The Fork, the Witch, and the Worm

by Christopher Paolini

  Inevitably, the younger males began to seek to earn a name for themselves by climbing Kulkaras and marking a spur of rock close to the dragon without waking him. The Herndall disapproved of the practice, but their disapproval did nothing to stop it.

  At first the recklessness of the climbs bothered Ilgra. But then she decided they were a help to her, for they served to accustom Vêrmund to the occasional visitor—if indeed he even noticed. The accounts of those who reached the summit of Kulkaras also helped give her a sense of how she might accomplish the same. She listened with starved interest to each warrior upon his return, and in her mind, she pictured the path, imagined sneaking up on the sleeping worm….

  The nearest any of the males got was within a stone’s throw of Vêrmund’s wing. It was impossible to cross the final stretch of scree-strewn granite without making noise, and none of the Horned, not even the most boastful, were willing to attempt it.

  As for herself, Ilgra would not risk climbing Kulkaras unless she felt sure of being able to kill grim Vêrmund. So she held and waited.

  The peace could not last, though. The whole clan knew it, and they lived with the knowledge of impending doom, and it wore upon them.

  * * *

  At first snowfall their nightmares came true: Vêrmund woke and, with a fearsome cry, unfurled his wings and took to the air. He wheeled in lazy circles above the gleaming spire of Kulkaras and then drifted down with the sound of rushing wind.

  The clan fled. Ilgra too, clutching Yhana in one hand and Gorgoth in the other, while their mother hurried to keep up. They scattered to their burrows and sat huddled there while the dragon prowled among their halls and holdings. This time, no one tried to attack Vêrmund; the males cursed and brandished their weapons, but they dared not break cover.

  The scaly old worm crept through the valley, dining upon deer and sheep and all manner of animals. However, he ate little compared with before and set only one small fire in the fields by the streams.

  Then Vêrmund licked his chops with a tongue that was barbed like that of a cat. Seemingly satisfied, he returned to the air and, after several more lazy circles, settled once again on Kulkaras. He released a single huff of smoke, tucked his snout under his tail, and closed his crimson eyes.

  Unbelieving, Ilgra crawled out of her burrow. None of the clan had been hurt, and the animals they had lost were not enough to starve them.

  The Herndall consulted, and then Elgha nodded and said, “This we can endure.”

  And so it was. Enduring was not to Ilgra’s taste, nor to any of the Skgaro’s, but it was better than being eaten.

  Winter aged into spring, spring into summer, and then summer again to winter. The clan hunted and farmed and mated, and once more grew strong. Far above, Vêrmund was a black blight upon the crown of Kulkaras, a looming menace often seen and often spoken of but rarely an immediate threat. As they grew accustomed to his presence, the Skgaro came to view Vêrmund as more a part of the landscape than a living creature. To them he was no different from a force of nature: a blizzard or a plague that might strike without warning and that, for the most part, was best ignored.

  If asked, the Skgaro would claim they still wished to kill the dragon, and in evenings, they often twisted cord for the much-discussed nets. But the yardage needed was far more than they could make in any reasonable period of time, and the nets remained unrealized.

  True it was, Vêrmund sometimes roused himself and came flying down amid fire and fury to steal from their herds, and if any of the clan were foolish enough to challenge him, the dragon would eat them too. Yet Vêrmund’s attacks were not the most important part of their lives. Wood still needed chopping. Livestock still needed guarding against wolves and bears and sharp-eyed mountain cats. Crops still needed tending. The daily duties necessary to survival took precedence.

  And Ilgra hated it. Complacency rankled her to no end; her blood called for vengeance, and every moment of delay was a frustration. Worse, there were some within the clan who began to speak of Vêrmund in reverent tones, as if he were worthy of respect. Several times, while herding flocks from one pasture to the next, Ilgra found small shrines in the foothills of Kulkaras, shrines with offerings of food and drink meant for the devouring worm. She destroyed them all. Had she known who built them, she would have beaten them with Gorgoth until they were bruised from head to heel.

