by Eragon (lit)
cried Eragon, throwing himself at the Shade. His face contorted as he grappled with Durza, yanking on his sword arm. Durza tried to cut Eragon’s hand, but it was protected by the mail-backed glove, which sent the blade glancing downward. As Eragon kicked his leg, Durza snarled and swept his black shield around, knocking him to the floor. Eragon tasted blood in his mouth; his neck throbbed. Ignoring his injuries, he rolled over and hurled his shield at Durza. Despite the Shade’s superior speed, the heavy shield clipped him on the hip. As Durza stumbled, Eragon caught him on the upper arm with Zar’roc. A line of blood traced down the Shade’s arm.
Eragon thrust at the Shade with his mind and drove through Durza’s weakened defenses. A flood of images suddenly engulfed him, rushing through his consciousness—
Durza as a young boy living as a nomad with his parents on the empty plains. The tribe abandoned them and called his father Only it was not Durza then, but Carsaib—the name his mother crooned while combing his hair
The Shade reeled wildly, face twisted in pain. Eragon tried to control the torrent of memories, but the force of them was overwhelming.
Standing on a hill over the graves of his parents, weeping that the men had not killed him as well. Then turning and stumbling blindly away, into the desert
Durza faced Eragon. Terrible hatred flowed from his maroon eyes. Eragon was on one knee—almost standing—struggling to seal his mind.
How the old man looked when he first saw Carsaib lying near death on a sand dune. The days it had taken Carsaib to recover and the fear he felt upon discovering that his rescuer was a sorcerer. How he had pleaded to be taught the control of spirits. How Haeg had finally agreed. Called him Rat.
Eragon was standing now. Durza charged sword raised shield ignored in his fury.
The days spent training under the scorching sun, always alert for the lizards they caught for food. How his power slowly grew, giving him pride and confidence. The weeks spent nursing his sick master after a failed spell. His joy when Haeg recovered
There was not enough time to react not enough time
The bandits who attacked during the night, killing Haeg. The rage Carsaib had felt and the spirits he had summoned for vengeance. But the spirits were stronger than he expected. They turned on him, possessing mind and body. He had screamed. He was—I AM DURZA!
The sword smote heavily across Eragon’s back, cutting through both mail and skin. He screamed as pain blasted through him, forcing him to his knees. Agony bowed his body in half and obliterated all thought. He swayed, barely conscious, hot blood running down the small of his back. Durza said something he could not hear.
In anguish, Eragon raised his eyes to the heavens, tears streaming down his cheeks. Everything had failed. The Varden and dwarves were destroyed. He was defeated. Saphira would give herself up for his sake—she had done it before—and Arya would be recaptured or killed. Why had it ended like this? What justice could this be? All was for nothing.
As he looked at Isidar Mithrim far above his tortured frame, a flash of light erupted in his eyes, blinding him. A second later, the chamber rang with a deafening report. Then his eyes cleared, and he gaped with disbelief.
The star sapphire had shattered. An expanding torus of huge dagger-like pieces plummeted toward the distant floor—the shimmering shards near the walls. In the center of the chamber, hurtling downward headfirst, was Saphira. Her jaws were open and from between them erupted a great tongue of flame, bright yellow and tinged with blue. On her back was Arya: hair billowing wildly, arm uplifted, palm glowing with a nimbus of green magic.
Time seemed to slow as Eragon saw Durza tilt his head toward the ceiling. First shock, then anger contorted the Shade’s face. Sneering defiantly, he raised his hand and pointed at Saphira, a word forming on his lips.
A hidden reserve of strength suddenly welled up inside Eragon, dredged from the deepest part of his being. His fingers curled around the hilt of his sword. He plunged through the barrier in his mind and took hold of the magic. All his pain and rage focused on one word:
Zar’roc blazed with bloody light, heatless flames running along it
He lunged forward
And stabbed Durza in the heart.
Durza looked down with shock at the blade protruding from his breast. His mouth was open, but instead of words, an unearthly howl burst from him. His sword dropped from nerveless fingers. He grasped Zar’roc as if to pull it out, but it was lodged firmly in him.
