The Fork, the Witch, and the Worm

by Christopher Paolini

  A leather belt was fit between Ilgra’s teeth, and she bit down while the bone in her leg was pulled straight and set. She made no sound but stared at the ceiling and thought of the staff and all she needed to learn. For Ilgra was young and yet undaunted.

  * * *

  Her leg healed badly. She had further damaged it during her descent from Kulkaras, and the bone knit with a bend so that, forever after, she walked with a limp, as the one leg was shorter than the other. It hurt too, in damp and cold and after walks, but Ilgra never let the discomfort prevent her from going where she wanted.

  One thing was certain, however: her days as a warrior had reached their end. Her balance was poor, and if some foe struck her crippled leg, it would give way and was like to break again.

  The knowledge was a bitter drop upon her tongue. Ilgra found her thoughts wandering down unaccustomed paths, dark and tangled. At times she would remember the feel of Vêrmund’s mind, and then the world seemed to grow dim and distant and she would have to sit until the sensation passed.

  Despite her leg, Ilgra grew ever taller. By autumn it was clear she was Anointed, as was her father before, and one by one, the males came courting. Those she could not ignore, she beat about the head and shoulders with Gorgoth and so chased them away. For the clan feared the staff and the magics it contained.

  Her mother and sister disapproved, but Ilgra had no desire to take a mate. Such would only distract from her larger goal. She said nothing of her intent, though, and merely claimed no male had done enough to win her favor. That was, for the moment, enough to quell their concern.

  What time she had of her own, Ilgra spent in study with the staff, attempting to learn its secrets, but her efforts bore no fruit; she knew not the ways of weirding, and whatever powers the staff possessed—set there by Ulkrö himself—remained a mystery.

  Her lack of progress became an ever-greater source of discontent; Ilgra could hardly sleep at nights for thinking about the riddle the staff presented. At last, late in the season, she decided her only hope of success lay in seeking out a mentor who might instruct her in magic. The thought of leaving the valley pained her greatly, but doing nothing was a still greater torment.

  For once, fortune smiled upon her. Just as Ilgra began her preparations, another shaman arrived at the village, and his name was Qarzhad Stone-Fist. To him Ilgra showed the staff and confessed her desire to learn the weirding arts, but Qarzhad scoffed and made claim on the staff by right of his chosen craft.

  Ilgra laughed at his claim, and the clan laughed with her. No outlander could tell the Skgaro what spoils were theirs to keep, not even a shaman. Then Qarzhad locked horns with her, and laughter turned to threats, and it was only with much wrestling and shouting that they reached a compromise that dissatisfied them both—this being the hallmark of all good compromises. What they settled upon was a wager: a full round of Maghra, three games of three. Should Ilgra win, Qarzhad would take her as apprentice and teach her his secret knowledge. And should Qarzhad win, Ilgra would surrender the staff and that would be the end of the matter.

  Though surprised by Ilgra’s challenge, her mother did not object. To be a shaman was to be a person of importance. It would bring honor to their family. Moreover, any clan lucky enough to have a spellweaver of their own was all but guaranteed to survive the winter.

  The contest was held that evening. The whole village gathered in Arvog’s hall to watch. Ilgra and Qarzhad sat with lowered horns, one across from the other and the polished table of bone between.

  Nine games in total they played, nine as was the sacred number. Ilgra won Beater, the first set of three, and Qarzhad won Biter, the second set. This was no more than Ilgra had expected. When it came to Breaker, the third and final set, Ilgra knew she had the upper horn. Breaker could be won either by attacking your opponent or by fleeing before them and so catching them in a trap of your own making. Like most warriors, Qarzhad was too proud to flee, but for herself, Ilgra no longer had any pride. She only cared to win. So she broke, and by breaking, won.

  Qarzhad cursed her, but a wager was a wager, and he to his pledged word was true.

  At morn’s first light, Ilgra met the shaman in an empty meadow along the shadowed edge of the forest, and there it was she began her apprenticeship.

