When Saphira swooped toward the camp, Eragon signaled them with his mind and two of the elves threw the log into the air. Saphira caught it with her talons, the elves jumped, and a moment later, Eragon felt a jolt and Saphira dipped as she took up their weight.
Through her body, Eragon saw the elves, the ropes, and the log wink out of sight as the elves cast a spell of invisibility, the same as he had.
Flapping mightily, Saphira climbed a thousand feet above the ground, high enough that she and the elves below could easily clear the walls and buildings of the city.
To their left, Eragon glimpsed first Thorn and then the shadow-Saphira as they chased each other on foot through the northern part of the city. The elves controlling the apparition were trying to keep Thorn and Murtagh so busy physically that neither of them would have the opportunity to attack with their minds. If they did, or if they caught the apparition, they would quickly realize they had been fooled.
Just a few more minutes, Eragon thought.
Over the fields flew Saphira. Over the catapults with their devoted attendants. Over banks of archers with their arrows stuck in the ground in front of them, like tufts of white-topped reeds. Over a siege tower, and over the warriors on foot: men, dwarves, and Urgals hiding beneath their shields as they rushed ladders toward the curtain wall, and among them elves: tall and slender, with their bright helms and their long-bladed spears and narrow-bladed swords.
Then Saphira soared past the wall itself. Eragon felt a strange twinge as Saphira reappeared beneath him, and he found himself looking at the back of Elva’s head. He assumed that Arya and the other elves hanging below them had become visible as well. Eragon bit off a curse and ended the spell that had concealed them. Galbatorix’s wards, it seemed, would not allow them to enter the city unseen.
Saphira hastened her flight toward the citadel’s massive gate. Below them, Eragon heard shouts of fear and astonishment, but he paid them no heed. Murtagh and Thorn were the ones he was worried about, not the soldiers.
Bringing in her wings, Saphira dove toward the gate. Just when it looked as if she was going to slam into it, she turned and reared upright while back-flapping to slow herself. When she had reached a near stop, she allowed herself to drift downward until the elves were safely on the ground.
Once they had cut themselves free of the ropes and moved out of the way, Saphira landed in the courtyard before the gate, jarring both Eragon and Elva with the force of the impact.
Eragon yanked on the buckles of the straps that held him and Elva in the saddle. Then he helped the girl down from Saphira’s back and they hurried after the elves toward the gate.
The entrance to the citadel took the form of two giant black doors, which met in a point high above. They looked to be made of solid iron and were studded with hundreds, if not thousands, of spiked rivets, each the size of Eragon’s head. The sight was daunting; Eragon could not imagine a less inviting entrance.
Spear in hand, Arya ran to the sally port set within the left-hand door. The port was visible only as a thin, dark seam that outlined a rectangle barely wide enough for a single man to pass through. Within the rectangle was a horizontal strip of metal, perhaps three fingers wide and thrice as long, that was slightly lighter than its surroundings.
As Arya neared the door, the strip sank inward a half inch, then slid to the side with a rusty scrape. A pair of owlish eyes peered out of the dark interior.
“Who are you, then?” demanded a haughty voice. “State your business or be gone!”
Without hesitation, Arya jabbed the Dauthdaert through the open slot. A gurgle emanated from within; then Eragon heard the sound of a body falling to the floor.
Arya pulled the lance back and shook the blood and scraps of flesh from the barbed blade. Then she grasped the haft of the weapon with both hands, placed the tip of it along the right seam of the sally port, and said, “Verma!”
Eragon squinted and turned aside as a fierce blue flame appeared between the lance and the gate. Even from several feet away, he could feel the heat.
Her face contorted with strain, Arya pressed the blade of the spear into the gate, slowly cutting through the iron. Sparks and drops of molten metal poured out from underneath the blade and skittered across the paved ground like grease on a hot pan, causing Eragon and the others to step back.
As she worked, Eragon glanced in the direction of Thorn and the shadow-Saphira. He could not see them, but he could still hear roars and the crash of breaking masonry.