Then Durza’s skin turned transparent. Under it was neither flesh nor bone, but swirling patterns of darkness. He shrieked even louder as the darkness pulsated, splitting his skin. With one last cry, Durza was rent from head to toe, releasing the darkness, which separated into three entities who flew through Tronjheim’s walls and out of Farthen DThe Shade was gone.
Bereft of strength, Eragon fell back with arms outstretched. Above him, Saphira and Arya had nearly reached the floor—it looked as if they were going to smash into it with the deadly remains of Isidar Mithrim. As his sight faded, Saphira, Arya, the myriad fragments—all seemed to stop falling and hang motionless in the air.
* * *
THE MOURNING SAGE
Snatches of the Shade’s memories continued to flash through Eragon. A whirlwind of dark events and emotions overwhelmed him, making it impossible to think. Submerged in the maelstrom, he knew neither who nor where he was. He was too weak to cleanse himself of the alien presence that clouded his mind. Violent, cruel images from the Shade’s past exploded behind his eyes until his spirit cried out in anguish at the bloody sights. A pile of bodies rose before himinnocents slaughtered by the Shade’s orders. He saw still more corpses—whole villages of them—taken from life by the sorcerer’s hand or word. There was no escape from the carnage that surrounded him. He wavered like a candle flame, unable to withstand the tide of evil. He prayed for someone to lift him out of the nightmare, but there was no one to guide him. If only he could remember what he was supposed to be: boy or man, villain or hero, Shade or Rider; all was jumbled together in a meaningless frenzy. He was lost, completely and utterly, in the roiling mass.
Suddenly a cluster of his own memories burst through the dismal cloud left by the Shade’s malevolent mind. All the events since he had found Saphira’s egg came to him in the cold light of revelation. His accomplishments and failures were displayed equally. He had lost much that was dear to him, yet fate had given him rare and great gifts; for the first time, he was proud of simply who he was. As if in response to his brief self-confidence, the Shade’s smothering blackness assaulted him anew. His identity trailed into the void as uncertainty and fear consumed his perceptions. Who was he to think he could challenge the powers of Alagaand live?
He fought against the Shade’s sinister thoughts, weakly at first, then more strongly. He whispered words of the ancient language and found they gave him enough strength to withstand the shadow blurring his mind. Though his defenses faltered dangerously, he slowly began to draw his shattered consciousness into a small bright shell around his core. Outside his mind he was aware of a pain so great it threatened to blot out his very life, but something—or someone—seemed to keep it at bay.
He was still too weak to clear his mind completely, but he was lucid enough to examine his experiences since Carvahall. Where would he go nowand who would show him the way? Without Brom, there was no one to guide or teach him.
Come to me.
He recoiled at the touch of another consciousness—one so vast and powerful it was like a mountain looming over him. This was who was blocking the pain, he realized. Like Arya’s mind, music ran through this one: deep amber-gold chords that throbbed with magisterial melancholy.
Finally, he dared ask, Whowho are you?
One who would help. With a flicker of an unspoken thought, the Shade’s influence was brushed aside like an unwanted cobweb. Freed from the oppressive weight, Eragon let his mind expand until he touched a barrier beyond which he could not pass. I have protected you as best
I can, but you are so far away I can do no more than shield your sanity from the pain.
Again: Who are you to do this?
There was a low rumble. I am Osthato Chetow, the Mourning Sage. And Togira Ikonoka, the Cripple Who Is Whole. Come to me, Eragon, for I have answers to all you ask. You will not be safe until you find me.
But how can I find you if I don’t know where you are? he asked, despairing.
Trust Arya and go with her to Ellesm—I will be there. I have waited many seasons, so do not delay or it may soon be too lateYou are greater than you know, Eragon. Think of what you have done and rejoice, for you have rid the land of a great evil. You have wrought a deed no one else could. Many are in your debt.
