Inheritance Cycle Omnibus

by Christopher Paolini

  Returning to himself, Eragon became aware of dozens of the Varden collapsing around Saphira; one of Du Vrangr Gata had been overwhelmed. He uttered a dreadful curse and flung himself back along the trail of magic as he searched for the man who cast the fatal spell, entrusting the welfare of his body to Saphira and his guards.

  For over an hour, Eragon hunted Galbatorix’s magicians, but to little avail, for they were wily and cunning and did not directly attack him. Their reticence puzzled Eragon until he tore from the mind of one spellcaster—moments before he committed suicide—the thought, … ordered not to kill you or the dragon … not to kill you or the dragon.

  That answers my question, he said to Saphira, but why does Galbatorix still want us alive? We’ve made it clear we support the Varden.

  Before she could respond, Nasuada appeared before them, her face streaked with filth and gore, her shield covered with dents, blood sheeting down her left leg from a wound on her thigh. “Eragon,” she gasped. “I need you, both of you, to fight, to show yourselves and embolden the men … to frighten the soldiers.”

  Her condition shocked Eragon. “Let me heal you first,” he cried, afraid she might faint. I should have put more wards around her.

  “No! I can wait, but we are lost unless you stem the tide of soldiers.” Her eyes were glazed and empty, blank holes in her face. “We need … a Rider.” She swayed in her saddle.

  Eragon saluted her with Zar’roc. “You have one, my Lady.”

  “Go,” she said, “and may what gods there are watch over you.”

  Eragon was too high on Saphira’s back to strike his enemies below, so he dismounted and positioned himself by her right paw. To Orik and Garzhvog, he said, “Protect Saphira’s left side. And whatever you do, don’t get in our way.”

  “You will be overrun, Firesword.”

  “No,” said Eragon, “I won’t. Now take your places!” As they did, he put his hand on Saphira’s leg and looked her in one clear-cut sapphire eye. Shall we dance, friend of my heart?

  We shall, little one.

  Then he and she merged their identities to a greater degree than ever before, vanquishing all differences between them to become a single entity. They bellowed, leaped forward, and forged a path to the front line. Once there, Eragon could not tell from whose mouth emanated the ravenous jet of flame that consumed a dozen soldiers, cooking them in their mail, nor whose arm it was that brought Zar’roc down in an arc, cleaving a soldier’s helm in half.

  The metallic scent of blood clogged the air, and curtains of smoke wafted over the Burning Plains, alternately concealing and revealing the knots, clumps, ranks, and battalions of thrashing bodies. Overhead, the carrion birds waited for their meal and the sun climbed in the firmament toward noon.

  From the minds of those around them, Eragon and Saphira caught glimpses of how they appeared. Saphira was always noticed first: a great ravening creature with claws and fangs dyed red, who slew all in her path with swipes of her paws and lashes of her tail and with billowing waves of flame that engulfed entire platoons of soldiers. Her brilliant scales glittered like stars and nearly blinded her foes with their reflected light. Next they saw Eragon running alongside Saphira. He moved faster than the soldiers could react and, with strength beyond men, splintered shields with a single blow, rent armor, and clove the swords of those who opposed him. Shot and dart cast at him fell to the pestilent ground ten feet away, stopped by his wards.

  It was harder for Eragon—and, by extension, Saphira—to fight his own race than it had been to fight the Urgals in Farthen Dûr. Every time he saw a frightened face or looked into a soldier’s mind, he thought, This could be me. But he and Saphira could afford no mercy; if a soldier stood before them, he died.

  Three times they sallied forth and three times Eragon and Saphira slew every man in the Empire’s first few ranks before retreating to the main body of the Varden to avoid being surrounded. By the end of their last attack, Eragon had to reduce or eliminate certain wards around Arya, Orik, Nasuada, Saphira, and himself in order to keep the spells from exhausting him too quickly. For though his strength was great, so too were the demands of battle.

  Ready? he asked Saphira after a brief respite. She growled an affirmative.

  A cloud of arrows whistled toward Eragon the instant he dove back into combat. Fast as an elf, he dodged the bulk of them—since his magic no longer protected him from such missiles—caught twelve on his shield, and stumbled as one struck his belly and one his side. Neither shaft pierced his armor, but they knocked the wind out of him and left bruises the size of apples. Don’t stop! You’ve dealt with worse pain than this before, he told himself.

