Inheritance
Page 38
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In the back of his mind, Eragon felt Saphira watching their exchange, and he knew that she was readying herself to fly from their tent to his side if a fight became unavoidable.
Choosing his words with care, he said: “No one has mentioned it to me, but then I have not been with the Varden for very long, and—”
“Drajl!” swore Garzhvog. “The lack-horned betrayer does not even have the courage to admit his own defeat. He is a coward and liar!”
“Who? Galbatorix?” Eragon asked cautiously.
A number of the werecats hissed at the mention of the king.
Garzhvog nodded. “Aye. When he came to power, he sought to destroy our race forever. He sent a vast army into the Spine. His soldiers crushed our villages, burned our bones, and left the earth black and bitter behind them. We fought—at first with joy, then with despair, but still we fought. It was the only thing we could do. There was nowhere for us to run, nowhere to hide. Who would protect the Urgralgra when even the Riders had been brought to their knees?
“We were lucky, though. We had a great war chief to lead us, Nar Tulkhqa. He had once been captured by humans, and he had spent many years fighting them, so he knew how you think. Because of that, he was able to rally many of our tribes under his banner. Then he lured Galbatorix’s army into a narrow passage deep within the mountains, and our rams fell upon them from either side. It was a slaughter, Firesword. The ground was wet with blood, and the piles of bodies stood higher than my head. Even to this day, if you go to Stavarosk, you will feel the bones cracking under your feet, and you will find coins and swords and pieces of armor under every patch of moss.”
“So it was you!” Eragon exclaimed. “All my life I’ve heard it said that Galbatorix once lost half his men in the Spine, but no one could tell me how or why.”
“More than half his men, Firesword.” Garzhvog rolled his shoulders and made a guttural noise in the back of his throat. “And now I see we must work to spread word of it if any are to know of our victory. We will track down your chanters, your bards, and we will teach them the songs concerning Nar Tulkhqa, and we will make sure that they remember to recite them often and loudly.” He nodded once, as if his mind was made up—an impressive gesture considering the ponderous size of his head—then said, “Farewell, Firesword. Farewell, Uluthrek.” Then he and his warriors lumbered off into the darkness.
Angela chuckled, startling Eragon.
“What?” he asked, turning to her.
She smiled. “I’m imagining the expression some poor lute player is going to have in a few minutes when he looks out his tent and sees twelve Urgals, four of them Kull, standing outside, eager to give him an education in Urgal culture. I’ll be impressed if we don’t hear him scream.” She chuckled again.
Similarly amused, Eragon lowered himself to the ground and stirred the coals with the end of a branch. A warm, heavy weight settled in his lap, and he looked down to see the white werecat curled up on his legs. He raised a hand to pet her, then thought better of it and asked the cat, “May I?”
The werecat flicked her tail but otherwise ignored him.
Hoping that he was not doing the wrong thing, Eragon tentatively began to rub the creature’s neck. A moment later, a loud, throbbing purr filled the night air.
“She likes you,” Angela observed.
For some reason, Eragon felt inordinately pleased. “Who is she? I mean, that is, who are you? What is your name?” He cast a quick glance at the werecat, worried that he had offended her.
Angela laughed quietly. “Her name is Shadowhunter. Or rather, that is what her name means in the language of the werecats. Properly, she is …” Here the herbalist uttered a strange coughing, growling sound that made the nape of Eragon’s neck crawl. “Shadowhunter is mated to Grimrr Halfpaw, so one might say that she is queen of the werecats.”
The purring increased in volume.
“I see.” Eragon looked around at the other werecats. “Where is Solembum?”
“Busy chasing a long-whiskered female who is half his age. He’s acting as foolish as a kitten … but then, everyone’s entitled to a little foolishness once in a while.” Catching the spindle with her left hand, she stopped its motion and wound the newly formed thread around the base of the wooden disk. Then she gave the spindle a twist to start it spinning again and resumed drafting from the batt of wool in her other hand. “You look as if you are full to bursting with questions, Shadeslayer.”
“Whenever I meet you, I always end up feeling more confused than before.”
“Always? That’s rather absolutist of you. Very well, I will attempt to be informative. Ask away.”
Skeptical of her apparent openness, Eragon considered what he would like to know. Finally: “A thunder of dragons? What did you—”
“That is the proper term for a flock of dragons. If ever you had heard one in full flight, you would understand. When ten, twelve, or more dragons flew past overhead, the very air would reverberate around you, as if you were sitting inside a giant drum. Besides, what else could you call a group of dragons? You have your murder of ravens, your convocation of eagles, your gaggle of geese, your raft of ducks, your band of jays, your parliament of owls, and so on, but what about dragons? A hunger of dragons? That doesn’t sound quite right. Nor does referring to them as a blaze or a terror, although I’m rather fond of terror, all things considered: a terror of dragons.… But no, a flock of dragons is called a thunder. Which you would know if your education had consisted of more than just learning how to swing a sword and conjugate a few verbs in the ancient language.”
