“Do you hate him?”
He started and turned to see Birgit silhouetted in the doorway. She pulled her shawl tight around her shoulders as she approached.
“Who?” he asked, knowing full well.
“Eragon. Do you hate him?”
Roran looked at the darkening sky. “I don’t know. I hate him for causing the death of my father, but he’s still family and for that I love him.… I suppose that if I didn’t need Eragon to save Katrina, I would have nothing to do with him for a long while yet.”
“As I need and hate you, Stronghammer.”
He snorted with grim amusement. “Aye, we’re joined at the hip, aren’t we? You have to help me find Eragon in order to avenge Quimby on the Ra’zac.”
“And to have my vengeance on you afterward.”
“That too.” Roran stared into her unwavering eyes for a moment, acknowledging the bond between them. He found it strangely comforting to know that they shared the same drive, the same angry fire that quickened their steps when others faltered. In her, he recognized a kindred spirit.
Returning through the house, Roran stopped by the dining room as he heard the cadence of Jeod’s voice. Curious, he fit his eye to a crack by the middle door hinge. Jeod stood opposite a slight, blond woman, who Roran assumed was Helen.
“If what you say is true, how can you expect me to trust you?”
“I cannot,” answered Jeod.
“Yet you ask me to become a fugitive for you?”
“You once offered to leave your family and wander the land with me. You begged me to spirit you away from Teirm.”
“Once. I thought you were terribly dashing then, what with your sword and your scar.”
“I still have those,” he said softly. “I made many mistakes with you, Helen; I understand that now. But I still love you and want you to be safe. I have no future here. If I stay, I’ll only bring grief to your family. You can return to your father or you can come with me. Do what will make you the happiest. However, I beg you to give me a second chance, to have the courage to leave this place and shed the bitter memories of our life here. We can start anew in Surda.”
She was quiet for a long time. “That young man who was here, is he really a Rider?”
“He is. The winds of change are blowing, Helen. The Varden are about to attack, the dwarves are gathering, and even the elves stir in their ancient haunts. War approaches, and if we’re fortunate, so does Galbatorix’s downfall.”
“Are you important among the Varden?”
“They owe me some consideration for my part in acquiring Saphira’s egg.”
“Then you would have a position with them in Surda?”
“I imagine so.” He put his hands on her shoulders, and she did not draw away.
She whispered, “Jeod, Jeod, don’t press me. I cannot decide yet.”
“Will you think about it?”
She shivered. “Oh yes. I’ll think about it.”
Roran’s heart pained him as he left.
Katrina.
That night at dinner, Roran noticed Helen’s eyes were often upon him, studying and measuring—comparing him, he was sure, to Eragon.
After the meal, Roran beckoned to Mandel and led him out into the courtyard behind the house.
“What is it, sir?” asked Mandel.
“I wished to talk with you in private.”
“About what?”
Roran fingered the pitted blade of his hammer and reflected on how much he felt like Garrow when his father gave a lecture on responsibility; Roran could even feel the same phrases rising in his throat. And so one generation passes to the next, he thought. “You’ve become quite friendly with the sailors as of late.”
“They’re not our enemies,” objected Mandel.
“Everyone is an enemy at this point. Clovis and his men could turn on us in an instant. It wouldn’t be a problem, though, if being with them hadn’t caused you to neglect your duties.” Mandel stiffened and color bloomed in his cheeks, but he did not lower himself in Roran’s esteem by denying the charge. Pleased, Roran asked, “What is the most important thing we can do right now, Mandel?”
“Protect our families.”
“Aye. And what else?”
Mandel hesitated, uncertain, then confessed, “I don’t know.”
“Help one another. It’s the only way any of us are going to survive. I was especially disappointed to learn that you’ve gambled food with the sailors, since that endangers the entire village. Your time would be far better spent hunting than playing games of dice or learning to throw knives. With your father gone, it’s fallen upon you to care for your mother and siblings. They rely on you. Am I clear?”
“Very clear, sir,” replied Mandel with a choked voice.
