“Really?” demanded the Ra’zac softly.
“We’ve had enough taking orders from hunchbacks like you, with all your clicking and teapot whistling — makes us sick! And I don’t know what you did with Sardson, but if you stay another night, we’ll put steel in you and find out if you bleed like us. You can leave the girl, though, she’ll be—”
The man did not get a chance to continue, for the largest Ra’zac jumped across the fire and landed on his shoulders, like a giant crow. Screaming, the soldier collapsed under the weight. He tried to draw his sword, but the Ra’zac pecked twice at his neck with its hidden beak, and he was still.
“We have to fight that?” muttered Ivor behind Roran.
The soldiers remained frozen with shock as the two Ra’zac lapped from the neck of the corpse. When the black creatures rose, they rubbed their knobby hands together, as if they were washing, and said, “Yesss. We will go. Stay if you wisssh; reinforsssements are only daysss away.” The Ra’zac threw back their heads and began to shriek at the sky, the wail becoming increasingly shrill until it passed from hearing.
Roran looked up as well. At first he saw nothing, but then a nameless terror gripped him as two barbed shadows appeared high over the Spine, eclipsing the stars. They advanced quickly, growing larger and larger until they obscured half the sky with their ominous presence. A foul wind rushed across the land, bringing with it a sulfurous miasma that made Roran cough and gag.
The soldiers were likewise afflicted; their curses echoed as they pressed sleeves and scarves over their noses.
Above them, the shadows paused and then began to drift downward, enclosing the camp in a dome of menacing darkness. The sickly torches flickered and threatened to extinguish themselves, yet they still provided sufficient light to reveal the two beasts descending among the tents.
Their bodies were naked and hairless — like newborn mice — with leathery gray skin pulled tight across their corded chests and bellies. In form they resembled starved dogs, except that their hind legs bulged with enough muscle to crush a boulder. A narrow crest extended from the back of each of their attenuated heads, opposite a long, straight, ebony beak made for spearing prey, and cold, bulbous eyes identical to the Ra’zac’s. From their shoulders and backs sprang huge wings that made the air moan under their weight.
Flinging themselves to the ground, the soldiers cowered and hid their faces from the monsters. A terrible, alien intelligence emanated from the creatures, bespeaking a race far older and far more powerful than humans. Roran was suddenly afraid that his mission might fail. Behind him, Horst whispered to the men, urging them to hold their ground and remain hidden, else they would be slain.
The Ra’zac bowed to the beasts, then slipped into a tent and returned carrying Katrina — who was bound with ropes — and leading Sloan. The butcher walked freely.
Roran stared, unable to comprehend how Sloan had been captured. His house isn’t anywhere near Horst’s. Then it struck him. “He betrayed us,” said Roran with wonder. His fist slowly tightened on his hammer as the true horror of the situation exploded within him. “He killed Byrd and he betrayed us!” Tears of rage streamed down his face.
“Roran,” murmured Horst, crouching beside him. “We can’t attack now; they’d slaughter us. Roran... do you hear me?”
He heard but a whisper in the distance as he watched the smaller Ra’zac jump onto one beast above the shoulders, then catch Katrina as the other Ra’zac tossed her up. Sloan seemed upset and frightened now. He began arguing with the Ra’zac, shaking his head and pointing at the ground. Finally, the Ra’zac struck him across the mouth, knocking him unconscious. Mounting the second beast, with the butcher slung over its shoulder, the largest Ra’zac declared, “We will return once it isss sssafe again. Kill the boy, and your livesss are forfeit.” Then the steeds flexed their massive thighs and leaped into the sky, once again shadows upon the field of stars.
No words or emotions were left to Roran. He was utterly destroyed. All that remained was to kill the soldiers. He stood and raised his hammer in preparation to charge, but as he stepped forward, his head throbbed in unison with his wounded shoulder, the ground vanished in a burst of light, and he toppled into oblivion.
ARROW TO THE HEART
Every day since leaving the outpost of Ceris was a hazy dream of warm afternoons spent paddling up Eldor Lake and then the Gaena River. All around them, water gurgled through the tunnel of verdant pines that wound ever deeper into Du Weldenvarden.
Eragon found traveling with the elves delightful. Narí and Lifaen were perpetually smiling, laughing, and singing songs, especially when Saphira was around. They rarely looked elsewhere or spoke of another subject but her in her presence.
However, the elves were not human, no matter the similarity of appearance. They moved too quickly, too fluidly, for creatures born of simple flesh and blood. And when they spoke, they often used roundabout expressions and aphorisms that left Eragon more confused than when they began. In between their bursts of merriment, Lifaen and Narí would remain silent for hours, observing their surroundings with a glow of peaceful rapture on their faces. If Eragon or Orik attempted to talk with them during their contemplation, they would receive only a word or two in response.
It made Eragon appreciate how direct and forthright Arya was by comparison. In fact, she seemed uneasy around Lifaen and Narí, as if she were no longer sure how to behave with her own kind.
From the prow of the canoe, Lifaen looked over his shoulder and said, “Tell me, Eragon-finiarel... What do your people sing about in these dark days? I remember the epics and lays I heard in Ilirea — sagas of your proud kings and earls — but it was long, long ago and the memories are like withered flowers in my mind. What new works have your people created?” Eragon frowned as he tried to recall the names of stories Brom had recited. When Lifaen heard them, he shook his head sorrowfully and said, “So much has been lost. No court ballads survive, and, if you speak truly, nor does most of your history or art, except for fanciful tales Galbatorix has allowed to thrive.”
“Brom once told us about the fall of the Riders,” said Eragon defensively. An image of a deer bounding over rotting logs flashed behind his eyes from Saphira, who was off hunting.
“Ah, a brave man.” For a minute, Lifaen paddled silently. “We too sing about the Fall... but rarely. Most of us were alive when Vrael entered the void, and we still grieve for our burned cities — the red lilies of Éwayëna, the crystals of Luthivíra — and for our slain families. Time cannot dull the pain of those wounds, not if a thousand thousand years pass and the sun itself dies, leaving the world to float in eternal night.”
Orik grunted in the back. “As it is with the dwarves. Remember, elf, we lost an entire clan to Galbatorix.”
“And we lost our king, Evandar.”
“I never heard that,” said Eragon, surprised.
Lifaen nodded as he guided them around a submerged rock. “Few have. Brom could have told you about it; he was there when the fatal blow was struck. Before Vrael’s death, the elves faced Galbatorix on the plains of Ilirea in our final attempt to defeat him. There Evandar—”
“Where is Ilirea?” asked Eragon.
“It’s Urû’baen, boy,” said Orik. “Used to be an elf city.”