Choosing his words with care, he said: “No one has mentioned it to me, but then I have not been with the Varden for very long, and—”
“Drajl!” swore Garzhvog. “The lack-horned betrayer does not even have the courage to admit his own defeat. He is a coward and liar!”
“Who? Galbatorix?” Eragon asked cautiously.
A number of the werecats hissed at the mention of the king.
Garzhvog nodded. “Aye. When he came to power, he sought to destroy our race forever. He sent a vast army into the Spine. His soldiers crushed our villages, burned our bones, and left the earth black and bitter behind them. We fought—at first with joy, then with despair, but still we fought. It was the only thing we could do. There was nowhere for us to run, nowhere to hide. Who would protect the Urgralgra when even the Riders had been brought to their knees?
“We were lucky, though. We had a great war chief to lead us, Nar Tulkhqa. He had once been captured by humans, and he had spent many years fighting them, so he knew how you think. Because of that, he was able to rally many of our tribes under his banner. Then he lured Galbatorix’s army into a narrow passage deep within the mountains, and our rams fell upon them from either side. It was a slaughter, Firesword. The ground was wet with blood, and the piles of bodies stood higher than my head. Even to this day, if you go to Stavarosk, you will feel the bones cracking under your feet, and you will find coins and swords and pieces of armor under every patch of moss.”
“So it was you!” Eragon exclaimed. “All my life I’ve heard it said that Galbatorix once lost half his men in the Spine, but no one could tell me how or why.”
“More than half his men, Firesword.” Garzhvog rolled his shoulders and made a guttural noise in the back of his throat. “And now I see we must work to spread word of it if any are to know of our victory. We will track down your chanters, your bards, and we will teach them the songs concerning Nar Tulkhqa, and we will make sure that they remember to recite them often and loudly.” He nodded once, as if his mind was made up—an impressive gesture considering the ponderous size of his head—then said, “Farewell, Firesword. Farewell, Uluthrek.” Then he and his warriors lumbered off into the darkness.
Angela chuckled, startling Eragon.
“What?” he asked, turning to her.
She smiled. “I’m imagining the expression some poor lute player is going to have in a few minutes when he looks out his tent and sees twelve Urgals, four of them Kull, standing outside, eager to give him an education in Urgal culture. I’ll be impressed if we don’t hear him scream.” She chuckled again.
Similarly amused, Eragon lowered himself to the ground and stirred the coals with the end of a branch. A warm, heavy weight settled in his lap, and he looked down to see the white werecat curled up on his legs. He raised a hand to pet her, then thought better of it and asked the cat, “May I?”
The werecat flicked her tail but otherwise ignored him.
Hoping that he was not doing the wrong thing, Eragon tentatively began to rub the creature’s neck. A moment later, a loud, throbbing purr filled the night air.
“She likes you,” Angela observed.
For some reason, Eragon felt inordinately pleased. “Who is she? I mean, that is, who are you? What is your name?” He cast a quick glance at the werecat, worried that he had offended her.
Angela laughed quietly. “Her name is Shadowhunter. Or rather, that is what her name means in the language of the werecats. Properly, she is …” Here the herbalist uttered a strange coughing, growling sound that made the nape of Eragon’s neck crawl. “Shadowhunter is mated to Grimrr Halfpaw, so one might say that she is queen of the werecats.”
The purring increased in volume.
“I see.” Eragon looked around at the other werecats. “Where is Solembum?”
“Busy chasing a long-whiskered female who is half his age. He’s acting as foolish as a kitten … but then, everyone’s entitled to a little foolishness once in a while.” Catching the spindle with her left hand, she stopped its motion and wound the newly formed thread around the base of the wooden disk. Then she gave the spindle a twist to start it spinning again and resumed drafting from the batt of wool in her other hand. “You look as if you are full to bursting with questions, Shadeslayer.”
“Whenever I meet you, I always end up feeling more confused than before.”
“Always? That’s rather absolutist of you. Very well, I will attempt to be informative. Ask away.”
Skeptical of her apparent openness, Eragon considered what he would like to know. Finally: “A thunder of dragons? What did you—”
“That is the proper term for a flock of dragons. If ever you had heard one in full flight, you would understand. When ten, twelve, or more dragons flew past overhead, the very air would reverberate around you, as if you were sitting inside a giant drum. Besides, what else could you call a group of dragons? You have your murder of ravens, your convocation of eagles, your gaggle of geese, your raft of ducks, your band of jays, your parliament of owls, and so on, but what about dragons? A hunger of dragons? That doesn’t sound quite right. Nor does referring to them as a blaze or a terror, although I’m rather fond of terror, all things considered: a terror of dragons.… But no, a flock of dragons is called a thunder. Which you would know if your education had consisted of more than just learning how to swing a sword and conjugate a few verbs in the ancient language.”