“Will this ever happen again?”
“Never again, sir.”
“Good. Now I didn’t bring you here just to chastise you. You show promise, which is why I’m giving you a task that I would trust to no one else but myself.”
“Yes, sir!”
“Tomorrow morning I need you to return to camp and deliver a message to Horst. Jeod believes the Empire has spies watching this house, so it’s vital that you make sure you aren’t followed. Wait until you’re out of the city, then lose whoever is trailing you in the countryside. Kill him if you have to. When you find Horst, tell him to …” As Roran outlined his instructions, he watched Mandel’s expression change from surprise, to shock, and then to awe.
“What if Clovis objects?” asked Mandel.
“That night, break the tillers on the barges so they can’t be steered. It’s a dirty trick, but it could be disastrous if Clovis or any of his men arrive at Teirm before you.”
“I won’t let that happen,” vowed Mandel.
Roran smiled. “Good.” Satisfied that he had resolved the matter of Mandel’s behavior and that the young man would do everything possible to get the message to Horst, Roran went back inside and bade their host good night before heading off to sleep.
With the exception of Mandel, Roran and his companions confined themselves to the mansion throughout the following day, taking advantage of the delay to rest, hone their weapons, and review their stratagems.
From dawn till dusk, they saw some of Helen as she bustled from one room to the next, more of Rolf with his teeth like varnished pearls, and none of Jeod, for the gray-pated merchant had left to walk the city and—seemingly by accident—meet with the few men of the sea whom he trusted for their expedition.
Upon his return, he told Roran, “We can count on five more hands. I only hope it’s enough.” Jeod remained in his study for the rest of the evening, drawing up various legal documents and otherwise tending to his affairs.
Three hours before dawn, Roran, Loring, Birgit, Gertrude, and Nolfavrell roused themselves and, fighting back prodigious yawns, congregated in the mansion’s entryway, where they muffled themselves in long cloaks to obscure their faces. A rapier hung at Jeod’s side when he joined them, and Roran thought the narrow sword somehow completed the rangy man, as if it reminded Jeod who he really was.
Jeod lit an oil lantern and held it up before them. “Are we ready?” he asked. They nodded. Then Jeod unlatched the door and they filed outside to the empty cobblestone street. Behind them, Jeod lingered in the entryway, casting a longing gaze toward the stairs on the right, but Helen did not appear. With a shudder, Jeod left his home and closed the door.
Roran put a hand on his arm. “What’s done is done.”
“I know.”
They trotted through the dark city, slowing to a quick walk whenever they encountered watchmen or a fellow creature of the night, most of whom darted away at the sight of them. Once they heard footsteps on top of a nearby building. “The design of the city,” explained Jeod, “makes it easy for thieves to climb from one roof to another.”
They slowed to a walk again when they arrived at Teirm’s eastern gate. Because the gate opened to the harbor, it was closed only four
hours each night in order to minimize the disruption to commerce. Indeed, despite the time, several men were already moving through the gate.
Even though Jeod had warned them it might happen, Roran still felt a surge of fear when the guards lowered their pikes and asked what their business was. He wet his mouth and tried not to fidget while the elder soldier examined a scroll that Jeod handed to him. After a long minute, the guard nodded and returned the parchment. “You can pass.”
Once they were on the wharf and out of earshot of the city wall, Jeod said, “It’s a good thing he couldn’t read.”
The six of them waited on the damp planking until, one by one, Jeod’s men emerged from the gray mist that lay upon the shore. They were grim and silent, with braided hair that hung to the middle of their backs, tar-smeared hands, and an assortment of scars even Roran respected. He liked what he saw, and he could tell they approved of him as well. They did not, however, take to Birgit.
One of the sailors, a large brute of a man, jerked a thumb at her and accused Jeod, “You didn’t say there’d be a woman along for the fightin’. How am I supposed to concentrate with some backwoods tramp getting in m’ way?”
“Don’t talk about her like that,” said Nolfavrell between clenched teeth.
“An’ her runt too?”