  Ilgra kept at her training, and her strength and skill continued to grow. Sparring with Arvog was no preparation for fighting the dragon, but because of it, she felt increasingly confident in her abilities.

  The day of her ozhthim came late that winter, and upon its coming, the trials of passage, wherein Ilgra had to stand before the whole of the clan and prove her courage. Despite her fear, she held her place, and reaching the end, the dams marked her as a full member of Clan Skgaro.

  But the trials were very hard. They were supposed to be. It was seven days before Ilgra was recovered enough to leave her hall, and three moons after that before the wounds on her chest had healed. Ilgra wore the scars as the badge of honor they were, and she wished her father had been there to see, for she knew he would have been proud. Not once had she cried out during the whole ordeal. Not once.

  With the trials complete and her skills with Gorgoth well advanced, Ilgra finally felt ready to pair action with intent. Yet she bided her time a while longer, until winter broke and most of the snowy cap melted off high Kulkaras’s brow. Then one evening, when the air was mild and the fields were green, she filled a pouch with unguent for burns and with berries and cheese and dried strips of meat. She sharpened Gorgoth once more—so it could cut a strand of hair with the lightest touch—and she brushed and cleaned her leather armor, oiled it so it gleamed by the hall fire.

  She said nothing of her plans to her mother or sister, only kissed each on the forehead before retiring to bed.

  When the birds first sounded in the grey before dawn, Ilgra rose and slipped from the hall and, in the coolness of morning, turned to face Kulkaras.

  None marked her passing as she snuck through the village, not even Razhag, the male on watch. When she reached the forest edge, Ilgra quickened her pace, heading toward the ridge of earth and stone that would allow her to climb Kulkaras’s flank. It was the same path the shaman Ulkrö had followed, and the knowledge gave her a moment of pause.

  Still, an expanding sense of excitement filled Ilgra’s heart, and she moved forward with light steps, glad to at last be taking action.

  Despite Ulkrö’s failure, and that of Arvog’s warband before, Ilgra felt sure she could succeed where they had failed. The reasons for her confidence were simple: she was not going to attempt to match Vêrmund in open combat. (Though Ilgra was willing to risk her life in pursuit of vengeance, she was not willing to throw it away in a hopeless gambit.) And she had become convinced that Arvog’s warband had failed in their quest because of the noise the seven warriors had made on the rock face. The lone males who had ascended Kulkaras had managed to avoid attracting Vêrmund’s attention. Thuswise, Ilgra felt she could do the same. By herself, she could be quiet in a way no group of Horned could, and she had other means of avoiding detection besides….

  Then it would just be a matter of a quick thrust of Gorgoth beneath Vêrmund’s armored eyelid, and the dragon would die. The thrust would need to be long to reach the worm’s brain, but Ilgra had no doubt that—with the memory of her father guiding her arm—she could hit her mark.

  When she came upon a small stream that poured out of the ground and down a mossy gully, she stopped to fill her skins. As she held them beneath the icy water, she breathed deep, enjoying the smell of the stream and the peaceful sound of water burbling over wood and stone. For she knew it might be the last time she would savor such a simple pleasure.

  Onward she forged, through brake and bramble, up rise and ridge, across saddle and scarp, until the villag
e was a shrunken cluster below, as tiny as a youngling’s toys. Often outcroppings of rock blocked the way, and Ilgra had to climb from one precarious hold to another, knowing that if her hands slipped, she might lose her life. The sun beat hot throughout the day, and sweat gathered upon her brow and dripped into her eyes so they stung. She ate while walking, but sparingly, not wanting her stomach to be heavy with food.

  So steep was Kulkaras that, for most of the ascent, the mountain hid the bulk of Vêrmund from her sight. She could hear the dragon, though, snorting and growling in his sleep, and when he shifted his weight, the bones of the mountain groaned and birds flew in fright from the boughs of the trees.

