At last Ilgra’s destination came in sight: the dam, mantled with cobwebs of silver frost. With loping steps, Ilgra climbed the bank and stopped upon the shore of ice-capped water.
She stood, panting and coughing, blood streaming from her brow—stood and looked back at the mangled earth where Vêrmund and the Nrech still contended in mortal combat. The beasts had pressed Vêrmund back against the edge of the trees, where the rise of the land toward the mountains limited his movement. Even as Ilgra watched, one of the creatures pounced on the dragon’s left wing, bearing it to the ground, while the other clawed its way across his ribs until it reached the base of his neck.
Vêrmund writhed in a frantic attempt to shake off his attackers, but the monstrosities kept a firm hold on him. The one clinging to his neck pecked, and the evil old worm coiled in upon himself, hiding his head under his body.
The Nrech shrieked with triumph as they closed in on the dragon’s exposed side, their wings held high.
“No!” said Ilgra, afraid she’d missed her chance. She could break the dam, but the creatures were too far away to be assured of their deaths (and Vêrmund’s as well). Somehow she had to draw them closer, where the wall of water could do its work.
Desperate, Ilgra reached for Vêrmund with her mind. She found him, but she could not make him understand; the dragon was too addled by pain to notice her feeble thoughts. In comparison to his consciousness, Ilgra was a nothing, a guttering fleck of light beside the raging conflagration that was the dragon’s inner being.
With a start, Ilgra returned to herself. Convulsions of panic seized her heart. Time was short; if she did not act now, all would be lost. They might finally be rid of Vêrmund, but in his place they would be left with the Nrech, and the Nrech had not the restraint of the dragon. They would kill every one of the Skgaro and make a nest of their bones upon the crest of Kulkaras. This she knew from the stories.
On the claw-torn fields, Vêrmund thrashed beneath the pecking monstrosities.
Then an idea dawned bright and fierce upon Ilgra. The horn had roused the old worm from his sleep and summoned him to the fight. If he heard it again, perhaps he would understand, perhaps…
She took a half step forward, lifted her father’s horn, placed it against her lips, and blew forth with such strength that the echoes chased themselves from one end of the valley to the other. Beyond the village, she saw her clanmates emerge from the fringe of flickering shadow and look toward her hut, frightened, curious, wondering—she felt sure—if her call were a summons.
It was, but not for them. Ilgra waved at them to keep back, though she doubted they could see. She hoped they would stay well clear of the ravine, lest they be killed or swept away.
She was about to sound the horn a second time when Vêrmund uttered a crackling roar and heaved upward, tossing the flapping monstrosities to either side. Battered and wounded though he was, with blood streaming from scores of wounds, the dragon was still stronger by far than either of the Nrech.
He staggered forward, each crashing step causing Ilgra to lose her balance and snow to fall in sifting veils from the silent trees. The Nrech shrieked as one and bounded after, throwing themselves at Vêrmund’s neck and shoulders. The dragon snarled and leaped toward the mouth of the ravine, half opening his tattered wings so his leap became a long glide.
As Vêrmund landed amid the icy drifts within the narrow gorge, he sent a spray of glittering crystals singing upward.
And Ilgra knew her moment had arrived.
She took her staff then, and with it smote the top of the dam. In a voice terrible to hear, she uttered a single weirding word: jierda—break! The word was a key with which she unlocked the tempest of power trapped within Gorgoth and sent the whole whirling confusion into the stones of the dam.
The dam cracked and shuddered, and the bank Ilgra stood upon sagged alarmingly. She scrambled back to more solid footing.
Granite split with explosive force, and ice too, as the surface of the pool broke asunder, shooting frozen shards in every direction. Then, with a rumble louder than Vêrmund’s deepest roars, the dam gave way, and a wall of water, ice, and windfell trees raced down the ravine and slammed into Vêrmund and the Nrech. The churning torrent washed over the three, enveloping them in a surge of foam, and Ilgra heard the creak and pop of colliding ice and the groan of twisting timber.
