Inheritance
Page 217
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Eragon …, said Arya in a warning tone.
“I am not the only one who brought a child here today,” replied the king, the lines on his face deepening.
“There is a difference: Elva agreed to come. But you didn’t answer the question. Why won’t you fight? Is it that you’ve spent so long sitting on your throne and eating sweets that you’ve forgotten how to swing a sword?”
“You would not want to fight me, youngling,” growled the king.
“Prove it, then. Release me and meet me in honest battle. Show that you are still a warrior to be reckoned with. Or live with the knowledge that you are a sniveling coward who dares not face even a single opponent without the help of your Eldunarí. You killed Vrael himself! Why should you fear me? Why should—”
“Enough!” said Galbatorix. A flush had crept onto his hollow cheeks. Then, like quicksilver, his mood changed, and he bared his teeth in a fearsome approximation of a smile. He rapped the arm of his seat with his knuckles. “I did not gain this throne by accepting every challenge put to me. Nor have I held it by meeting my foes in ‘honest battle.’ What you have yet to learn, youngling, is that it does not matter how you achieve victory, only that you achieve it.”
“You’re wrong. It does matter,” said Eragon.
“I will remind you of that when you are sworn to me. However …” Galbatorix tapped the pommel of his sword. “Since you wish so badly to fight, I will grant your request.” The flare of hope that Eragon felt vanished when Galbatorix added, “But not with me. With Murtagh.”
At those words, Murtagh flashed an angry look at Eragon.
The king stroked the fringe of his beard. “I would like to know, once and for all, which of you is the better warrior. You will fight as you are, without magic or Eldunarí, until one of you is unable to continue. You may not kill each other—that I forbid—but short of death, I will allow most anything. It will be rather entertaining, I think, to watch brother fight brother.”
“No,” said Eragon. “Not brothers. Half brothers. Brom was my father, not Morzan.”
For the first time, Galbatorix appeared surprised. Then one corner of his mouth twisted upward. “Of course. I should have seen it; the truth is in your face for any who know what to look for. This duel will be all the more fitting, then. The son of Brom pitted against the son of Morzan. Fate indeed has a sense of humor.”
Murtagh also reacted with surprise. He controlled his face too well for Eragon to determine whether the information pleased or upset him, but Eragon knew that it had thrown him off balance. That had been his plan. If Murtagh was distracted, it would be that much easier for Eragon to defeat him. And he did intend to defeat him, regardless of the blood they shared.
“Letta,” said Galbatorix with a slight motion of his hand.
Eragon staggered as the spell holding him vanished.
Then the king said, “Gánga aptr,” and Arya, Elva, and Saphira slid backward, leaving a wide space between them and the dais. The king muttered a few other words, and most of the lanterns in the chamber dimmed so that the area in front of the throne was the brightest spot in the room.
“Come now,” said Galbatorix to Murtagh. “Join Eragon, and let us see which of you is the more skilled.”
Scowling, Murtagh walked to a spot several yards from where Eragon stood. He drew Zar’roc—the blade of the crimson sword looked as if it were already coated in blood—then lifted his shield and settled into a crouch.
After glancing at Saphira and Arya, Eragon did the same.
“Now fight!” cried Galbatorix, and clapped his hands.
Sweating, Eragon began to move toward Murtagh, even as Murtagh moved toward him.
MUSCLE AGAINST METAL
oran yelped and jumped aside as a brick chimney smashed to the ground in front of him, followed by the body of one of the Empire’s archers.
He shook the sweat from his eyes, then moved around the body and the pile of scattered bricks, hopping from one patch of open ground to the next, much as he used to hop along the stones by the Anora River.
The battle was going badly. That much was obvious. He and his warriors had remained close to the outer wall for at least a quarter of an hour, fighting off the advancing waves of soldiers, but then they had allowed the soldiers to lure them back among the buildings. In retrospect, that had been a mistake. Fighting in the streets was desperate and bloody and confusing. His battalion had become spread out, and only a small number of his warriors remained close by—men from Carvahall, mostly, along with four elves and several Urgals. The rest were scattered among the nearby streets, fighting on their own, without direction.
Worse, for some reason that the elves and other spellcasters could not explain, magic no longer seemed to be working as it should. They had discovered this when one of the elves had tried to kill a soldier with a spell, only to have a Varden warrior fall down dead instead, consumed by the swarm of beetles the elf had summoned forth. His death had sickened Roran; it was a horrible, senseless way to die, and it might have happened to any of them.
Off to their right, closer to the main gate, Lord Barst was still rampaging through the main body of the Varden’s army. Roran had caught sight of him several times: on foot now, striding among the humans, elves, and dwarves and dashing them aside like so many ninepins with his huge black mace. No one had been able to stop the hulking man, much less wound him, and those around him scrambled to stay out of reach of his fearsome weapon.