Elva sagged against him, and he looked down to see that she was shaking and sweating, as if she had a fever. He knelt next to her. “Do you want me to carry you?”
She shook her head. “I’ll be better once we’re inside and away from … that.” She motioned in the direction of the battle.
At the edges of the courtyard, Eragon saw a number of people-they did not look like soldiers-standing in the spaces between the grand houses, watching what they were doing. Scare them off, would you? he asked Saphira. She swung her head around and gave a low growl, and the onlookers scurried away.
When the fountain of sparks and white-hot metal ceased, Arya kicked at the sally port until-on the third kick-the door fell inward and landed on the body of the gatekeeper. A second later, the smell of burning wool and skin wafted out.
Still holding the Dauthdaert, Arya stepped through the dark portal. Eragon held his breath. Whatever wards Galbatorix had placed on the citadel, the Dauthdaert ought to allow her to pass through them without harm, even as it had allowed her to cut open the sally port. But there was always a chance that the king had cast a spell the Dauthdaert would be unable to counter.
To his relief, nothing happened as Arya entered the citadel.
Then a group of twenty soldiers rushed toward her, pikes outstretched. Eragon drew Brisingr and ran to the sally port, but he dared not cross the threshold of the citadel to join her, not yet.
Wielding the spear with the same proficiency as her sword, Arya fought her way through the men, dispatching them with impressive speed.
“Why didn’t you warn her?” exclaimed Eragon, never taking his eyes off the fight.
Elva joined him by the hole in the gate. “Because they won’t hurt her.”
Her words proved prophetic; none of the soldiers managed to land a blow. The last two men tried to flee, but Arya bounded after them and slew them before they had gone more than a dozen yards down the immense hallway, which was even larger than the four main corridors of Tronjheim.
When all of the soldiers were dead, Arya pulled the bodies aside so that there was a clear path to the sally port. Then she walked down the hallway a good forty feet, placed the Dauthdaert on the floor, and slid it back out to Eragon.
As her hand left the spear, she tensed as if in preparation for a blow, but she seemed to remain unaffected by whatever magics were in the area.
“Do you feel anything?” Eragon called. His voice echoed in the interior of the hall.
She shook her head. “As long as we stay clear of the gate, we should be fine.”
Eragon handed the spear to Blodhgarm, who took it and entered through the sally port. Together Arya and the fur-covered elf went into the rooms on either side of the gate and worked the hidden mechanisms to open it, a task that would have been beyond the same number of humans.
The clanking of chains filled the air as the giant iron doors slowly swung outward.
Once the gap was wide enough for Saphira, Eragon shouted, “Stop!” and the doors ground to a halt.
Blodhgarm emerged from the room to the right and-keeping a safe distance from the threshold-slid the Dauthdaert to another of the elves.
In that fashion, they entered the citadel one by one.
When only Eragon, Elva, and Saphira remained outside, a terrible roar sounded in the northern part of the city, and for a moment, the whole of Uru’baen fell silent.
“They have discovered our deception,” cried the elf Uthinare. He tossed the spear to Eragon. “Hur
ry, Argetlam!”
“You next,” said Eragon, handing the Dauthdaert to Elva.
Cradling it in the crooks of her arms, she scurried over to join the elves, then pushed the spear back to Eragon, who grabbed it and ran across the threshold. Turning, he was alarmed to see Thorn rise above the buildings by the far edge of the city. Eragon dropped to one knee, placed the Dauthdaert on the floor, and rolled it to Saphira. “Quickly!” he shouted.
A number of seconds were lost as Saphira fumbled with the lance, struggling to pick it up between the tips of her jaws. At last she got it between her teeth, and she leaped into the gigantic corridor, scattering the bodies of the soldiers.
In the distance, Thorn bellowed and flapped furiously, racing toward the citadel.
Speaking in unison, Arya and Blodhgarm cast a spell. A deafening clatter sounded within the stone walls, and the iron doors swung shut many times faster than they had opened. They closed with a boom that Eragon felt through his feet, and then a metal bar-three feet thick and six feet wide-slid out of each wall and through brackets bolted to the inside of the doors, securing them in place.