  Eventually and inevitably, Vêrmund came into sight. First a section of his tail, extending over the side of Kulkaras like a great black cliff, sharp and jagged. Then a fold of wing, thicker than any hide and laced with pulsing veins the width of her legs. And last of all, the huge white claws of one forefoot—curved, saw-toothed, and cruelly pointed—and above, the dragon’s wedge-shaped head, partially covered by a length of tail. A heavy odor clung to the worm, a sour musk that reminded her of the den of a large cat. It was a warning scent, the scent of an eater of flesh.

  Ilgra stopped at the first, distant glimpse of Vêrmund and made her final preparations. She tied rags around her feet that they might not betray her with unwanted sound. And she poured water onto the sparse earth and smeared herself with mud to hide her own scent. Were she hunting deer, she would have used pine needles or chokeweed, but so high on the mountain only moss and lichen grew. She finished by rubbing her skin with a mat of wool she had hung over the hearth in their hall, so as to gather the scent of smoke. The worm so often spouted smoke from his nostrils, she felt sure he had long since ceased to smell it.

  Then Ilgra gathered her courage and resumed her climb, only slower and more careful than before.

  When some time later she gained a clear view of Vêrmund’s head, she froze, and her heart redoubled in pace. For she saw a slit of red in Vêrmund’s eye, and she realized he slept with the armored lid partially open. She studied the mountaintop: the stone was rotten and split in heavy slabs. Deep scratches scored the surface, and scales big as both her hands lay scattered among the pieces of scree, while patches of unmelted snow filled the shadowed hollows. Near the dragon’s folded wing, Ilgra spotted the flat-faced boulder marked with the sigils of those warriors who had reached the summit.

  Careful not to disturb the loose-strewn rock, Ilgra edged around the dragon, always keeping a slab of stone between her and the crimson eye. If she could get close enough, she could strike before the worm had a chance to react. Even if she failed in killing him, she would still half blind him, and he would be disadvantaged forevermore.

  She whispered a prayer to her father and to Rahna, queen of the gods, and by them she bolstered her courage.

  The thinness of the air made her want to gasp. The strength of her anticipation sped her pulse. Every muscle in her body was strung taut in readiness for action. Tremors of nervous excitement wracked her steps. Already she could feel the frenzy of battle rage—the great boon and bane of her people—rising within her, and she bared her teeth with feral glee.

  Near an hour passed before Ilgra finally maneuvered herself behind a slab within striking distance of Vêrmund’s enormous head. She stayed crouched there while she calmed her breathing and readied her spirit. Should she die, it would be a glorious death, and the clan would sing her name for generations to come. She touched the horn of her father, where it hung on her hip. She wished she could wind it, but she dared not lose the advantage of surprise. Every chance of success rested upon it.

  Ilgra took a breath. Then she vaulted over the slab and ran headlong toward the dragon, spear held high. Three quick steps, and she drove her weapon toward the narrow slit of Vêrmund’s sleeping eye.

  The dragon blinked.

  With a loud ping, the blade of the spear shattered against Vêrmund’s scaled lid, and the haft bounced back in Ilgra’s hands, numbing her palms. She stumbled to a stop. For a brief moment, she stood motionless, dumbfounded.

  The lid lifted. A blazing, red-rimmed eye stared down at her, the pupil a black crevice large enough to walk through. The eye filled the sky; it dominated her existence, pinning her in place with palpable force. Then the dragon’s mind enveloped her own, and Ilgra shrank before the vast and incomprehensible nature of its intelligence. From it she felt not surprise, nor anger, nor even amusement, but the worst of all reactions…indifference.

  Her sense of self faltered beneath the withering onslaught of Vêrmund’s presence. The world seemed to tilt around her, and darkness yawned wide with a hungry grin, and all she knew and all she was became no more important than a mote of dust, adrift in an endless void….

  Fury freed Ilgra of the dragon’s dangerous hold, and she reached for her father’s horn as she backed away. She could endure many things from the worm, but not indifference. Never that! If it was the last thing she did, she would shake Vêrmund from his apathy and force him to respond as was proper, force him to respect her. That much she—and her clan—was owed.

  Ilgra lifted the horn to her lips, about to give voice to her outrage, when the scree betrayed her. Her foot slipped on a loose piece of rock, and she fell tumbling backward off the barren ridge atop proud Kulkaras.