  Rushing a cluster of eight soldiers, Eragon darted from one to the next, knocking aside their pikes and jabbing Zar’roc like a deadly bolt of lightning. The fighting had dulled his reflexes, though, and one soldier managed to drive his pike through Eragon’s hauberk, slicing his left triceps.

  The soldiers cringed as Saphira roared.

  Eragon took advantage of the distraction to fortify himself with energy stored within the ruby in Zar’roc’s pommel and then to kill the three remaining soldiers.

  Sweeping her tail over him, Saphira knocked a score of men out of his way. In the lull that followed, Eragon looked over at his throbbing arm and said, “Waíse heill.” He also healed his bruises, relying upon Zar’roc’s ruby, as well as the diamonds in the belt of Beloth the Wise.

  Then the two of them pressed onward.

  Eragon and Saphira choked the Burning Plains with mountains of their enemies, and yet the Empire never faltered or fell back. For every man they killed, another stepped forth to take his place. A sense of hopelessness engulfed Eragon as the mass of soldiers gradually forced the Varden to retreat toward their own camp. He saw his despair mirrored in the faces of Nasuada, Arya, King Orrin, and even Angela when he passed them in battle.

  All our training and we still can’t stop the Empire, raged Eragon. There are just too many soldiers! We can’t keep this up forever. And Zar’roc and the belt are almost depleted.

  You can draw energy from your surroundings if you have to.

  I won’t, not unless I kill another of Galbatorix’s magicians and can take it from the soldiers. Otherwise, I’ll just be hurting the rest of the Varden, since there are no plants or animals here I can use to support us.

  As the long hours dragged by, Eragon grew sore and weary and—stripped of many of his arcane defenses—accumulated dozens of minor injuries. His left arm went numb from the countless blows that hammered his mangled shield. A scratch on his forehead kept blinding him with rivulets of hot, sweat-mixed blood. He thought one of his fingers might be broken.

  Saphira fared no better. The soldiers’ armor tore the inside of her mouth, dozens of swords and arrows cut her unprotected wings, and a javelin punctured one of her own plates of armor, wounding her in the shoulder. Eragon saw the spear coming and tried to deflect it with a spell but was too slow. Whenever Saphira moved, she splattered the ground with hundreds of drops of blood.

  Beside them, three of Orik’s warriors fell, and two of the Kull.

  And the sun began its descent toward evening.

  As Eragon and Saphira prepared for their seventh and final assault, a trumpet sounded in the east, loud and clear, and King Orrin shouted, “The dwarves are here! The dwarves are here!”

  Dwarves? Eragon blinked and glanced around, confused. He saw nothing but soldiers. Then a jolt of excitement raced through him as he understood. The dwarves! He climbed onto Saphira and she jumped into the air, hanging for a moment on her tattered wings as they surveyed the battlefield.

  It was true—a great host marched out of the east toward the Burning Plains. At its head strode King Hrothgar, clad in gold mail, his jeweled helm upon his brow, and Volund, his ancient war hammer, gripped in his iron fist. The dwarf king raised Volund in greeting when he saw Eragon and Saphira.

  Eragon howled at the top of his lungs and returned the gesture, br
andishing Zar’roc in the air. A surge of renewed vigor made him forget his wounds and feel fierce and determined again. Saphira added her voice to his, and the Varden looked to her with hope, while the Empire’s soldiers hesitated with fear.

  “What did you see?” cried Orik as Saphira dropped back to earth. “Is it Hrothgar? How many warriors did he bring?”

  Ecstatic with relief, Eragon stood in his stirrups and shouted, “Take heart, King Hrothgar is here! And it looks like every single dwarf is behind him! We’ll crush the Empire!” After the men stopped cheering, he added, “Now take your swords and remind these flea-bitten cowards why they should fear us. Charge!”

  Just as Saphira leaped toward the soldiers, Eragon heard a second cry, this one from the west: “A ship! A ship is coming up the Jiet River!”

  “Blast it,” he snarled. We can’t let a ship land if it’s bringing reinforcements for the Empire. Contacting Trianna, he said, Tell Nasuada that Saphira and I will take care of this. We’ll sink the ship if it’s from Galbatorix.

  As you wish, Argetlam, replied the sorceress.

