Eragon
Page 92
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They sold Cadoc in a small village. As the horse was led away by his new owner, Eragon regretfully pocketed the few coins he had gained from the transaction. It was difficult to relinquish Cadoc after crossing half of Alagaësia—and outracing Urgals—on him.
The days rolled by unnoticed as their small group traveled in isolation. Eragon was pleased to find that he and Murtagh shared many of the same interests; they spent hours debating the finer points of archery and hunting.
There was one subject, however, they avoided discussing by unspoken consent: their pasts. Eragon did not explain how he had found Saphira, met Brom, or where he came from. Murtagh was likewise mute as to why the Empire was chasing him. It was a simple arrangement, but it worked.
Yet because of their proximity, it was inevitable that they learned about each other. Eragon was intrigued by Murtagh’s familiarity with the power struggles and politics within the Empire. He seemed to know what every noble and courtier was doing and how it affected everyone else. Eragon listened carefully, suspicions whirling through his mind.
The first week went by without any sign of the Ra’zac, which allayed some of Eragon’s fears. Even so, they still kept watches at night. Eragon had expected to encounter Urgals on the way to Gil’ead, but they found no trace of them.I thought these remote places would be teeming with monsters, he mused.Still, I’m not one to complain if they’ve gone elsewhere.
He dreamed of the woman no more. And though he tried to scry her, he saw only an empty cell. Whenever they passed a town or city, he checked to see if it had a jail. If it did, he would disguise himself and visit it, but she was not to be found. His disguises became increasingly elaborate as he saw notices featuring his name and description—and offering a substantial reward for his capture—posted in various towns.
Their travels north forced them toward the capital, Urû’baen. It was a heavily populated area, which made it difficult to escape notice. Soldiers patrolled the roads and guarded the bridges. It took them several tense, irritable days to skirt the capital.
Once they were safely past Urû’baen, they found themselves on the edge of a vast plain. It was the same one that Eragon had crossed after leaving Palancar Valley, except now he was on the opposite side. They kept to the perimeter of the plain and continued north, following the Ramr River.
Eragon’s sixteenth birthday came and went during this time. At Carvahall a celebration would have been held for his entrance into manhood, but in the wilderness he did not even mention it to Murtagh.
At nearly six months of age, Saphira was much larger. Her wings were massive; every inch of them was needed to lift her muscular body and thick bones. The fangs that jutted from her jaw were nearly as thick around as Eragon’s fist, their points as sharp as Zar’roc.
The day finally came when Eragon unwrapped his side for the last time. His ribs had healed completely, leaving him with only a small scar where the Ra’zac’s boot had cut his side. As Saphira watched, he stretched slowly, then with increasing vigor when there was no pain. He flexed his muscles, pleased. In an earlier time he would have smiled, but after Brom’s death, such expressions did not come easily.
He tugged his tunic on and walked back to the small fire they had made. Murtagh sat next to it, whittling a piece of wood. Eragon drew Zar’roc. Murtagh tensed, though his face remained calm. “Now that I am strong enough, would you like to spar?” asked Eragon.
Murtagh tossed the wood to the side. “With sharpened swords? We could kill each other.”
“Here, give me your sword,” said Eragon. Murtagh hesitated, then handed over his long hand-and-a-half sword. Eragon blocked the edges with magic, the way Brom had taught him. While Murtagh examined the blade, Eragon said, “I can undo that once we’re finished.”
Murtagh checked the balance of his sword. Satisfied, he said, “It will do.” Eragon safed Zar’roc, settled into a crouch, then swung at Murtagh’s shoulder. Their swords met in midair. Eragon disengaged with a flourish, thrust, and then riposted as Murtagh parried, dancing away.
He’s fast!thought Eragon.
They struggled back and forth, trying to batter each other down. After a particularly intense series of blows, Murtagh started laughing. Not only was it impossible for either of them to gain an advantage, but they were so evenly matched that they tired at the same rate. Acknowledging with grins each other’s skill, they fought on until their arms were leaden and sweat poured off their sides.
Finally Eragon called, “Enough, halt!” Murtagh stopped in mid-blow and sat down with a gasp. Eragon staggered to the ground, his chest heaving. None of his fights with Brom had been this fierce.
As he gulped air, Murtagh exclaimed, “You’re amazing! I’ve studied swordplay all my life, but never have I fought one like you. You could be the king’s weapon master if you wanted to.”
“You’re just as good,” observed Eragon, still panting. “The man who taught you, Tornac, could make a fortune with a fencing school. People would come from all parts of Alagaësia to learn from him.”
“He’s dead,” said Murtagh shortly.
“I’m sorry.”
Thus it became their custom to fight in the evening, which kept them lean and fit, like a pair of matched blades. With his return to health, Eragon also resumed practicing magic. Murtagh was curious about it and soon revealed that he knew a surprising amount about how it worked, though he lacked the precise details and could not use it himself. Whenever Eragon practiced speaking in the ancient language, Murtagh would listen quietly, occasionally asking what a word meant.