Beneath the water, huge shapes turned and thrashed before falling still. The spikes along Vêrmund’s back soon breached the surface—he was too large to stay submerged for long—but they remained where they were, motionless: a stationary sieve that logs and branches fetched up against until his back was a mound of jagged wood.
Ilgra clung to the ground as it rolled beneath her, and she prayed to Rahna and Svarvok and all the other gods besides.
The water was swift to subside, draining away through the fields to the south, carrying with it a pair of bleating goats. Then Ilgra braced herself on Gorgoth and slowly got to her feet.
She beheld her handiwork. There, in a crumpled heap in the now-empty ravine, lay the mighty Vêrmund, and with him the two monstrosities: one beneath the worm’s serrated claws, its neck crooked at an unnatural angle, and one deposited some distance to the east in a tangle of grey-skinned limbs.
The vast bellows of Vêrmund’s ribs still moved, but feebly, and the wrinkled old worm otherwise displayed no sign of life. No hint of smoke trailed from his nostrils. No glow of fire emanated from between his gaping jaws. And no sign of movement appeared between his slitted lids.
* * *
A rising, bursting feel of triumph swelled Ilgra’s breast. Now was her chance! If she struck quick and true, she might finally rid the world of Vêrmund’s blight and finally be avenged of her father’s death. She would carve out the worm’s blackened heart, and when it was hers, burn it before the gods as thanks for their favor.
She hurried down the path along the ravine, moving as fast as her leg would allow. The dragon’s breathing was already growing louder; she had only a brief while in which to act.
Just as she reached the base of the hill, a voice rang out:
“Ilgra!”
Her sister ran toward Vêrmund from the edge of the forest, a knife held high in one hand, teeth bared in a battle face.
“Back!” Ilgra shouted, but Yhana listened not. She seemed intent on cutting the throat of the dragon herself, and it struck Ilgra then—for the first time—that her sister was no longer a youngling. She was full-grown and as willing to fight as any of the Skgaro.
A clutch of conflicting emotions warred within Ilgra. Selfishness and concern and surprise. Then she decided, and with her decision came a sense of solidarity; they could kill the dragon together.
Before she could call out to Yhana again, Ilgra was horrified to see the far Nrech stir. Rising on broken limbs, it swung its head back and forth, blindly scenting for prey. A jagged shriek tore free of the creature’s throat, and it began to scrabble after Yhana, dragging its useless wings across the frozen mess of the field.
At the sound, a shudder ran the length of Vêrmund’s body. And Ilgra knew, if she helped Yhana, she would lose all chance of killing the dragon. He would regain his feet, and even wounded and weakened, he still far outmatched them. Ilgra no longer had the great storehouse of energy in Gorgoth to rely upon, only that of her body, and the strength of her body paled in comparison with that of the dragon’s.
The strain of anguish rent Ilgra’s heart, but in the end, there was only one choice. Howling with fear and fury, she charged past the fallen dragon and to her sister’s side.
As the snapping Nrech fell upon them, Ilgra raised Gorgoth, drew upon the reserves of power within her flesh, and shouted, “Brisingr!” A fountain of fire erupted from the end of the staff and bathed the monstrosity’s head with a torrent of flame.
The Nrech recoiled and shriek
ed again, so loud that Ilgra lost her will and the fire faded to dark. In that instant, she knew with certainty she was about to die, eaten by a nightmare from ages past. And her sister too, slain by the failure of Ilgra’s ambitions.
Then the clacking beak of the Nrech stabbed toward them and the earth shook with sudden violence. A streak of black scales appeared overhead, a foul wind swept the field, and a great crack sounded, frightening in its deathly finality.
Ilgra cowered, covering her sister with her arms. When she dared look again, she saw the black bulk of Vêrmund standing over them, stark against the swirling snow. And hanging between the worm’s enormous jaws, the now-limp monstrosity, its body pierced through and through by rows of glistening teeth.
The godkillers were slain.