In a calm voice, Jeod said, “Birgit has fought the Ra’zac. And her son has already killed one of Galbatorix’s best soldiers. Can you claim as much, Uthar?”
“It’s not proper,” said another man. “I wouldn’t feel safe with a woman at my side; they do naught but bring bad luck. A lady shouldn’t—”
Whatever he was going to say was lost, for at that instant, Birgit did a very unladylike thing. Stepping forward, she kicked Uthar between his legs and then grabbed the second man and pressed her knife against his throat. She held him for a moment, so everyone could see what she had done, then released her captive. Uthar rolled on the boards by her feet, holding himself and muttering a stream of curses.
“Does anyone else have an objection?” demanded Birgit. Beside her, Nolfavrell stared with openmouthed amazement at his mother.
Roran pulled his hood lower to conceal his grin. Good thing they haven’t noticed Gertrude, he thought.
When no one else challenged Birgit, Jeod asked, “Did you bring what I wanted?” Each sailor reached inside his vest and divulged a weighted club and several lengths of rope.
Thus armed, they worked their way down the harbor toward the Dragon Wing, doing their best to escape detection. Jeod kept his lantern shuttered the whole while. Near the dock, they hid behind a warehouse and watched the two lights carried by sentries bob around the deck of the ship. The gangway had been pulled away for the night.
“Remember,” whispered Jeod, “the most important thing is to keep the alarm from being sounded until we’re ready to leave.”
“Two men above, two men below, right?” asked Roran.
Uthar replied, “That be the custom.”
Roran and Uthar stripped to their breeches, tied the rope and clubs around their waists—Roran left his hammer behind—and then ran farther down the wharf, out of the sentries’ sight, where they lowered themselves into the frigid water.
“Garr, I hate when I have to do this,” said Uthar.
“You’ve done it before?”
“Four times now. Don’t stop moving or you’ll freeze.”
Clinging to the slimy piles underneath the wharf, they swam back up the way they had come until they reached the stone pier that led to the Dragon Wing, and then turned right. Uthar put his lips to Roran’s ear. “I’ll take the starboard anchor.” Roran nodded his agreement.
They both dove under the black water, and there they separated. Uthar swam like a frog under the bow of the ship, while Roran went straight to the port anchor and clung to its thick chain. He untied the club from his waist and fit it between his teeth—as much to stop them from chattering as to free his hands—and prepared to wait. The rough metal sapped the warmth from his arms as fast as ice.
Not three minutes later, Roran heard the scuff of Birgit’s boots above him as she walked to the end of the pier, opposite the middle of the Dragon Wing, and then the faint sound of her voice as she engaged the sentries in conversation. Hopefully, she would keep their attention away from the bow.
Now!
Roran pulled himself hand over hand along the chain. His right shoulder burned where the Ra’zac had bit him, but he pressed on. From the porthole where the anchor chain entered the ship, he clambered up the ridges that supported the painted figurehead, over the railing, and onto the deck. Uthar was already there, dripping and panting.
Clubs in hand, they padded toward the aft of the ship, using whatever cover they could find. They stopped not ten feet behind the sentries. The two men leaned on the railing, bandying words with Birgit.
In a flash, Roran and Uthar burst into the open and struck the sentries on the head before they could draw their sabers. Below, Birgit waved for Jeod and the rest of their group, and between them they raised the gangway and slid one end across to the ship, where Uthar lashed it to the railing.
As Nolfavrell ran aboard, Roran tossed his rope to the boy and said, “Tie and gag these two.”
Then everyone but Gertrude descended belowdecks to hunt for the remaining sentries. They found four additional men—the purser, the bosun, the ship’s cook, and the ship’s cook’s assistant—all of whom were trundled out of bed, knocked on the head if they resisted, and then securely trussed. In this, Birgit again proved her worth, capturing two men herself.
Jeod had the unhappy prisoners placed in a line on the deck so they could be watched at all times, then declared, “We have much to do, and little time. Roran, Uthar is captain on the Dragon Wing. You and the others will take your orders from him.”
