Inheritance i-4

by Christopher Paolini

  Roran took a deep, shuddering breath.

  There was a way, but it was dangerous, incredibly dangerous. If he did what he was contemplating, he knew that he would probably never see Katrina again, much less their unborn child. Yet the knowledge brought him a certain peace. His life for theirs was a fair trade, and if he could help save the Varden at the same time, then he would be happy to give it.

  Katrina …

  The decision was an easy one.

  Raising his head, he strode over to the herbalist. She looked as shocked and grief-ridden as any of the elves. He touched her on the shoulder with the edge of his shield and said, “I need your help.”

  She gazed at him with red-rimmed eyes. “What do you intend to do?”

  “Kill Barst.” His words captivated all of the warriors nearby.

  “Roran, no!” exclaimed Horst.

  The herbalist nodded. “I’ll help however I can.”

  “Good. I want you to fetch Jormundur, Garzhvog, Orik, Grimrr, and one of the elves who still has some authority.”

  The curly-haired woman sniffed and wiped her eyes. “Where do you want them to meet you?”

  “Right here. And hurry, before any more men flee!”

  Angela nodded, then she and the werecat trotted away, sticking close to the sides of the buildings for protection.

  “Roran,” said Horst, clutching his arm, “what do you have in mind?”

  “I’m not going to go up against him by myself, if that’s what you’re thinking,” said Roran, nodding toward Barst.

  Horst appeared somewhat relieved. “Then what are you going to do?”

  “You’ll see.”

  Several soldiers carrying pikes ran up the steps of the building, but the red-haired dwarves who had joined Roran’s force held them off with ease, the steps for once giving them the advantage of height over their opponents.

  While the dwarves fenced with the soldiers, Roran went to a nearby elf who-with a snarl fixed on his face-was emptying his quiver at a prodigious speed, sending each of his arrows arcing toward Barst. None of them, of course, found their mark.

  “Enough,” said Roran. When the dark-haired elf ignored him, Roran grabbed the elf’s right hand, his bow hand, and pulled it to the side. “That’s enough, I said. Save your arrows.”

  A growl sounded, and then Roran felt a hand around his throat.

  “Do not touch me, human.”

  “Listen to me! I can help you kill Barst. Just … let me go.”

  After a second or two, the fingers gripping Roran’s neck relaxed. “How, Stronghammer?” The bloodthirstiness of the elf’s voice contrasted with the tears on his cheeks.

  “You’ll find out in a minute. But I have a question for you first. Why can’t you kill Barst with your minds? He’s only one man, and there are so many of you.”

  An anguished expression crossed the elf’s face. “Because his mind is hidden from us!”

  “How?”

  “I do not know. We can feel nothing of his thoughts. It is as if there is a sphere around his mind. We can see nothing within the sphere, nor can we pierce it.”

  Roran had expected something like that. “Thank you,” he said, and the elf made a slight motion of his head in acknowledgment.

  Garzhvog was the first to reach the building; he emerged from a nearby street and ran up the steps with two huge strides, then turned and roared at the thirty soldiers following him. Seeing the Kull safe among friends, the soldiers wisely dropped back.

  “Stronghammer!” exclaimed Garzhvog. “You asked, and I have come.”

  After a few more minutes, the others Roran had sent the herbalist to fetch arrived at the great stone building. The silver-haired elf who presented himself was one Roran had seen with Islanzadi on several occasions. Lord Dathedr was his name. The six of them, all bloody and weary, stood in a clump among the fluted pillars.

  “I have a plan to kill Barst,” Roran said, “but I need your help, and we have little time. Can I count on you?”

  “That depends on your plan,” said Orik. “Tell it to us first.”

  So Roran explained it as quickly as he could. When he finished, he asked Orik, “Can your engineers aim the catapults and ballistae as accurately as needed?”

  The dwarf made a noise in his throat. “Not with how humans build their war machines. We can put a stone within twenty feet of the target, but any closer than that is up to luck.”

  Roran looked at the elf lord Dathedr. “Will the others of your kind follow you?”