For a moment, Ilgra felt relief. Gratitude, even. But both reactions paled before a sickening sense of doom. She had been so close to her desire. So close, and yet once again it had slipped her grasp. And now she and Yhana were caught beneath the devouring dragon.
Vêrmund snuffed and let fall the grey corpse, obscene in its hairless shape. Then he shook his head as a dog might, and drops of steaming blood rained upon the flood-swept land. One bead, dark and gleaming, splattered across Ilgra’s arm, and she cried out as it burned her skin, hot as molten lead.
Vêrmund took notice. He looked down and then lowered his head until the blazing void of his eye hung before them, terrifying in its nearness.
Ilgra stifled the urge to flee, for they could not hope to outrun the dragon. Nor could they hope to best it with blades or weirding. Defiant to the end, she stood her tallest while Yhana clung to her arm.
Then Ilgra felt the dragon’s mind upon her own, huge and bleak and daunting. From it came no thanks, no approval, no care or consideration. But there was one thought, one impression, Ilgra received from the worm:
Recognition. No longer was Vêrmund indifferent. He acknowledged her existence, and from him came a sense of interest, detached and impersonal though it was. He might still view her as prey, but by her actions, Ilgra had earned a measure of regard from the battered old worm.
It was no small thing.
Seven heartbeats they remained as thus, locked in close embrace. Seven heartbeats only, and then the towering immensity of his mind withdrew, and Vêrmund snorted and his hot breath washed over Ilgra in a choking wave of sulfurous scent.
Her vision grew blurred, and Ilgra dropped to one knee, faint. Then Vêrmund stepped over them, the pallid scales of his belly rimmed with twinkling fire from the forest, and the chill of his shadow lifted from their shoulders.
Ilgra screwed shut her eyes and stayed where she had fallen, stayed until the ground grew still and the sound of Vêrmund’s tread had faded to a distant toll.
It was the touch of her sister’s hand that roused her. “Ilgra! He is gone! We are saved.”
Only then did she stand and look.
The worm had a wounded wing; he could not fly. Instead, he crawled up the face of bold Kulkaras with slow and weary steps, leaving behind a trail of blood and broken trees. He seemed like to fall, never to rise again, and Ilgra wondered if they might yet be freed of him.
She had to know.
Ere long, the sheets of snow obscured the dragon. Yhana tugged on Ilgra’s tunic, urged her to leave, said, “You have done all you can. Our father’s death is not avenged, but we have honored his memory. There is no more. Come now.” But Ilgra refused, preferring to stand and watch and listen to Vêrmund’s painful progress.
The order of things was not yet settled.
Farther up the valley, the rest of the Skgaro began to emerge from hiding. Arvog and several of the other warriors trotted out with weapons in hand, joined Ilgra and Yhana there on that muddy tract.
They checked the Nrech to ensure the monstrosities would bedevil their clan never again. Then they spoke to Ilgra, thanked her, praised her, cajoled her, berated her. But regardless, she would not move.
At last they left her, Yhana as well—left her that they might tend their injured and save their belongings from what halls were damaged.
And there Ilgra stayed, until she heard the distant sound of talons scraping against stone, and then from the peak of Kulkaras, Vêrmund the Grim let loose a mighty roar, and he painted the clouds with fire such that brightened the whole of the night.
Then he grew still and silent, and Ilgra knew: the dragon would not die, and they, poor sufferers, would not be rid of him.
Ilgra grasped her staff with both hands and leaned upon it. Her heart was too small to contain all her feeling; she shouted after Vêrmund, though the dragon would not hear, and every part of her was wracked with turmoil.
Ragged gaps appeared in the snow as the storm began to clear, and through them she saw the crown of Kulkaras, and perched thereon, the looming shape of Vêrmund the Grim.
Ilgra stared at him for a silent while. Then she breathed deep of the freezing air and, with her exhale, released her torment. So. One thing had become clear: there would always be a stalking hunger waiting to eat them. If not Vêrmund, then the monstrosities. If not the monstrosities, then some other, equally horrible creature. It was a basic fact of life, as true for the Horned as it was for every other being. None were exempt: not bear nor wolf nor cat nor even the most fearsome of hunters. All fell prey in time. It was not a question of if but when.