The stranger was right; what he had accomplished was worthy of honor, of recognition. No matter what his trials might be in the future, he was no longer just a pawn in the game of power. He had transcended that and was something else, something more. He had become what Ajihad wanted: an authority independent of any king or leader.
He sensed approval as he reached that conclusion. You are learning, said the Mourning Sage, drawing nearer. A vision passed from him to Eragon: a burst of color blossomed in his mind, resolving into a stooped figure dressed in white, standing on a sun-drenched stone cliff. It is time for you to rest, Eragon. When you wake, do not speak of me to anyone, said the figure kindly, face obscured by a silver nimbus. Remember, you must go to the elves. Now, sleepHe raised a hand, as if in benediction, and peace crept through Eragon.
His last thought was that Brom would have been proud of him.
commanded the voice. Eragon, for you have slept far too long. He stirred unwillingly, loath to listen. The warmth that surrounded him was too comfortable to leave. The voice sounded again. Argetlam! You are needed!
He reluctantly forced his eyes open and found himself on a long bed, swathed in soft blankets. Angela sat in a chair beside him, staring at his face intently. do you feel? she asked.
Disoriented and confused, he let his eyes roam over the small room. I don’t know, he said, his mouth dry and sore.
don’t move. You should conserve your strength,said Angela, running a hand through her curly hair. Eragon saw that she still wore her flanged armor. Why was that? A fit of coughing made him dizzy, lightheaded, and ache all over. His feverish limbs felt heavy. Angela lifted a gilt horn from the floor and held it to his lips. drink.
Cool mead ran down his throat, refreshing him. Warmth bloomed in his stomach and rose to his cheeks. He coughed again, which worsened his throbbing head. How did I get here? There was a battlewe were losingthen Durza and he exclaimed, sitting upright. He sagged back as his head swam and clenched his eyes, feeling sick. What about Saphira? Is she all right? The Urgals were winningshe was falling. And Arya!
lived,assured Angela, have been waiting for you to wake. Do you wish to see them?He nodded feebly. Angela got up and threw open the door. Arya and Murtagh filed inside. Saphira snaked her head into the room after them, her body too big to fit through the doorway. Her chest vibrated as she hummed deeply, eyes sparkling.
Smiling, Eragon touched her thoughts with relief and gratitude. It is good to see you well, little one, she said tenderly.
And you too, but how—?
The others want to explain it, so I will let them.
You breathed fire! I saw you!
Yes, she said with pride.
He smiled weakly, still confused, then looked at Arya and Murtagh. Both of them were bandaged: Arya on her arm, Murtagh around his head. Murtagh grinned widely. time you were up. We’ve been sitting in the hall for hours.
what happened?asked Eragon.
Arya looked sad. But Murtagh crowed, won! It was incredible! When the Shade’s spirits—if that’s what they were—flew across Farthen Dr, the Urgals ceased fighting to watch them go. It was as though they were released from a spell then, because their clans suddenly turned and attacked each other. Their entire army disintegrated within minutes. We routed them after that!
’re all dead?asked Eragon.
Murtagh shook his head. many of them escaped into the tunnels. The Varden and dwarves are busy ferreting them out right now, but it’s going to take a while. I was helping until an Urgal banged me on the head and I was sent back here.
aren’t going to lock you up again?
His face grew sober. one really cares about that right now. A lot of Varden and dwarves were killed; the survivors are busy trying to recover from the battle. But at least you have cause to be happy. You’re a hero! Everyone’s talking about how you killed Durza. If it hadn’t been for you, we would have lost.
Eragon was troubled by his words but pushed them away for later consideration. were the Twins? They weren’t where they were supposed to be—I couldn’t contact them. I needed their help.
Murtagh shrugged. was told they bravely fought off a group of Urgals that broke into Tronjheim somewhere else. They were probably too busy to talk with you.
That seemed wrong for some reason, but Eragon could not decide why. He turned to Arya. Her large bright eyes had been fixed upon him the entire time. come you didn’t crash? You and Saphira were His voice trailed off.