The days rolled by unnoticed as their small group traveled in isolation. Eragon was pleased to find that he and Murtagh shared many of the same interests; they spent hours debating the finer points of archery and hunting.
There was one subject, however, they avoided discussing by unspoken consent: their pasts. Eragon did not explain how he had found Saphira, met Brom, or where he came from. Murtagh was likewise mute as to why the Empire was chasing him. It was a simple arrangement, but it worked.
Yet because of their proximity, it was inevitable that they learned about each other. Eragon was intrigued by Murtagh’s familiarity with the power struggles and politics within the Empire. He seemed to know what every noble and courtier was doing and how it affected everyone else. Eragon listened carefully, suspicions whirling through his mind.
The first week went by without any sign of the Ra’zac, which allayed some of Eragon’s fears. Even so, they still kept watches at night. Eragon had expected to encounter Urgals on the way to Gil’ead, but they found no trace of them.I thought these remote places would be teeming with monsters, he mused.Still, I’m not one to complain if they’ve gone elsewhere.
He dreamed of the woman no more. And though he tried to scry her, he saw only an empty cell. Whenever they passed a town or city, he checked to see if it had a jail. If it did, he would disguise himself and visit it, but she was not to be found. His disguises became increasingly elaborate as he saw notices featuring his name and description—and offering a substantial reward for his capture—posted in various towns.
Their travels north forced them toward the capital, Urû’baen. It was a heavily populated area, which made it difficult to escape notice. Soldiers patrolled the roads and guarded the bridges. It took them several tense, irritable days to skirt the capital.
Once they were safely past Urû’baen, they found themselves on the edge of a vast plain. It was the same one that Eragon had crossed after leaving Palancar Valley, except now he was on the opposite side. They kept to the perimeter of the plain and continued north, following the Ramr River.
Eragon’s sixteenth birthday came and went during this time. At Carvahall a celebration would have been held for his entrance into manhood, but in the wilderness he did not even mention it to Murtagh.
At nearly six months of age, Saphira was much larger. Her wings were massive; every inch of them was needed to lift her muscular body and thick bones. The fangs that jutted from her jaw were nearly as thick around as Eragon’s fist, their points as sharp as Zar’roc.
The day finally came when Eragon unwrapped his side for the last time. His ribs had healed completely, leaving him with only a small scar where the Ra’zac’s boot had cut his side. As Saphira watched, he stretched slowly, then with increasing vigor when there was no pain. He flexed his muscles, pleased. In an earlier time he would have smiled, but after Brom’s death, such expressions did not come easily.
He tugged his tunic on and walked back to the small fire they had made. Murtagh sat next to it, whittling a piece of wood. Eragon drew Zar’roc. Murtagh tensed, though his face remained calm. “Now that I am strong enough, would you like to spar?” asked Eragon.
Murtagh tossed the wood to the side. “With sharpened swords? We could kill each other.”
“Here, give me your sword,” said Eragon. Murtagh hesitated, then handed over his long hand-and-a-half sword. Eragon blocked the edges with magic, the way Brom had taught him. While Murtagh examined the blade, Eragon said, “I can undo that once we’re finished.”
Murtagh checked the balance of his sword. Satisfied, he said, “It will do.” Eragon safed Zar’roc, settled into a crouch, then swung at Murtagh’s shoulder. Their swords met in midair. Eragon disengaged with a flourish, thrust, and then riposted as Murtagh parried, dancing away.
He’s fast!thought Eragon.
They struggled back and forth, trying to batter each other down. After a particularly intense series of blows, Murtagh started laughing. Not only was it impossible for either of them to gain an advantage, but they were so evenly matched that they tired at the same rate. Acknowledging with grins each other’s skill, they fought on until their arms were leaden and sweat poured off their sides.
Finally Eragon called, “Enough, halt!” Murtagh stopped in mid-blow and sat down with a gasp. Eragon staggered to the ground, his chest heaving. None of his fights with Brom had been this fierce.
As he gulped air, Murtagh exclaimed, “You’re amazing! I’ve studied swordplay all my life, but never have I fought one like you. You could be the king’s weapon master if you wanted to.”
“You’re just as good,” observed Eragon, still panting. “The man who taught you, Tornac, could make a fortune with a fencing school. People would come from all parts of Alagaësia to learn from him.”
“He’s dead,” said Murtagh shortly.
“I’m sorry.”
Thus it became their custom to fight in the evening, which kept them lean and fit, like a pair of matched blades. With his return to health, Eragon also resumed practicing magic. Murtagh was curious about it and soon revealed that he knew a surprising amount about how it worked, though he lacked the precise details and could not use it himself. Whenever Eragon practiced speaking in the ancient language, Murtagh would listen quietly, occasionally asking what a word meant.
