Christopher Paolini - Inheritance

Nasuada made a dismissive motion. “He can’t ride at full gallop with only one hand. You should have more confidence in yourself, Stronghammer. There are others among the Varden who know more about the arts of war, it’s true-men who have been in the field longer, men who received instruction from the finest warriors of their father’s generation-but when swords are drawn and battle is joined, it’s not knowledge or experience that matters most, it’s whether you can win , and that’s a trick you seem to have mastered. What’s more, you’re lucky.”

She put down the topmost papers and leaned on her arms. “You’ve proven that you can fight. You’ve proven that you can follow orders … when it pleases you, that is.” He resisted the urge to hunch his shoulders as he remembered the bitter, white-hot bite of the whip cutting into his back after he had been disciplined for defying Captain Edric’s orders. “You’ve proven that you can lead a raiding party. So, Roran Stronghammer, let us see if you are capable of something more, shall we?”

He swallowed. “Yes, my Lady.”

“Good. I am promoting you to captain for the time being. If you succeed in Aroughs, you may consider the title permanent, at least until you demonstrate that you are deserving of either greater or lesser honors.” Returning her gaze to the table, she began to sort through a morass of scrolls, evidently searching for something hidden underneath.

“Thank you.”

Nasuada responded with a faint, noncommittal sound.

“How many men will I have under my command at Aroughs?” he asked.

“I gave Brigman a thousand warriors to capture the city. Of those, no more than eight hundred remain who are still fit for duty.”

Roran nearly swore out loud. So few .

As if she had heard him, Nasuada said in a dry voice, “We were led to believe that Aroughs’s defenses would be easier to overwhelm than has been the case.”

“I see. May I take two or three men from Carvahall with me? You said once that you would let us serve together if we-”

“Yes, yes”-she waved a hand-“I know what I said.” She pursed her lips, considering. “Very well, take whomever you want, just so long as you leave within the hour. Let me know how many are going with you, and I’ll see to it that the appropriate number of horses are waiting along the way.”

“May I take Carn?” he asked, naming the magician he had fought alongside on several occasions.

She paused and stared at the wall for a moment, her eyes unfocused. Then, to his relief, she nodded and resumed digging in the jumble of scrolls. “Ah, here we are.” She pulled out a tube of parchment tied with a leather thong. “A map of Aroughs and its environs, as well as a larger map of Fenmark Province. I suggest you study them both most carefully.”

She handed him the tube, which he slipped inside his tunic. “And here,” she said, giving him a rectangle of folded parchment sealed with a blob of red wax, “is your commission, and”-a second rectangle, thicker than the first-“here are your orders. Show them to Brigman, but don’t let him keep them. If I remember correctly, you’ve never learned to read, have you?”

He shrugged. “What for? I can count and figure as well as any man. My father said that teaching us to read made no more sense than teaching a dog to walk on his hind legs: amusing, but hardly worth the effort.”

“And I might agree, had you stayed a farmer. But you didn’t, and you’re not.” She motioned toward the pieces of parchment he held. “For all you know, one of those might be a writ ordering your execution. You are of limited use to me like this, Stronghammer. I cannot send you messages without others having to read them to you, and if you need to report to me, you will have no choice but to trust one of your underlings to record your words accurately. It makes you easy to manipulate. It makes you untrustworthy. If you hope to advance any further in the Varden, I suggest you find someone to teach you. Now begone; there are other matters that demand my attention.”

She snapped her fingers, and one of the pages ran over to her. Placing a hand on the boy’s shoulder, she bent down to his level and said, “I want you to fetch Jormundur directly here. You’ll find him somewhere along the market street, where those three houses-” In the midst of her instructions, she stopped and raised an eyebrow as she noticed that Roran had not budged. “Is there something else, Stronghammer?” she asked.

“Yes. Before I leave, I’d like to see Eragon.”

“And why is that?”

“Most of the wards he gave me before the battle are gone now.”

Nasuada frowned, then said to the page, “On the market street, where those three houses were burned. Do you know the place I mean? Right, off you go, then.” She patted the boy on the back and stood upright as he ran out of the room. “It would be better if you didn’t.”

Her statement confused Roran, but he kept quiet, expecting that she would explain herself. She did, but in a roundabout way: “Did you notice how tired Eragon was during my audience with the werecats?”

“He could barely stay on his feet.”

“Exactly. He’s spread too thin, Roran. He can’t protect you, me, Saphira, Arya, and who knows who else and still do what he has to. He needs to husband his strength for when he will have to fight Murtagh and Galbatorix. And the closer we get to Uru’baen, the more important it is that he be ready to face them at any given moment, night or day. We can’t allow all of these other worries and distractions to weaken him. It was noble of him to heal the child’s cat lip, but his doing so could have cost us the war!

“You fought without the advantage of wards when the Ra’zac attacked your village in the Spine. If you care about your cousin, if you care about defeating Galbatorix, you must learn to fight without them again.”

When she finished, Roran bowed his head. She was right. “I’ll depart at once.”

“I appreciate that.”

“By your leave …”

Turning, Roran strode toward the door. Just as he crossed the threshold, Nasuada called out, “Oh, and Stronghammer?”

He looked back, curious.

“Try not to burn down Aroughs, would you? Cities are rather hard to replace.”

Eragon drummed his heels against the side of the boulder he was sitting on, bored and impatient to be gone.

He, Saphira, and Arya-as well as Blodhgarm and the other elves-were lounging on the bank next to the road that ran eastward from the city of Belatona: eastward through fields of ripe, verdant crops; over a wide stone bridge that arched across the Jiet River; and then around the southernmost point of Leona Lake. There the road branched, one fork turning to the right, toward the Burning Plains and Surda, the other turning north, toward Dras-Leona and eventually Uru’baen.

Thousands of men, dwarves, and Urgals milled about before Belatona’s eastern gate, as well as within the city itself, arguing and shouting as the Varden tried to organize itself into a cohesive unit. In addition to the ragtag blocks of warriors on foot, there was King Orrin’s cavalry-a mass of prancing, snorting horses. And strung out behind the fighting part of the army was the supply train: a mile-and-a-half-long line of carts, wagons, and wheeled pens, flanked by the vast herds of horned cattle the Varden had brought from Surda and supplemented by what animals they had been able to appropriate from farmers along their path. From the herds and the supply train came the lowing of oxen, the braying of mules and donkeys, the honking of geese, and the whinnies and neighs of draft horses.

It was enough to make Eragon want to plug his ears.