“That should hold them for a while,” said Arya.
“Not for that long,” said Eragon, looking at the open sally port.
Then they turned to see what lay before them.
The hallway ran for what Eragon guessed was close to a quarter mile, which would take them deep inside the hill behind Uru’baen. At the far end was another set of doors, just as large as the first but covered in patterned gold that glowed beautifully in the light of the flameless lanterns mounted at regular intervals along the walls. Dozens of smaller passageways branched off to either side, but none were large enough for Shruikan, although Saphira could have fit in many of them. Red banners embroidered with the outline of the twisting flame that Galbatorix used as his sigil hung along the walls every hundred feet. Otherwise, the hall was bare.
The sheer size of the passageway was intimidating, and its emptiness made Eragon that much more nervous. He assumed the throne room was on the other side of the golden doors, but he did not think it would be as easy to reach as it appeared. If Galbatorix was even half as cunning as his reputation implied, he would have littered the corridor with dozens, if not hundreds, of traps.
Eragon found it puzzling that the king had not already attacked them. He did not feel the touch of any mind save those of Saphira and his companions, but he remained acutely aware of how close they were to the king. The entire citadel seemed to be watching them.
“He must know we’re here,” he said. “All of us.”
“Then we had best make haste,” said Arya. She took the Dauthdaert from Saphira’s mouth. The weapon was covered in saliva. “Thurra,” said Arya, and the slime fell to the floor.
Behind them, outside the iron gate, there was a loud crash as Thorn landed in the courtyard. He uttered a roar of frustration, then something heavy struck the gate, and the walls rang with the noise.
Arya trotted to the front of their group, and Elva joined her. The dark-haired girl placed a hand on the shaft of the spear-so that she too shared its protective powers-and the two of them started forward, leading the way down the long hall as they hurried ever deeper into Galbatorix’s lair.
THE STORM BREAKS
“Sir, it’s time.”
Roran opened his eyes and nodded at the boy with a lantern who had stuck his head into the tent. The boy hurried off, and Roran leaned over and kissed Katrina on the cheek; she kissed him back. Neither of them had slept.
Together they rose and dressed. She finished first, for it took him longer to don his armor and weapons.
As he pulled on his gloves, she handed him a slice of bread, a wedge of cheese, and a cup of lukewarm tea. He ignored the bread, took a single bite of cheese, and downed the whole cup of tea at once.
They held each other for a moment, and he said, “If it’s a girl, name her something fierce.”
“And if it’s a boy?”
“The same. Boy or girl, you have to be strong in order to survive in this world.”
“I’ll do it. I promise.” They released each other, and she looked him in the eye. “Fight well, my husband.”
He nodded, then turned and left before he lost his composure.
The men under his command were assembling by the northern entrance to the camp when he joined them. The only light they had was from the faint glow above and the torches planted along the outer breastwork. In the dim, flickering illumination, the warriors’ figures seemed like a pack of shuffling beasts, threatening and alien.
Among their ranks were a large number of Urgals, including some Kull. His battalion contained a greater share of the creatures than most, as Nasuada had deemed them more likely to follow orders from him than from anyone else. The Urgals carried the long and heavy siege ladders that would be used to climb over the city walls.
Also among the men were a score of elves. Most of their kind would be fighting on their own, but Queen Islanzadi had granted permission for some to serve in the Varden’s army as protection against attack by Galbatorix’s spellcasters.
Roran welcomed the elves and took the time to ask each their name. They answered politely enough, but he had a feeling they did not think very highly of him. That was all right. He did not care for them either. There was something about them he did not trust; they were too aloof, too well practiced, and above all, too different. The dwarves and Urgals, at least, he understood. But not the elves. He could not tell what they were thinking, and that bothered him.
“Greetings, Stronghammer!” said Nar Garzhvog in a whisper that could be heard at thirty paces. “Today we shall win much glory for our tribes!”