  She flailed and lost her grip on Gorgoth. Finding no purchase, she pulled the horn against her belly, holding it close as sky and mountain spun in a dizzying circle. Icy snow broke against her, and then brush and branches, until—with a jolt so violent her vision flashed white and a spangle of stars obscured her sight—Ilgra fetched up against the twisted trunk of a wind-warped fir.

  Like all the Horned, Ilgra had a thick skin, as thick as that of a winter boar. It protected her from many wounds, but it could not protect her from the worst. When her breath returned in sudden gasps and she strove to move, Ilgra discovered her leg was broken, and she cried out with pain.

  Her spear was nowhere to be seen.

  She lay there for a hopeless while, staring toward the peak, waiting for Vêrmund to crawl down the face of Kulkaras and devour her. She could neither run nor fight nor hide, so Ilgra did what was only sensible and held still to conserve her strength.

  But Vêrmund never appeared. It seemed she was entirely unimportant so far as the dragon was concerned. The realization aggravated Ilgra nearly as much as her broken leg; it wasn’t right the worm should have so much power over their lives—the very power of life and death—and yet to him, they were no more than scurrying mice.

  Ilgra snarled and pulled herself upright, though the effort nearly caused her to again cry out. She clung to the tree, as a drowning swimmer clings to the slightest hold, and waited while the torment of her leg slowly subsided. She checked her father’s horn, the strap still knotted round her fist, and was gladdened to see it well and whole.

  As Ilgra readied to move, she spotted a glint of brilliant blue in the nearby scrub. Curious, she dropped to hands and knees and crawled closer, each touch of leg to ground sending a lance of pain through her body. She parted the scrub with her hands, and there, among the knotted stems, saw the staff of Ulkrö the shaman.

  Wonder overcame her, for the wood appeared untouched by the mountain’s harsh clime. Ilgra took the staff then, and as she held it before her, she decided: if she could not best Vêrmund by strength of limb, she would have to best him with less honest means—with spells and spirits and the twisting of words. The thought frightened her, but Ilgra had never been one to let fear win out.

  Then she named the staff as she had named her spear: Gorgoth, or Revenge.

  She crawled back to the fir, cut a branch, and with a strip torn from her tunic, bound it to her broken leg. Then, using the staff as a crutch, she began the long climb back down Kulkaras to the valley floor.

  It was a miserable ordea
l. Every step hurt, and ere long Ilgra’s throat grew dry and the ache of hunger hollowed out her stomach, for she had lost her food and water in the fall.

  She stopped often to rest her leg, and it was deep into the gloaming when the orange light of the first hall appeared twinkling between the branches of the trees. A welcome sight, for it promised warmth and safety and good food.

  Arvog and Moqtar found her before she reached the hall. They greeted her with cries of relief and looked with wonder at the staff she bore. The two had been waiting for her since morn. As Arvog explained, when it became known she had departed, it took but a short while before they found her spoor and tracked her to the base of Kulkaras. None dared follow past that point, for fear of what Vêrmund might do if she roused the dragon. But they had kept watch, in hope she would return.

  “Your mother is much worried,” said Arvog in his low rumble. Ilgra nodded. She had expected nothing else.

  They carried her back home. There her mother and sister descended upon Ilgra with a concern fierce enough to give even Vêrmund—evil as he was—pause. And yet Ilgra could tell, despite the cuffs and accusations, that her mother was proud: what Ilgra had done was a feat equal to those of the bravest warriors. And while she had not succeeded in killing the dragon, she had retrieved a great treasure in Ulkrö’s staff.

  Yhana too seemed proud, and she said, “Were I grown into my horns, I would have gone with you, Ilgra-sister. You did what I cannot yet do, and for that I am glad.”

  Then her mother said, “You are finished now, yes? You have satisfied the demands of honor. You will not attempt any more foolishness.”

  But Ilgra’s discontent remained. So long as Vêrmund lived, she could not rest easy. Only the blood of the dragon could slake her thirst for vengeance. She made to say as much, but the arrival of the healer ended the conversation.