  * * *

  For three moons Ilgra labored under the instruction of Qarzhad. He was a cruel and uncompromising tutor, but Ilgra minded not. She wanted to learn, and she was willing to drive herself far beyond the bounds of comfort.

  And learn she did. Qarzhad taught her the rules of weirding and of the ancient language used to reshape the world according to one’s will. He showed Ilgra how to govern her thoughts and feelings, and how to touch the minds of others, even as Vêrmund had done with hers. When by herself, Ilgra strove to memorize the names and words Qarzhad saw fit to share with her: words of power that spoke to the true nature of things.

  Her mother, and the clan as a whole, freed Ilgra of all but the most basic responsibilities so she could devote herself to study. She did not tell them of her greater goal, though—not even her family—preferring to keep it clasped close to her heart.

  At the end of the three moons, Qarzhad Stone-Fist departed. He was at heart a wanderer, and there were other clans—clans without shamans—that needed his services. Ere he left, he gave Ilgra a list of tasks: skills to master, words to practice, tools to make. Also too a list of prohibitions: things she was not to do—foremost of which was any weirding that broke the laws of nature, and second any weirding with Ulkrö’s staff.

  While he was gone, Ilgra was consistent with her practice. She strove to excel that she might surprise Qarzhad upon his return and so she might accomplish her greater goal all the sooner. For the longest time, Ilgra felt as if she were butting her head against stone: nothing about weirding came easily. But she persisted, and just as horn grows too slowly to notice from day to day and yet after a span of months the changes are plain to see, so too did Ilgra’s understanding progress.

  The weirding felt strange to Ilgra. She was ill accustomed to using word or thought to force a change. At first it seemed a cheat, but the weirding exacted a price of effort in proportion to the ambition of her intent, and the price comforted Ilgra, assured her that she was still a member of the Horned and not a spirit or a god. She was still bound to the earth and the trees and the reality of life itself.

  Qarzhad returned at the end of harvest, and Ilgra showed him all she had accomplished. If the shaman was impressed, he did not say, only worked her harder, gave her more tasks—ones that forced her well past the limits of her abilities.

  Again, Qarzhad stayed some few moons, and then again he left to resume his wandering. In like manner, Ilgra’s apprenticeship continued.

  As moons gathered into seasons, and then seasons into years, Ilgra learned many things: she learned the true names of the deer and the bears and all the birds and beasts of the mountains. Also too the plants, be they ever so large or small. And she learned how to speak to the wind and the earth and the flames of the fire and how to coax them into doing her bidding. The riddle of steel became hers and the secrets of binding and warding and making.

  In time, Qarzhad taught her the truth about her staff—no longer Ulkrö’s, now hers. The sapphire set within the end contained a great storehouse of power that broke and battered like a wildling sea against its sharp-edged prison. Should that prison fail, the sea would rush forth in a torrent and destroy all who were near. But if the shaman who wielded the staff were wise, they could harness the power to their will and use it to accomplish great feats—feats that one person alone could not hope to otherwise accomplish. The power was not to be squandered, though. It was a treasure more valuable than the stone itself: a gleaming hoard that Ulkrö and his master before him had gathered over the course of their lifetimes. The power was to be husbanded against moments of rare need, and b
etween those, Ilgra should add to it herself, nurture it, feed it with the strength of her body so the hoard might grow to even greater size and she might pass it on in turn.

  And Ilgra understood: the power was a legacy. But she had no intention of preserving it, and for that, she felt guilty.

  Twice she accompanied Qarzhad on his wanderings. She had never left the valley of the Skgaro before, and the sight of new mountains both excited and unsettled her, and the clans they visited had unfamiliar customs that ofttimes made her feel less than hearth-welcome. Still, the travel was useful, and she was grateful for the experiences, for they revealed to her the true size of the world. More than that, they strengthened her love and appreciation of home. The valley contained every good thing a clan needed: clean water, plentiful game, trees and stone for building. The only fault it had was Vêrmund; if she could but remove him, their home would again be as it should.

