When Saphira halted at the ramparts, trenches, and rows of sharpened poles that protected the Varden’s leading edge, Eragon saw a lone soldier riding at a furious clip across the bleak no-man’s-land. Above him, the birds of prey swooped low to discover if the first course of their feast had arrived.
The soldier reined in his black stallion some thirty yards from the breastwork, keeping as much distance as possible between him and the Varden. He shouted, “By refusing King Galbatorix’s generous terms of surrender, you choose death as your fate. No more shall we negotiate. The hand of friendship has turned into the fist of war! If any of you still hold regard for your rightful sovereign, the all-knowing, all-powerful King Galbatorix, then flee! None may stand before us once we set forth to cleanse Alagaësia of every miscreant, traitor, and subversive. And though it pains our lord — for he knows that most of these rebellious acts are instigated by bitter and misguided leaders — we shall gently chastise the unlawful territory known as Surda and return it to the benevolent rule of King Galbatorix, he who sacrifices himself day and night for the good of his people. So flee, I say, or suffer the doom of your herald.”
With that the soldier untied a canvas sack and flourished a severed head. He threw it into the air and watched it fall among the Varden, then turned his stallion, dug in his spurs, and galloped back toward the dark mass of Galbatorix’s army.
“Shall I kill him?” asked Eragon.
Nasuada shook her head. “We will have our due soon enough. I won’t violate the sanctity of envoys, even if the Empire has.”
“As you—” He yelped with surprise and clutched Saphira’s neck to keep from falling as she reared above the ramparts, planting her front legs upon the chartreuse bank. Opening her jaws, Saphira uttered a long, deep roar, much like Garzhvog had done, only this roar was a defiant challenge to their enemies, a warning of the wrath they had roused, and a clarion call to all who hated Galbatorix.
The sound of her trumpeting voice frightened the stallion so badly, he jinked to the right, slipped on the heated ground, and fell on his side. The soldier was thrown free of the horse and landed in a gout of fire that erupted at that very instant. He uttered a single cry so horrible, it made Eragon’s scalp prickle, then was silent and still forevermore.
The birds began to descend.
The Varden cheered Saphira’s accomplishment. Even Nasuada allowed herself a small smile. Then she clapped her hands and said, “They will attack at dawn, I think. Eragon, gather Du Vrangr Gata and prepare yourself for action. I will have orders for you within the hour.” Taking Orrin by the shoulder, she guided him back toward the center of the compound, saying, “Sire, there are decisions we must make. I have a certain plan, but it will require...”
Let them come, said Saphira. The tip of her tail twitched like that of a cat stalking a rabbit. They will all burn.
WITCH’S BREW
Night had fallen on the Burning Plains. The roof of opaque smoke covered the moon and stars, plunging the land into profound darkness that was broken only by the sullen glow of the sporadic peat fires, and by the thousands of torches each army lit. From Eragon’s position near the fore of the Varden, the Empire looked a dense nest of uncertain orange lights as large as any city.
As Eragon buckled the last piece of Saphira’s armor onto her tail, he closed his eyes to maintain better contact with the magicians from Du Vrangr Gata. He had to learn to locate them at a moment’s notice; his life would depend on communicating with them in a quick and timely manner. In turn, the magicians had to learn to recognize the touch of his mind so they did not block him when he needed their assistance.
Eragon smiled and said, “Hello, Orik.” He opened his eyes to see Orik clambering up the low knuckle of rock where he and Saphira sat. The dwarf, who was fully armored, carried his Urgal-horn bow in his left hand.
Hunkering beside Eragon, Orik wiped his brow and shook his head. “How’d you know it was me? I was shielding myself.”
Every consciousness feels different, explained Saphira. Just like no two voices sound exactly the same.
“Ah.”
Eragon asked, “What brings you here?”
Orik shrugged. “It struck me you might appreciate a spot of company in this grim night. Especially since Arya’s otherwise engaged and you don’t have Murtagh with you for this battle.”
And I wish I did, thought Eragon. Murtagh had been the only human who matched Eragon’s skill with a sword, at least before the Agaetí Blödhren. Sparring with him had been one of Eragon’s few pleasures during their time together. I would have enjoyed fighting with you again, old friend.
Remembering how Murtagh was killed — dragged underground by Urgals in Farthen Dûr — forced Eragon to confront a sobering truth: No matter how great a warrior you were, as often as not, pure chance dictated who lived and who died in war.
Orik must have sensed his mood, for he clapped Eragon on the shoulder and said, “You’ll be fine. Just imagine how the soldiers out there feel, knowing they have to face you before long!”
Gratitude made Eragon smile again. “I’m glad you came.”
The tip of Orik’s nose reddened, and he glanced down, rolling his bow between gnarled hands. “Ah, well,” he grumbled, “Hrothgar wouldn’t much like it if I let something happen to you. Besides, we’re foster brothers now, eh?”
Through Eragon, Saphira asked, What about the other dwarves? Aren’t they under your command?
A twinkle sprang into Orik’s eyes. “Why, yes, so they are. And they’ll be joining us before long. Seeing as Eragon’s a member of Dûrgrimst Ingeitum, it’s only right we fight the Empire together. That way, the two of you won’t be so vulnerable; you can concentrate on finding Galbatorix’s magicians instead of defending yourselves from constant attacks.”
“A good idea. Thank you.” Orik grunted an acknowledgment. Then Eragon asked, “What do you think about Nasuada and the Urgals?”
“She made the right choice.”
“You agree with her!”
“I do. I don’t like it any more than you, but I do.”
Silence enveloped them after that. Eragon sat against Saphira and stared out at the Empire, trying to prevent his growing anxiety from overwhelming him. Minutes dragged by. To him, the interminable waiting before a battle was as stressful as the actual fighting. He oiled Saphira’s saddle, polished rust off his hauberk, and then resumed familiarizing himself with the minds of Du Vrangr Gata, anything to pass the time.
Over an hour later, he paused as he sensed two beings approaching from across the no-man’s-land. Angela? Solembum? Puzzled and alarmed, he woke Orik — who had dozed off — and told him what he had discovered.
The dwarf frowned and drew his war ax from his belt. “I’ve only met the herbalist a few times, but she didn’t seem like the sort who would betray us. She’s been welcome among the Varden for decades.”
“We should still find out what she was doing,” said Eragon.
Together they picked their way through the camp to intercept the duo as they approached the fortifications. Angela soon trotted into the light, Solembum at her heels. The witch was muffled in a dark, full-length cloak that allowed her to blend into the mottled landscape. Displaying a surprising amount of alacrity, strength, and flexibility, she clambered over the many rows of breastwork the dwarves had engineered, swinging from pole to pole, leaping over trenches, and finally running helter-skelter down the steep face of the last rampart to stop, panting, by Saphira.