“Yes, today we will win much glory for our tribes,” Roran agreed, moving on. The men were nervous; some of the younger ones looked as if they might be sick-and some were, which was only to be expected-but even the older men seemed tense, short-tempered, and either overly talkative or overly withdrawn. The cause was obvious enough: Shruikan. There was little Roran could do to help them other than to hide his own fears and hope that the men did not lose courage entirely.
The sense of anticipation that clung to everyone there, himself included, was dreadful. They had sacrificed much in order to reach this point, and it was not just their lives that were at risk in the battle to come. It was the safety and well-being of their families and descendants, as well as the future of the land itself. All of their prior battles had been similarly fraught, but this was the final one. This was the end. One way or another, there would be no more battles with the Empire after this day.
The thought hardly felt real. Never again would they have the chance to kill Galbatorix. And while confronting Galbatorix had seemed fine enough in conversations late at night, now that the moment was almost upon them, the prospect was terrifying.
Roran sought out Horst and the other villagers from Carvahall, and the lot of them formed a knot within the battalion. Birgit was among the men, clutching an ax that looked freshly sharpened. He acknowledged her by lifting his shield, as he might a mug of ale. She returned the gesture, and he allowed himself a grim smile.
The warriors muffled their boots and feet with rags, then stood waiting for the order to depart.
It soon arrived, and they marched out of the camp, doing their best to keep their arms and armor from making noise. Roran led his warriors across the fields to their place before the front gate of Uru’baen, where they joined two other battalions, one led by his old commander Martland Redbeard and one led by Jormundur.
The alarm went up in Uru’baen soon afterward, so they pulled the rags off their weapons and feet and prepared to attack. A few minutes later, the Varden’s horns sounded the advance and they set off at a run across the dark ground toward the immensity of the city wall.
Roran took a place at the forefront of the charge. It was the fastest way to get himself killed, but the men needed to see him braving the same dangers they faced. It would, he hoped, stif
fen their spines and keep them from breaking rank at the first sign of serious opposition. For whatever happened, Uru’baen would not be easy to take. Of that, he was sure.
They ran past one of the siege towers, the wheels of which were over twenty feet high and creaked like a set of rusty hinges, and then they were on open ground. Arrows and javelins rained upon them from the soldiers atop the battlements.
The elves shouted in their strange tongue, and by the faint light of dawn, Roran saw many of the arrows and spears turn and bury themselves harmlessly in the dirt. But not all. A man behind him uttered a desperate cry, and Roran heard a clatter of armor as men and Urgals leaped aside to avoid stepping on the fallen warrior. Roran did not look back, nor did he or those with him slow their headlong dash toward the wall.
An arrow struck the shield he held over his head. He barely felt the impact.
When they arrived at the wall, he moved to the side, shouting, “Ladders! Make way for the ladders!”
The men parted to allow the Urgals carrying the ladders to move forward. The ladders’ great length meant that the Kull had to use poles made of trees lashed together to push them upright. Once the ladders touched the wall, they sagged inward under their own weight, so that the upper two-thirds lay flat against the dressed stone and slid from side to side, threatening to fall.
Roran elbowed his way back through the men and grabbed one of the elves, Othiara, by the arm. She gave him a look of anger, which he ignored. “Keep the ladders in place!” he shouted. “Don’t let the soldiers push them away!”
She nodded and began to chant in the ancient language, as did the other elves.
Turning, Roran hurried back to the wall. One of the men was already starting to climb the nearest ladder. Roran grabbed him by the belt and pulled him off. “I’ll go first,” he said.
“Stronghammer!”
Roran slung his shield over his back, then began to climb, hammer in hand. He had never been fond of heights, and as the men and Urgals grew smaller below him, he felt increasingly uneasy. The feeling just grew worse when he reached the section of the ladder that lay flat against the wall, for he could no longer wrap his hands all the way around the rungs, nor could he get a good foothold-only the first few inches of his boots would fit on the bark-covered branches, and he had to move carefully to ensure that they did not slip off.
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