  In those years, Vêrmund’s lengths of slumber were unpredictable, but the clan grew familiar with his attacks, and of them, few surprises came. As long as they kept their distance and angered not the worm, they could expect to survive. There were exceptions—accidents on their part, sometimes malice on Vêrmund’s—but the exceptions were rare enough to bear.

  None of which Ilgra could accept with any good grace, and Vêrmund’s presence remained a hard lump stuck in her throat.

  Then one day a neighboring clan, the Clan Ynvek, came raiding.

  It happened in late summer, when the fields were full and the animals fattened. The Ynvek surprised them at the height of the midday sun. With whoops and bellows and wild cries, the Ynvek’s warriors charged out of the forest, shaking spears and hammers and poles with woven pennants displaying family crests.

  Such raids were common among the clans. They were a good way for males to test themselves and win a name sufficient to attract a mate. For the most part, the raids were, while not entirely friendly, not entirely hostile. Blood would be shed, but rare it was that a member of either clan lost their life.

  In this case, a raid upon the Skgaro would be considered an opportunity to capture an outsized share of glory, seeing as how they lived beneath the shadow of a dragon. Already their clan had acquired a reputation for bravery far beyond the norm.

  So it was that, when the raid occurred, Ilgra deemed it more an exciting distraction than a serious threat. She ran from her family’s rebuilt hall and joined the clan in beating back the intruders. As always, the males took the lead, but it was a group effort: all but the younglings were honor-bound to participate. Even the oldest of the Herndall took up arms (mainly canes and reed brooms, which stung like hornets).

  While Ilgra shook her staff at a bewildered Ynvek, she watched with admiration as Arvog grappled with the largest of the attacking warriors and beat him to the ground. Then another Ynvek charged over and tried to seize her—she was Anointed, after all, and much prized on that account—and Ilgra struck him with Gorgoth, and with a weirding word set swampfire on the tips of his horns. The greenish flames held no heat, but the Ynvek shrieked a most unseemly sound and fled, panic-struck, toward the nearest stream, batting at his burning horns the whole while.

  And Ilgra was much amused.

  The sounds of their contest rang loud in the noonday air: the clanging of wood and iron, the bellows and shouts of the males, the curses and exhortations of the females, and the outraged bleating of the livestock.

  The clamor was loud enough, it seemed, that it reached all the way to the lofty peak of high Kulkaras. For amid their fighting, Ilgra heard a warning shout, and she turned to see Vêrmund the Grim lifting his head from its stony pillow.

  The dragon peered toward the valley floor, and their fighting ceased as Vêrmund uttered a rolling, rumbling, avalanche-inducing growl. The growl was so powerful, Ilgra felt it in her feet and in her bones. The surface of the ground blurred with vibration. Animals cowered, streams rippled, and the air darkened as flocks of screaming birds fled the forest. Atop Kulkaras, slabs of ice and snow cleaved from the granite peak and fell with soft thunder into the ranks of trees below, snapping their hoary trunks like stalks of dry straw.

  The worm’s meaning could not have been any clearer.

  Then Vêrmund lowered his head, closed his eyes, and appeared to sink back into sleep.

  The Ynvek paled and put away their weapons. Without another word, they fled back whence they came, taking with them neither mates nor livestock nor trophies nor glory itself.

  And Ilgra crossed her arms and glared at the distant dragon. That he felt possessive of his private foodstocks did nothing to lessen her hate.

  * * *

  After four full years of instruction, Qarzhad Stone-Fist announced that there was nothing more he could teach her. Indeed, Ilgra had already surpassed him in mastery of weirding. But as he cautioned her, mastery did not always imply wisdom.

  Ilgra thanked him, for she was grateful for his tutelage and she had grown fond of the ill-tempered shaman over the years.