For the next two hours, the ship was a frenzy of activity. The sailors tended to the rigging and sails, while Roran and those from Carvahall worked to empty the hold of extraneous supplies, such as bales of raw wool. These they lowered overboard to prevent anyone on the wharf from hearing a splash. If the entire village was to fit on the Dragon Wing, they needed to clear as much space as possible.
Roran was in the midst of fitting a cable around a barrel when he heard the hoarse cry, “Someone’s coming!” Everyone on deck, except Jeod and Uthar, dropped to their bellies and reached for their weapons. The two men who remained standing paced the ship as if they were sentries. Roran’s heart pounded while he lay motionless, wondering what was about to happen. He held his breath as Jeod addressed the intruder … then footsteps echoed on the gangway.
It was Helen.
She wore a plain dress, her hair was bound under a kerchief, and she carried a burlap sack over one shoulder. She spoke not a word, but stowed her gear in the main cabin and returned to stand by Jeod. Roran thought he had never seen a happier man.
The sky above the distant mountains of the Spine had just begun to brighten when one of the sailors in the rigging pointed north and whistled to indicate he had spotted the villagers.
Roran moved even faster. What time they had was now gone. He rushed up on deck and peered at the dark line of people advancing down the coast. This part of their plan depended on the fact that, unlike other coastal cities, Teirm’s outer wall had not been left open to the sea, but rather completely enclosed the bulk of the city in order to ward off frequent pirate attacks. This meant that the buildings skirting the harbor were left exposed—and that the villagers could walk right up to the Dragon Wing.
“Hurry now, hurry!” said Jeod.
At Uthar’s command, the sailors brought out armfuls of javelins for the great bows on deck, as well as casks of foul-smelling tar, which they knocked open and used to paint the upper half of the javelins. They then drew and loaded the ballistae on the starboard side; it took two men per bow to pull out the sinew cord until it caught on its hook.
The villagers were two-thirds of the way to the ship before the soldiers patrolling
the battlements of Teirm spotted them and trumpeted the alarm. Even before that first note faded, Uthar bellowed, “Light and fire ’em!”
Dashing open Jeod’s lantern, Nolfavrell ran from one ballista to the next, holding the flame to the javelins until the tar ignited. The instant a missile caught, the man behind the bow pulled the release line and the javelin vanished with a heavy thunk. In all, twelve blazing bolts shot from the Dragon Wing and pierced the ships and buildings along the bay like roaring, red-hot meteors from the heavens above.
“Draw and reload!” shouted Uthar.
The creak of bending wood filled the air as every man hauled back on the twisted cords. Javelins were slotted in place. Once again, Nolfavrell made his run. Roran could feel the vibration in his feet as the ballista in front of him sent its deadly projectile winging on its way.
The fire quickly spread along the waterfront, forming an impenetrable barrier that prevented soldiers from reaching the Dragon Wing though Teirm’s east gate. Roran had counted on the pillar of smoke to hide the ship from the archers on the battlements, but it was a near thing; a flight of arrows tugged at the rigging, and one dart embedded itself in the deck by Gertrude before the soldiers lost sight of the ship.
From the bow, Uthar shouted, “Pick your targets at will!”
The villagers were running pell-mell down the beach now. They reached the north end of the wharf, and a handful of them stumbled and fell as the soldiers in Teirm redirected their aim. Children screamed in terror. Then the villagers regained momentum. They pounded down the planks, past a warehouse engulfed in flame and along the pier. The panting mob charged onto the ship in a confused mass of jostling bodies.
Birgit and Gertrude guided the stream of people to the fore and aft hatches. In a few minutes, the various levels of the ship were packed to their limit, from the cargo hold to the captain’s cabin. Those who could not fit below remained huddled on deck, holding Fisk’s shields over their heads.
As Roran had asked in his message, all able-bodied men from Carvahall clustered around the mainmast, waiting for instructions. Roran saw Mandel among them and tossed him a proud salute.
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