“I am not the only one who brought a child here today,” replied the king, the lines on his face deepening.
“There is a difference: Elva agreed to come. But you didn’t answer the question. Why won’t you fight? Is it that you’ve spent so long sitting on your throne and eating sweets that you’ve forgotten how to swing a sword?”
“You would not want to fight me, youngling,” growled the king.
“Prove it, then. Release me and meet me in honest battle. Show that you are still a warrior to be reckoned with. Or live with the knowledge that you are a sniveling coward who dares not face even a single opponent without the help of your Eldunarí. You killed Vrael himself! Why should you fear me? Why should—”
“Enough!” said Galbatorix. A flush had crept onto his hollow cheeks. Then, like quicksilver, his mood changed, and he bared his teeth in a fearsome approximation of a smile. He rapped the arm of his seat with his knuckles. “I did not gain this throne by accepting every challenge put to me. Nor have I held it by meeting my foes in ‘honest battle.’ What you have yet to learn, youngling, is that it does not matter how you achieve victory, only that you achieve it.”
“You’re wrong. It does matter,” said Eragon.
“I will remind you of that when you are sworn to me. However …” Galbatorix tapped the pommel of his sword. “Since you wish so badly to fight, I will grant your request.” The flare of hope that Eragon felt vanished when Galbatorix added, “But not with me. With Murtagh.”
At those words, Murtagh flashed an angry look at Eragon.
The king stroked the fringe of his beard. “I would like to know, once and for all, which of you is the better warrior. You will fight as you are, without magic or Eldunarí, until one of you is unable to continue. You may not kill each other—that I forbid—but short of death, I will allow most anything. It will be rather entertaining, I think, to watch brother fight brother.”
“No,” said Eragon. “Not brothers. Half brothers. Brom was my father, not Morzan.”
For the first time, Galbatorix appeared surprised. Then one corner of his mouth twisted upward. “Of course. I should have seen it; the truth is in your face for any who know what to look for. This duel will be all the more fitting, then. The son of Brom pitted against the son of Morzan. Fate indeed has a sense of humor.”
Murtagh also reacted with surprise. He controlled his face too well for Eragon to determine whether the information pleased or upset him, but Eragon knew that it had thrown him off balance. That had been his plan. If Murtagh was distracted, it would be that much easier for Eragon to defeat him. And he did intend to defeat him, regardless of the blood they shared.
“Letta,” said Galbatorix with a slight motion of his hand.
Eragon staggered as the spell holding him vanished.
Then the king said, “Gánga aptr,” and Arya, Elva, and Saphira slid backward, leaving a wide space between them and the dais. The king muttered a few other words, and most of the lanterns in the chamber dimmed so that the area in front of the throne was the brightest spot in the room.
“Come now,” said Galbatorix to Murtagh. “Join Eragon, and let us see which of you is the more skilled.”
Scowling, Murtagh walked to a spot several yards from where Eragon stood. He drew Zar’roc—the blade of the crimson sword looked as if it were already coated in blood—then lifted his shield and settled into a crouch.
After glancing at Saphira and Arya, Eragon did the same.
“Now fight!” cried Galbatorix, and clapped his hands.
Sweating, Eragon began to move toward Murtagh, even as Murtagh moved toward him.
MUSCLE AGAINST METAL
oran yelped and jumped aside as a brick chimney smashed to the ground in front of him, followed by the body of one of the Empire’s archers.
He shook the sweat from his eyes, then moved around the body and the pile of scattered bricks, hopping from one patch of open ground to the next, much as he used to hop along the stones by the Anora River.
The battle was going badly. That much was obvious. He and his warriors had remained close to the outer wall for at least a quarter of an hour, fighting off the advancing waves of soldiers, but then they had allowed the soldiers to lure them back among the buildings. In retrospect, that had been a mistake. Fighting in the streets was desperate and bloody and confusing. His battalion had become spread out, and only a small number of his warriors remained close by—men from Carvahall, mostly, along with four elves and several Urgals. The rest were scattered among the nearby streets, fighting on their own, without direction.
Worse, for some reason that the elves and other spellcasters could not explain, magic no longer seemed to be working as it should. They had discovered this when one of the elves had tried to kill a soldier with a spell, only to have a Varden warrior fall down dead instead, consumed by the swarm of beetles the elf had summoned forth. His death had sickened Roran; it was a horrible, senseless way to die, and it might have happened to any of them.
Off to their right, closer to the main gate, Lord Barst was still rampaging through the main body of the Varden’s army. Roran had caught sight of him several times: on foot now, striding among the humans, elves, and dwarves and dashing them aside like so many ninepins with his huge black mace. No one had been able to stop the hulking man, much less wound him, and those around him scrambled to stay out of reach of his fearsome weapon.