  Then Qarzhad took her by the horns and said, “I know the ambition that lies in your heart, Ilgra Lamefoot. Well I understand it. Once I had a mate, a strong, fierce Horned not unlike yourself. But one spring, she chanced upon a bear that had woken from its winter slumber. It was mean and hungry, and it attacked her. I found her, still alive, but all my years of study, all my skill and knowledge, were not enough to save her.”

  “Is that why you wander?” Ilgra asked.

  Qarzhad nodded, and still he held her horns. “The bear was a lone male, without a territory of its own. I set out to track it and kill it, but never did I find it, and since that day, more than a score of years has now passed.”

  “Then why not return home?”

  The shaman smiled. It was the first true smile she had seen of him. “Because there are others in the world who need helping, and to help is a great good and a better use of my life. It is not the way of our people, Ilgra, but my counsel is this: abandon your quest for vengeance ere it destroys you. The dragon outstrips us all. You are strong and clever, and you care for our kind. It would be a sorrow to lose you to a rash adventure that kills so many of our young warriors.”

  Ilgra was silent as she thought upon his words. Then she said, “Your counsel means much to me, Qarzhad, and I thank you for it, but I cannot forget my father, and I cannot abandon my quest.”

  “Did I say you should forget?…I shall not argue with you on this, Ilgra. Only think well on what you do. You have been a good apprentice of mine. No matter your chosen path, you have my blessing. May the gods grant you good fortune, and may you always be of sharp mind and clear conscience.”

  Then Qarzhad released her horns and once more departed. And Ilgra knew he would not soon return.

  Now confident of her abilities, Ilgra set to work with eager desire. For she had a plan: the dragon was a creature of fire, and if that fire could be extinguished, then might Vêrmund be killed. And how best to snuff out a fire but with the cleansing force of water?

  For three days she walked the valley fringe, searching for the place that might best serve her. All dissatisfied her until—at last—she thought of the pool where she used to swim, the selfsame pool where she had watched Vêrmund’s dread arrival.

  The pool itself was too small for her purpose, but the overspill poured into a deep and winding ravine with walls of stone, moisture blackened and green-spotted with mosses, lichens, and hanging tendrils that put forth pale flowers in spring’s early days. If the ravine were blocked at its narrowest point, a great store of water would build up behind the blockage—and should that store break loose, woe betide any caught in the water’s path. They would be trapped between the stony walls, beaten and bashed and battered beyond saving.

  It was a thought most pleasing.

  Yet still Ilgra kept her plans to herself. Although uncertain of their success, she saw no me
rit in debate or discussion. Nothing could turn her aside from her chosen path. Besides, the outrush of water would pose little danger to the Skgaro; the ravine and the stream sat some distance south of their village and, like the other streams nestled among the folds of the mountains, fed into the Hralloq River that ran north to south along the valley floor, from conquered Kulkaras to distant, saw-toothed Ulvarvek that marked the limit of the clan’s holdings.

  But there were problems to be solved. How to build the blockage. And once it was built, how best to lure Vêrmund the Grim into the ravine. In autumn, the clan would trap geese by digging narrow, sloping trenches that they baited with suet. The geese would follow the bait, unsuspecting, and find themselves caught in the deep end of the trenches, unable to spread their wings and fly….Goose or dragon, the principle was the same.

  Ilgra wasted no time in putting plan to action.

  First she left her family’s hall and raised herself a small hut on the crest of the ravine. This occasioned much argument with her mother, who felt it wrong of Ilgra to remove herself from the daily doings of the village. “It is not good,” she said. “Not for you and not for us.”

  But Ilgra insisted, and her departure became a festering sore between them. As for the rest of the Skgaro, they accepted Ilgra’s removal without question. The weavers of spells were seen as separate from the normal strand of the Horned, and strangeness of behavior was expected of them.

  Once ensconced in her hut, alone with the wind and the howls of wandering wolves, Ilgra began her work. Speaking words of power, she carved a path through the dirt and thus diverted the overspill from the spring-fed pool into a channel alongside the lip of the ravine. With the stream coursing along a new path, she was then free to descend into the rocky cleft below without having to contend with the flow of water.