled voice, “What are you doing?”
“Buying time,” Eragon muttered, keeping his lips as still as possible.
Murtagh scowled. “You’re a fool. He’ll watch us cut each other to shreds, and what will it change? Nothing.”
Instead of answering, Eragon shifted his weight forward and twitched his sword arm, causing Murtagh to flinch in response.
“Blast you,” growled Murtagh. “If you had waited just one more day, I could have freed Nasuada.”
That surprised Eragon. “Why should I believe you?”
The question angered Murtagh further, for his lip curled and he quickened his step, causing Eragon to increase his pace as well. Then, in a louder tone, Murtagh said, “So, you finally found a proper sword for yourself. The elves made it for you, didn’t they?”
“You know they d—”
Murtagh lunged toward him, swinging Zar’roc at his gut, and Eragon skipped backward, barely parrying the red sword.
Eragon replied with a looping, overhead blow—he allowed his hand to slide down to Brisingr’s pommel to give himself more reach—and Murtagh danced out of the way.
They both paused to see if the other would attack again. When neither did, they resumed circling, Eragon more wary than before.
From their exchange, it was obvious that Murtagh was still as fast and as strong as Eragon—or an elf. Galbatorix’s prohibition on the use of magic apparently did not extend to the spells that fortified Murtagh’s limbs. For selfish reasons, Eragon disliked the king’s edict, but he could understand the rationale behind it; the fight would hardly have been fair otherwise.
But Eragon did not want a fair fight. He wanted to control the course of the duel so that he could decide when it should end, and how. Unfortunately, Eragon doubted that he would have the opportunity, given Murtagh’s skill with a blade, and even if he did, he was not sure how he could use the fight to strike against Galbatorix. Nor did he have time to think about it, though he trusted that Saphira, Arya, and the dragons would try to devise a solution for him.
Murtagh feinted with his left shoulder, and Eragon ducked behind his shield. An instant later, he realized that it had been a ruse and that Murtagh was moving around toward his right in an attempt to get past his guard.
Eragon twisted and saw Zar’roc arcing toward his neck, the edge a glittering, wire-thin line. He knocked it aside with a clumsy push of Brisingr’s crossguard. Then he retaliated with a quick slash at Murtagh’s lower arm. To his grim delight, he struck Murtagh on the side of his wrist. Brisingr failed to cut through Murtagh’s gauntlet and the sleeve of the tunic beneath, but the impact still hurt Murtagh and pushed his arm away from his body, leaving his chest exposed.
Eragon stabbed, and Murtagh used his shield to deflect the attack. Three more times Eragon stabbed, but Murtagh stopped each blow, and when Eragon drew back his arm to strike again, Murtagh countered with a backhanded cut at his knee, which would have crippled him had it landed.
Seeing what Murtagh intended, Eragon altered his swing and stopped Zar’roc an inch from his leg. Then he countered with a cut of his own.
For several minutes, they exchanged blows, trying to disrupt each other’s rhythms, but to no avail. They knew each other too well. Whatever Eragon attempted, Murtagh was able to thwart, and the same was true in reverse. It was like a game where they both had to think many moves in advance, which fostered a certain sense of intimacy as Eragon focused on divining the inner workings of Murtagh’s mind and, from them, predicting, what Murtagh would do next.
Right from the beginning, Eragon noticed that Murtagh was playing the game differently than the previous times they’d fought. He attacked with a ruthlessness that heretofore had been lacking, as if, for the first time, he wanted to defeat Eragon, and quickly too. Moreover, after his initial outburst, his anger seemed to vanish, and he displayed only a cool, implacable determination.
Eragon found himself fighting to the limit of his abilities, and though he was able to hold Murtagh off, he ended up on the defensive more than he would have liked.
After a while, Murtagh lowered his sword and turned toward the throne and Galbatorix.
Eragon kept his guard up, but he hesitated, unsure whether it was appropriate to attack.
In that moment of hesitation, Murtagh leaped toward him. Eragon stood his ground and swung. Murtagh caught the blow on his shield, and then, instead of following up with a strike of his own as Eragon expected, he slammed his shield against Eragon’s and pushed.
At last, with a roar and a mighty heave, Murtagh sent Eragon stumbling away. As Eragon flailed and struggled to regain his balance, Murtagh stabbed at his neck.
“Letta!” said Galbatorix.
The tip of Zar’roc stopped less than a finger’s-breadth from Eragon’s skin. He froze, panting, not sure what had just happened.
“Restrain yourself, Murtagh, or I shall do it for you,” said Galbatorix from where he sat watching. “I dislike having to repeat myself. You are not to kill Eragon, nor is he to kill you. … Now, continue.”
The realization that Murtagh had just tried to kill him—and that he would have succeeded if not for Galbatorix’s intervention—shocked Eragon. He searched Murtagh’s face for an explanation, but Murtagh remained stubbornly expressionless, as if Eragon meant little or nothing to him.
Eragon could not understand. Murtagh was definitely playing the game differently than he ought to be. Something had changed in him, but what it was, Eragon could not tell.
In addition, the knowledge that he had lost—and that, by all rights, he should be dead—undermined Eragon’s confidence. He had confronted death many times before, but never in such a stark and uncompromising manner. There was no question of it; Murtagh had bested him, and only Galbatorix’s mercy—such as it was—had saved him.
Eragon, do not dwell on it, said Arya. You had no reason to suspect he would try to kill you. Nor were you trying to kill him. If you had, the fight would have gone differently, and Murtagh would never have had the chance to attack you as he did.
Doubtful, Eragon glanced over to where she stood by the edge of the pool of light, along with Elva and Saphira. Then Saphira said, If he wishes to rip out your throat, then cut his hamstrings and make sure that he cannot do it again.