She said slowly, you warned Saphira of Durza, I was still trying to remove her damaged armor. By the time it was off, it was too late to slide down Vol Turin—you would have been captured before I reached the bottom. Besides, Durza would have killed you before letting me rescue you.Regret entered her voice, I did the one thing I could to distract him: I broke the star sapphire.
And I carried her down, added Saphira.
Eragon struggled to understand as another bout of lightheadedness made him close his eyes. why didn’t any of the pieces hit you or me?
didn’t allow them to. When we were almost to the floor, I held them motionless in the air, then slowly lowered them to the floor—else they would have shattered into a thousand pieces and killed you, stated Arya simply. Her words betrayed the power within her.
Angela added sourly, and it almost killed you as well. It’s taken all of my skill to keep the two of you alive.
A twinge of unease shot through Eragon, matching the intensity of his throbbing head. My back But he felt no bandages there. long have I been here?he asked with trepidation.
a day and a half,answered Angela. ’re lucky I was around, otherwise it would’ve taken you weeks to heal—if you had even lived.Alarmed, Eragon pushed the blankets off his torso and twisted around to feel his back. Angela caught his wrist with her small hand, worry reflected in her eyes. you have to understand, my power is not like yours or Arya’s. It depends on the use of herbs and potions. There are limits to what I can do, especially with such a large—
He yanked his hand out of her grip and reached back, fingers groping. The skin on his back was smooth and warm, flawless. Hard muscles flexed under his fingertips as he moved. He slid his hand toward the base of his neck and unexpectedly felt a hard bump about a half-inch wide. He followed it down his back with growing horror. Durza’s blow had left him with a huge, ropy scar, stretching from his right shoulder to the opposite hip.
Pity showed on Arya’s face as she murmured, have paid a terrible price for your deed, Eragon Shadeslayer.
Murtagh laughed harshly. Now you’re just like me.
Dismay filled Eragon, and he closed his eyes. He was disfigured. Then he remembered something from when he was unconscious a figure in white who had helped him. A cripple who was whole—Togira Ikonoka. He had said, Think of what you have done and rejoice, for you have rid the land of a great evil. You have wrought a deed no one else could. Many are in your debt
Come to me Eragon, for I have answers to all you ask.
A measure of peace and satisfaction consoled Eragon.
I will come.
END OF BOOK ONE
THE STORY WILL CONTINUE IN
Eldest,
BOOK TWO OF INHERITANCE
* * *
A PRONUNCIATION GUIDE
Ajihad—AH-zhi-h
od
Alaga—al-uh-GAY-zee-uh
Arya—AR-ee-uh
Carvahall—CAR-vuh-hall
Dras-Leona—DRAHS-lee-OH-nuh
Du Weldenvarden—doo WELL-den-VAR-den
Eragon—EHR-uh-gahn
Farthen D—FAR-then DURE (dure rhymes with lure)
Galbatorix—gal-buh-TOR-icks
Gil’ead—GILL-ee-id
Jeod—JODE (rhymes with load)
Murtagh—MUR-tag (mur rhymes with purr)
Ra’zac—RAA-zack
Saphira—suh-FEAR-uh
Shruikan—SHREW-kin
Teirm—TEERM
Tronjheim—TRONJ-heem
Vrael—VRAIL
Yazuac—YA-zoo-ack
Zar’roc—ZAR-rock
* * *
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I created Eragon, but its success is the result of the enthusiastic efforts of friends, family, fans, librarians, teachers, students, school administrators, distributors, booksellers, and many more. I wish I could mention by name all the people who have helped, but the list is very, very long. You know who you are, and I thank you! Eragon was first published in early 2002 by my parents’ publishing company, Paolini International LLC. They had already released three books, so it was only natural to do the same with Eragon. We knew Eragon would appeal to a wide range of readers; our challenge was to spread the word about it.
During 2002 and the beginning of 2003, I traveled throughout the United States doing over 130 book signings and presentations in schools, bookstores, and libraries. My mother and I arranged all the events. At first I had only one or two appearances per month, but as we became more efficient at scheduling, our homemade book tour expanded to the point where I was on the road almost continuously.