Christopher Paolini - Inheritance

A muffled roar from within the stone hill interrupted the man.

The archer blanched, save for the spots of color on his cheeks, which appeared even brighter and redder than before, like daubs of paint on the skin of a corpse. “Sir, is that-”

“Shh!” Roran cocked his head, listening. Only Shruikan could have roared that loud.

For a few moments, they heard nothing else of note. Then another roar sounded from inside the citadel, and Roran thought he could make out other, fainter noises, although he was not sure what they were.

Throughout the area in front of the ruined gate, men, elves, dwarves, and Urgals paused and looked toward the citadel.

Another roar, even louder than the last, rang forth.

Roran clutched the edge of the litter, his body rigid. “Kill him,” he muttered. “Kill the bastard.”

A vibration, subtle but noticeable, passed through the city, as if a great weight had struck the ground. With it, Roran heard what he thought was something breaking.

Then silence settled over the city, and every second that passed felt longer than the last.

“… Do you think he needs our help?” the archer asked in a soft voice.

“There’s nothing we can do for them,” said Roran, keeping his eyes fixed on the citadel.

“Couldn’t the elves-”

The ground rumbled and shook; then the front of the citadel exploded outward in a wall of white and yellow flame so bright, Roran saw the bones within the archer’s neck and head, his flesh like a red gooseberry held before a candle.

Roran grabbed the archer and rolled off the edge of the stone block, pulling the other man with him.

A blast of sound struck them as they fell. It felt as if spikes were being driven into Roran’s ears. He screamed, but he could not hear himself-nor, after the initial clap of thunder, could he hear anything else. The cobblestones bucked underneath them, a cloud of dust and debris hurtled over them, blotting out the sun, and a massive wind tore at Roran’s clothes.

The dust forced Roran to squeeze his eyes shut. All he could do was cling to the archer and wait for the upheaval to subside. He tried to take a breath, but the heated wind snatched the air from his lips and nose before he could fill his lungs. Something struck his head, and he felt his helmet fly off.

The shaking went on and on, but at last the ground grew still again, and Roran opened his eyes, afraid of what he would see.

The air was gray and dim; objects past a few hundred feet were lost in the haze. Small chunks of wood and stone rained from the sky, along with flakes of ash. A piece of timber that lay across the street from him-part of a flight of stairs the elves had broken when they destroyed the gate-was burning. The heat of the explosion had already charred the beam along its full length. The warriors who had been standing in the open now lay flat on the ground, some still moving, others clearly dead.

Roran glanced at the archer. The man had bitten through his bottom lip; blood coated his chin.

They helped each other off the ground, and Roran looked toward where the citadel had been. He could see nothing but gray darkness. Eragon! Could he and Saphira have survived the explosion? Could anyone who had been close to the heart of such an inferno?

Roran opened his mouth several times, trying to clear his ears-which rang and hurt badly-but to no avail. When he touched his right ear, his fingers came away bloody.

“Can you hear me?” he shouted at the archer, the words nothing but a vibration in his mouth and throat.

The archer frowned and shook his head.

A spate of dizziness caused Roran to lean over and prop himself against the block of stone. As he waited for his balance to return, he thought of the shelf hanging over them, and it suddenly occurred to him that the whole city might be in danger.

We have to leave before it falls , he thought. He spat blood and dirt onto the cobblestones. Then he looked in the direction of the citadel again. The dust still hid it. And grief clutched at his heart.

Eragon!

Darkness, and in that darkness, silence.

Eragon felt himself slide to a stop, then … nothing. He could breathe, but the air was stale and lifeless, and when he tried to move, the strain upon his spell increased.

He touched the minds of everyone around him, checking that he had managed to save them all. Elva was unconscious, and Murtagh nearly so, but they were alive, as were the rest.

It was the first time Eragon had come into contact with Thorn’s mind. As he did, the red dragon seemed to recoil. His thoughts felt darker, more contorted than Saphira’s, but there was a strength and nobility to him that impressed Eragon.

We cannot maintain this spell for much longer , said Umaroth, his voice tense.

You have to , said Eragon. If you don’t, we’ll die .

Seconds more passed.

Without warning, light flooded Eragon’s eyes, and an onslaught of noise assailed his ears.

He winced and blinked while his eyes adjusted.

Through the smoke-filled air, he saw a huge glowing crater where Galbatorix had been standing. The incandescent stone pulsed like living flesh as breaths of air wafted over its surface. The ceiling glowed as well, and the sight unnerved Eragon; it was as if they were standing inside a giant crucible.

The air smelled like the taste of iron.

The walls of the room were cracked, and the pillars, carvings, and lanterns had been pulverized. At the back of the chamber lay Shruikan’s corpse, much of the flesh stripped from his soot-blackened bones. At the front, the explosion had shattered the stone walls, as well as the walls beyond for hundreds of feet, exposing a veritable warren of tunnels and rooms. The beautiful golden doors that had guarded the entrance to the chamber had been blown off their hinges, and Eragon thought he glimpsed daylight at the far end of the quarter-mile-long hallway that led to the outside.

As he got to his feet, he noticed that his ward was still drawing strength from the dragons, but not so quickly as before.

A piece of stone the size of a house fell from the ceiling and landed next to Shruikan’s skull, where it split into a dozen pieces. Around them, more cracks spread through the walls, ominous shrieks and groans sounding from every side.

Arya went to the two children, grabbed the boy around his waist, and climbed with him up onto Saphira’s back. Once there, she pointed at the girl and said to Eragon, “Throw her to me!”

Eragon lost a second as he struggled to sheathe Brisingr. Then he grabbed the girl and tossed her to Arya, who caught her in outstretched arms.

Eragon turned and sidestepped Elva as he hurried over to Nasuada. “Jierda!” he said, placing a hand on the manacles that held her to the block of gray stone. The spell had no apparent effect, so he ended it quickly before it consumed too much energy.

Nasuada made an urgent sound, and he pulled the knotted cloth out of her mouth. “You have to find the key!” she said. “Galbatorix’s jailer has it on him.”

“We’ll never find him in time!” Eragon drew Brisingr again and swung at the chain connected to the manacle around her left hand. The sword bounced off the links with a harsh reverberation, leaving not so much as a scratch on the dull metal. He swung a second time, but the chain was impervious to his blade.

Another piece of rock fell from the ceiling and struck the floor with a loud crack .

A hand gripped his arm, and he turned to see Murtagh standing behind him, one arm pressed against the wound in his stomach. “Move aside,” he growled. Eragon did, and Murtagh spoke the name of all names, as he had before, as well as jierda , and the iron cuffs opened and fell from Nasuada’s limbs.