  “They will obey my orders, Stronghammer. Do not doubt it.”

  “Then will you send some of your magicians to accompany the dwarves and help guide the stones?”

  “There would be no guarantee of success. The spells might easily fail or go astray.”

  “We’ll have to risk it.” Roran swept his gaze over the group. “So, I ask again: can I count on you?”

  Out by the city wall, a chorus of fresh screams erupted as Barst smashed his way through a bank of men.

  Garzhvog surprised Roran by being the first to answer. “You are battle-mad, Stronghammer, but I will follow you,” he said. He made a ruk-ruk sound that Roran thought might be laughter. “There will be much glory in killing Barst.”

  Then Jormundur said, “Aye, I’ll follow you as well, Roran. We have no other choice, I think.”

  “Agreed,” said Orik.

  “Agrrreed,” said Grimrr, king of the werecats, drawing the word out into a throaty growl.

  “Agreed,” said Lord Dathedr.

  “Then go!” said Roran. “You know what you need to do! Go!”

  As the others departed, Roran called his warriors together and told them his plan. Then they hunkered between the pillars and waited. It took three or four minutes-precious time in which Barst and his soldiers pushed the Varden ever closer to the breach in the outer wall-but then Roran saw groups of dwarves and elves run up to twelve of the nearest ballistae and catapults on the walls and free them from the soldiers.

  Several more tense minutes passed. Then Orik hurried up the steps to the building, along with thirty of his dwarves, and said to Roran, “They’re ready.”

  Roran nodded. To everyone with him, he said, “Take your places!”

  The remnants of Roran’s battalion formed a dense wedge, with him at the tip and the elves and Urgals directly behind him. Orik and his dwarves took up the rear.

  Once all of the warriors were in place, Roran shouted, “Forward!” and trotted down the steps into the midst of the enemy soldiers, knowing that the rest of the group was close behind him.

  The soldiers had not been expecting the charge; they parted before Roran like water before the prow of a ship.

  One man tried to bar Roran’s way, and Roran stabbed him through the eye without breaking stride.

  When they were about fifty feet from Barst, who had his back turned, Roran stopped, as did the warriors behind him. To one of the elves, he said, “Make it so everyone in the square can hear me.”

  The elf muttered in the ancient language, then said, “It is done.”

  “Barst!” shouted Roran, and was relieved to hear his voice echo over the whole of the battle. The fighting throughout the streets came to a halt, save for a few individual skirmishes here and there.

  Sweat dripped down Roran’s brow and his heart was pounding, but he refused to feel afraid. “Barst!” he shouted again, and slapped the front of his shield with his spear. “Turn and fight me, you maggot-ridden cur!”

  A soldier ran at him. Roran blocked his sword and, in one easy motion, swept the man off his feet and dispatched him with two quick jabs. Pulling his spear free, Roran repeated his call: “Barst!”

  The broad, heavy figure slowly turned to face him. Now that he was closer, Roran could see the sly intelligence that lay in Barst’s eyes and the small, mocking smile that lifted the corners of his childlike mouth. His neck was as thick as Roran’s thigh, and beneath his mail hauberk, his arms were knotted with muscles. Th
e reflections from his protruding breastplate kept snaring Roran’s gaze, despite his efforts to ignore them.

  “Barst! My name is Roran Stronghammer, cousin to Eragon Shadeslayer! Fight me if you dare, or be branded a coward before all here today.”

  “No man scares me, Stronghammer. Or should I say Lackhammer, for I see no hammer upon you.”

  Roran drew himself up. “I need no hammer to kill you, you beardless bootlicker.”

  “Is that so?” Barst’s tiny smile grew wider. “Give us room!” he shouted, and waved his mace at the soldiers and Varden alike.

  With the soft thunder of thousands of feet treading backward, the armies withdrew, and a wide, circular area formed around Barst. He pointed his mace at Roran. “Galbatorix told me of you, Lackhammer. He said that I was to break every bone in your body before I killed you.”

  “What if we break your bones instead?” said Roran. Now! he thought as hard as he could, trying to shout his thoughts into the darkness that surrounded his mind. He hoped the elves and the other spellcasters were listening as promised.