Vêrmund had saved them from the monstrosities. Without him, the Nrech might have slain the entire village. Yet Ilgra knew they could expect no great mercy from him thereafter. It was not in his nature. He would continue to fly down upon them and eat their herds and trample their fields and slaughter those foolish enough to attack him. So it was and always would be.
Someday Ilgra would again face the dragon. Someday he would come ravening toward her, or else she would once more climb Kulkaras and go to meet him in single combat. It was a certainty. Whenever they met, whether next year or long after her hair turned grey, Ilgra felt sure of one thing: that Vêrmund would know her and remember her, and though he would give her no quarter, she would at least have the satisfaction of his recognition.
But for now, her quest was at an end. The dam was broken and the pool of water drained. Likewise Gorgoth. And though Vêrmund was sore wounded, Ilgra no longer had the means or inclination to confront him. Not then. Nor did she believe it would do any good. Hurt or not, the dragon was more than a match for her, for the Skgaro, and even for creatures born of darkest legend, as were the Nrech.
A figure came walking from the village: her mother, bearing a blanket and salve for wounds. She wrapped the blanket around Ilgra’s shoulders and applied the salve to her arm, where Vêrmund’s blood had burned her raw.
Said her mother, “Come now, Ilgra-daughter, leave this unhappy place. Return with me to where you belong.”
And Ilgra felt as if woken from a dream.
She turned her back, then—turned her back on the worm resting in his bloody slumber; turned her back on tall, snow-mantled Kulkaras; turned her back on the remnants of the dam and on her hut besides. She turned her back on all those things and, with her mother, started the slow walk to the village, leaning upon her staff with every step.
No longer would she stand apart. That time had passed. Once again she would join in the clan’s daily life. She would claim a mate, she thought—Arvog, perhaps—and bear his children. In all manner possible, she would drink to the dregs each day and worry not what fate might bring.
Ilgra looked at the staff. It was Gorgoth no more, she decided, but rather Warung, or Acceptance. And the now-empty sapphire a legacy in waiting, a potential that she might, with time and effort, restore to its former glory.
She straightened her back and bared her teeth, feeling given new purpose. For her name was Ilgra Nrech-Slayer, and she feared no evil.
CHAPTER IX
New Beginni
ngs
The last words of Irsk’s telling faded to silence in the main hall of the hold, high on Mount Arngor. Then the Urgal struck the drum between his knees, and a dull, booming note reverberated off the stone walls, marking an end to the story.
Eragon blinked and rubbed his face, feeling as if he too were waking from a dream. Around the hearth, the rest of the Urgals likewise stirred, statues coming to life.
With a growl, Skarghaz shoved himself to his feet and strode over to where Irsk sat. He grabbed the smaller Urgal by the horns and, with a violent, jerking motion, butted him in the head.
The Urgals roared with laughter, and Skarghaz said, “Well done, Irsk! Well said. You do your clan proud.”
The impact knocked Irsk back, but he bared his teeth in a fierce grin and—with just as much vigor—butted Skarghaz in return. “Honor for the clan, Nar Skarghaz.”
The fire had burned down to a bed of coals, and a chill had crept into the air while Irsk told his tale. Eragon glanced out the windows, wondering at the hour. The sky was black, without so much as a glimmer of the silver moon, and even the round-eyed owls that roosted in the dark pine trees were silent in their nests. It was late—far later than he made a habit of staying up—but he didn’t mind.
“That was a most excellent story, Irsk,” he said, and bowed as best he could while sitting. “Thank you.” He understood now why the Kull had requested that particular story, and Eragon was glad of it. It seemed there was always something for him to learn, even from the Urgals.
What did you think? he asked Saphira.
Approval radiated from her. I liked Ilgra. And I liked Vêrmund even more. It is only right that the dragon would win.
Eragon smiled slightly. Then he said out loud, “Was that a true story?”
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