Christopher Paolini - Brisingr [en]

The same man who had spoken before, who appeared to be the captain of the soldiers, said, “We would not swear fealty to the king even if he held a sword to our necks! Our loyalty belongs to Lady Lorana. She and her family have ruled us for four generations, and they’ve done a fine job of it too!” The other soldiers muttered in agreement.

“Then join us!” cried Eragon. “Lay down your weapons, and I promise no harm shall come to you or your families. You cannot hope to hold Feinster against the combined might of the Varden, Surda, the dwarves, and the elves.”

“So you say,” shouted one of the soldiers. “But what if Murtagh and that red dragon of his should come here again?”

Eragon hesitated, then said in a confident tone, “He is no match for me and the elves who fight with the Varden. We have already driven him off once before.” To the left of the soldiers, Eragon saw Arya and Blödhgarm sidle out from behind one of the stone staircases that led to the top of the walls and, with silent footsteps, creep toward the leftmost guard tower.

The captain of the soldiers said, “We may not have pledged ourselves to the king, but Lady Lorana has. What will you do to her, then? Kill her? Imprison her? No, we will not betray our trust and allow you to pass, nor the monsters clawing at our walls. You and the Varden hold nothing but the promise of death for those who have been forced to serve the Empire!

“Why couldn’t you have left well enough alone, eh, Dragon Rider? Why couldn’t you have kept your head down so the rest of us could live in peace? But no, the lure of fame and glory and riches was too great. You had to bring wrack and ruin to our homes so that you could satisfy your ambitions. Well, I curse you, Dragon Rider! I curse you with all my heart! May you leave Alagaësia and never return!”

A chill crept over Eragon, for the man’s curse echoed that which the last Ra’zac had cast upon him in Helgrind, and he remembered how Angela had foretold that very future for him. With an effort, he put aside such thoughts and said, “I do not wish to kill you, but I will if I must. Lay down your weapons!”

Arya silently opened the door at the bottom of the leftmost guard tower and slipped inside. Stealthy as a hunting wildcat, Blödhgarm crept behind the soldiers toward the other tower. If any of the men had turned around, they would have seen him.

The captain of the soldiers spat on the ground by Eragon’s feet. “You don’t even look human yourself! You’re a traitor to your race, you are!” And with that, the man raised his shield and hefted his sword and slowly walked toward Eragon. “Shadeslayer,” growled the soldier. “Ha! I’d as soon believe my brother’s twelve-year-old son had killed a Shade as a youth like you.”

Eragon waited until the captain was only a few feet away. Then he took a single step forward and stabbed Brisingr through the center of the man’s embossed shield, through his arm underneath, and then through the man’s chest and out his back. The man convulsed once and was still. As Eragon pulled his blade free of the corpse, there was a discordant clamor from within the guard towers as gears and chains began to turn and the massive beams that held closed the city gates began to withdraw.

“Lay down your weapons or die!” Eragon shouted.

Bellowing in unison, twenty soldiers ran at him, brandishing their swords. The others either dispersed and fled toward the heart of the city or else took Eragon’s advice and placed their swords and spears and their shields on the gray paving stones and knelt by the side of the street with their hands on their knees.

A fine mist of blood formed around Eragon as he cut his way through the soldiers, dancing from one to the next faster than they could react. Saphira knocked two of the soldiers over, then set another two on fire with a short burst of flame from her nostrils, cooking them in their armor. Eragon slid to a stop several feet beyond the rearmost soldier and held his position, his sword arm outstretched from the blow he had just dealt, and waited until he heard the man topple to the ground, first one half, and then the other.

Arya and Blödhgarm emerged from the guard towers just as the gates groaned and swung outward, revealing the blunt and splintered end of the Varden’s massive battering ram. Above, the archers on the parapet cried out in dismay and retreated toward more defensible positions. Dozens of hands appeared around the edges of the gates and pulled them farther apart, and Eragon saw a mass of grim-faced Varden, men and dwarves alike, crowded in the archway beyond.

“Shadeslayer!” they shouted, and also “Argetlam!” and “Welcome back! The hunting is good today!”

“These are my prisoners!” Eragon said, and pointed with Brisingr at the soldiers kneeling by the side of the street. “Bind them and see that they are treated well. I gave my word that no harm would come to them.”

Six warriors hurried to follow his order.

The Varden rushed forward, streaming into the city, their jangling armor and pounding boots creating a continuous, rolling thunder. Eragon was pleased to see Roran and Horst and several other men from Carvahall in the fourth rank of the warriors. He hailed them, and Roran raised his hammer in greeting and ran toward him.

Eragon grasped Roran’s right forearm and pulled him into a rough hug. Drawing back, he noticed that Roran seemed older and hollow-eyed compared with before.

“About time you got here,” Roran grunted. “We’ve been dying by the hundreds trying to take the walls.”

“Saphira and I came as fast as we could. How’s Katrina?”

“She’s fine.”

“Once this is over, you’ll have to tell me everything that’s happened to you since I left.”

Roran pressed his lips together and nodded. Then he pointed at Brisingr and said, “Where did you get the sword?”

“From the elves.”

“What’s it called?”

“Bris—” Eragon started to say, but then the eleven other elves whom Islanzadí had assigned to protect him and Saphira sprinted out of the column of men and surrounded the two of them. Arya and Blödhgarm rejoined them as well, Arya wiping clean the slim blade of her sword.

Before Eragon could resume speaking, Jörmundur rode through the gates and hailed him, shouting, “Shadeslayer! Well met indeed!”

Eragon greeted him in return and asked, “What should we do now?”

“Whatever you see fit,” Jörmundur replied, reining in his brown charger. “We have to fight our way up to the keep. It doesn’t look as if Saphira would fit between most of the houses, so fly around and harry their forces where you can. If you could break open the keep or capture Lady Lorana, it would be a great help.”

“Where’s Nasuada?”

Jörmundur gestured over his shoulder. “At the rear of the army, coordinating our forces with King Orrin.” Jörmundur glanced out over the influx of warriors, then looked back at Eragon and Roran. “Stronghammer, your place is with your men, not gossiping with your cousin.” Then the lean, wiry commander spurred his horse forward and rode up the gloomy street, shouting orders to the Varden.

As Roran and Arya started to follow, Eragon grabbed Roran by the shoulder and tapped Arya’s blade with his own. “Wait,” he said.

“What!” both Arya and Roran demanded in exasperated tones.

Yes, what? Saphira asked. We should not be sitting and talking when there is sport to be had .

“My father,” Eragon exclaimed. “It’s not Morzan, it’s Brom!”

Roran blinked. “Brom?”

“Yes, Brom!”

Even Arya appeared surprised. “Are you sure, Eragon? How do you know?”

“Of course I’m sure! I’ll explain later, but I couldn’t wait to tell you the truth.”