  Barst frowned and opened his mouth. Before he could speak, a low, whistling noise sounded over the city, and six stone projectiles-each the size of a barrel-hurtled over the tops of the houses from the catapults on the walls. A half-dozen javelins accompanied the stones.

  Five of the stones landed directly on Barst. The sixth missed and went bouncing across the square like a rock across water, bowling over men and dwarves alike.

  The stones cracked and exploded as they struck Barst’s wards, sending fragments flying in every direction. Roran ducked behind his shield and nearly fell as a fist-sized chunk of stone slammed into it, bruising his arm. The javelins vanished in a flare of yellow fire, which gave a ghoulish light to the clouds of dust that floated upward from Barst’s location.

  When he was sure it was safe, Roran looked over his shield.

  Barst was lying on his back amid the rubble, his mace on the ground next to him.

  “Get him!” Roran bellowed, and ran forward.

  Many of the gathered Varden started toward Barst, but the soldiers they had been fighting shouted and attacked, stopping them from covering more than a few steps. With a roar, the two armies turned on each other once again, both factions inflamed with a desperate anger.

  As they did, Jormundur emerged from a side street, leading a hundred men whom he had collected from the edges of the battle. He and those with him would help hold back the scrum of combatants while Roran and the others dealt with Barst.

  From the opposite side of the square, Garzhvog and six other Kull charged out from behind the houses they had been using for cover. Their pounding footsteps shook the ground, and men of both the Empire and the Varden scrambled to move out of their way.

  Then hundreds of werecats, most in their animal forms, slipped out from the main body of the intermingled armies and streamed across the cobblestones, teeth bared, toward where Barst lay.

  Barst had just begun to stir when Roran reached him. Grabbing his spear with both hands, Roran brought it down on Barst’s neck.

  The blade of the weapon stopped a foot away, and the tip bent and snapped as if it had struck a block of granite.

  Roran cursed and continued to stab as quickly as he could, trying to keep the Eldunari within Barst’s breastplate from recovering its strength.

  Barst groaned.

  “Hurry!” Roran bellowed at the Urgals.

  Once they were close enough, Roran sprang aside so that the Kull would have the room they needed. Taking turns, each of the massive Urgals struck at Barst with their weapons. His wards blocked them, but the Kull continued to hammer away. The sound was deafening.

  Werecats and elves gathered around Roran. Behind them, he was half-aware of the warriors he had brought with him holding off the soldiers, along with Jormundur’s men.

  Just when Roran was beginning to think that Barst’s wards would never give way, one of the Kull uttered a triumphant shout, and Roran saw the creature’s ax glance off the front of Barst’s armor, denting it.

  “Again!” shouted Roran. “Now! Kill him!”

  The Kull lifted his ax out of the way, and Garzhvog swung his ironbound club toward Barst’s head.

  Roran saw a flurry of motion, and then there was a loud thud as the club struck Barst’s shield, which the man had pulled over himself.

  Blast it!

  Before the Urgals could attack again, Barst rolled up against the legs of one of the Kull, and his hand latched on to the back of the Kull’s right knee. The Kull bellowed with pain and hopped backward, pulling Barst out of the knot of Kull.

  The Urgals and two elves closed in around Barst once more, and for a number of heartbeats, it seemed as if they might subdue him.

  Then one of the elves went flying, her neck crooked at an odd angle. A Kull fell onto his side, shouting in his native language. Bone protruded from his left forearm. Garzhvog snarled and jumped back, blood streaming from a fist-sized hole in his side.

  No! thought Roran, going cold. It can’t end like this. I won’t let it!

  Shouting, he ran forward and slipped between two of the giant Urgals. He barely had time to see Barst-bloody and enraged, with his shield in one hand and a sword in the other-before Barst swung his shield and struck Roran on the left side of his body.

  The air rushed out of Roran’s lungs, and the sky and the ground spun around him, and he felt his helmet-covered head bouncing against the cobblestones.

  The world seemed to keep moving beneath him even when he rolled to a stop.

  He lay where he was for a time, struggling to breathe. At last he was able to fill his lungs with air, and he thought he had never been so grateful for anything as he was for that breath. He gasped. Then he howled as his body filled with pain. His left arm felt numb, but every other muscle and sinew burned with agony.

  He tried to push himself upright and fell back onto his stomach, too dizzy and hurt to stand. Before him was a fragment of yellowish stone, veined with coiled branches of red agate. He stared at it for a while, panting, and the whole time, the only thought running through his mind was: Have to get up. Have to get up. Have to get up.…

  When he felt ready, he tried again. His left arm refused to work, so he was forced to rely on his right alone. Hard as it was, he got his legs underneath him, and then he slowly rose to his feet, shaking and unable to take more than shallow breaths.

  As he straightened, something pulled in his left shoulder, and he uttered a silent scream. It felt as if a red-hot knife were buried in the joint. Looking down, he saw that his arm was dislocated. Of his shield, nothing remained but a splintered board still attached to the strap around his forearm.

  Roran turned, searching for Barst, and saw the man thirty yards away, covered in clawing werecats.

  Satisfied that Barst would be occupied for at least a few more seconds, Roran returned his gaze to his dislocated arm. At first he could not remember what his mother had taught him, but then her words returned to him, faint and blurred by the passage of time. He pulled off the remnants of his shield.

  “Make a fist,” mumbled Roran, and he did so with his left hand. “Bend your arm so your fist points forward.” That he did, though it worsened his pain. “Then turn your arm outward, away from your …” He screamed a curse as his shoulder grated, the muscles and tendons pulling in ways they were not supposed to stretch. He kept turning his arm and he kept clenching his fist, and after a few seconds, the bone popped back into the socket.

  His relief was immediate. He still hurt elsewhere-especially his lower back and ribs-but at least he could use his arm again, and the pain was not so excruciating.

  Then Roran looked toward Barst again.

  What he saw sickened him.

  Barst was standing in a circle of dead werecats. Blood streaked his dented breastplate, and clumps of fur clung to his mace, which he had retrieved. His cheeks were scratched deeply, and the right sleeve of his mail hauberk was torn, but otherwi
se he appeared unharmed. The few werecats who still faced him were careful to keep their distance, and it looked to Roran as if they were about to turn tail and run. Behind Barst lay the bodies of the Kull and the elves he had been fighting. All of Roran’s warriors seemed to have disappeared, for none but soldiers surrounded Roran, Barst, and the werecats: a seething mass of crimson tunics, the men pushing and shoving as they struggled against the eddies of the battle.

  “Shoot him!” Roran shouted, but no one seemed to hear.

  Barst noticed, however, and he began to lumber toward Roran. “Lackhammer!” he roared. “I’ll have your head for this!”

  Roran saw a spear on the ground. He knelt and picked it up. The motion made him light-headed. “Let’s see you try!” he replied. But the words sounded hollow, and his mind filled with thoughts of Katrina and their child who was yet to be.

  Then one of the werecats-who was in the form of a white-haired woman no taller than Roran’s elbow-ran forward and cut Barst along the side of his left thigh.

  Barst snarled and twisted, but the werecat was already retreating, hissing at him while she did. A moment more Barst waited, to ensure that she would not trouble him again, and then he continued walking toward Roran, limping now as his new wound exacerbated the hitch in his stride. Blood sheeted down his leg.

  Roran wet his lips, unable to look away from his approaching foe. He had only the spear. He had no shield. He could not outrun Barst, and he could not hope to match Barst’s unnatural strength or speed. Nor was there anyone nearby to help him.

  It was an impossible situation, but Roran refused to admit defeat. He had given up once before, and he would never do so again, even though reason told him that he was about to die.

  Then Barst was upon him, and Roran stabbed at his right knee, in the desperate hope that he might by some chance cripple him. Barst deflected the spear with his mace, then swung at Roran.

  Roran had anticipated the counterattack and was already stumbling backward as fast as his legs would allow. A gust of wind touched his face as the head of the mace swept past, inches from his skin.