  Without hesitation, Saphira took flight, circling high over the trampled, smoking plain. As the relentless clamor of combat faded from his ears, Eragon took a deep breath, feeling his mind clear. Below, he was surprised by how scattered both armies had become. The Empire and the Varden had disintegrated into a series of smaller groups contending against one another over the entire breadth and width of the Burning Plains. It was into this confused tumult that the dwarves inserted themselves, catching the Empire from the side—as Orrin had done earlier with his cavalry.

  Eragon lost sight of the battle when Saphira turned to her left and soared through the clouds in the direction of the Jiet River. A gust of wind blew the peat smoke out of their way and unveiled a large three-masted ship riding upon the orange water, rowing against the current with two banks of oars. The ship was scarred and damaged and flew no colors to declare its allegiance. Nevertheless, Eragon readied himself to destroy the vessel. As Saphira dove toward it, he lifted Zar’roc overhead and loosed his savage war cry.

  CONVERGENCE

  oran stood at the prow of the Dragon Wing and listened to the oars swish through the water. He had just finished a stint rowing and a cold, jagged ache permeated his right shoulder. Will I always have to deal with this reminder of the Ra’zac? He wiped the sweat from his face and ignored the discomfort, concentrating instead on the river ahead, which was obscured by a bank of sooty clouds.

  Elain joined him at the railing. She rested a hand on her swollen belly. “The water looks evil,” she said. “Perhaps we should have stayed in Dauth, rather than drag ourselves in search of more trouble.”

  He feared she spoke the truth. After the Boar’s Eye, they had sailed east from the Southern Isles back to the coast and then up the mouth of the Jiet River to Surda’s port city of Dauth. By the time they made landfall, their stores were exhausted and the villagers sickly.

  Roran had every intention of staying in Dauth, especially after they received an enthusiastic welcome from its governor, Lady Alarice. But that was before he was told about Galbatorix’s army. If the Varden were defeated, he would never see Katrina again. So, with the help of Jeod, he convinced Horst and many of the other villagers that if they wanted to live in Surda, safe from the Empire, they had to row up the Jiet River and assist the Varden. It was a difficult task, but in the end Roran prevailed. And once they told Lady Alarice about their quest, she gave them all the supplies they wanted.

  Since then, Roran often wondered if he made the right choice. By now everyone hated living on the Dragon Wing. People were tense and short-tempered, a situation only aggravated by the knowledge that they were sailing toward a battle. Was it all selfishness on my part? wondered Roran. Did I really do this for the benefit of the villagers, or only because it will bring me one step closer to finding Katrina?

  “Perhaps we should have,” he said to Elain.

  Together they watched as a thick layer of smoke gathered overhead, darkening the sky, obscuring the sun, and filtering the remaining light so that everything below was colored a nauseating hue of orange. It produced an eerie twilight the likes of which Roran had never imagined. The sailors on deck looked about fearfully and muttered charms of protection, pulling out stone amulets to ward off the evil eye.

  “Listen,” said Elain. She tilted her head. “What is that?”

  Roran strained his ears and caught the faint ring of metal striking metal. “That,” he said, “is the sound of our destiny.” Twisting, he shouted back over his shoulder, “Captain, there’s fighting just ahead!”

  “Man the ballistae!” roared Uthar. “Double-time on those oars, Bonden. An’ every able-bodied man jack among you better be ready or you’ll be using your guts for pillows!”

  Roran remained where he was as the Dragon Wing exploded with activity. Despite the increase in noise, he could still hear swords and shields clanging together in the distance. The screams of men were audible now, as were the roars of some giant beast.

  He glanced over as Jeod joined them at the prow. The merchant’s face was pale. “Have you ever been in battle before?” asked Roran.

  The knob in Jeod’s throat bobbed as he swallowed and shook his head. “I got into plenty of fights along with Brom, but never anything of this scale.”

  “A first for both of us, then.”

  The bank of smoke thinned on the right, providing them with a glimpse of a dark land that belched forth fire and putrid orange vapor and was covered with masses of struggling men. It was impossible to tell who was the Empire and who was the Varden, but it was apparent to Roran that the battle could tip in either direction given the right nudge. We can provide that nudge.

  Then a voice echoed over the water as a man shouted, “A ship! A ship is coming up the Jiet River!”

  “You should go belowdecks,” said Roran to Elain. “It won’t be safe for you here.” She nodded and hurried to the fore hatchway, where she climbed down the ladder, closing the opening behind her. A moment later, Horst bounded up to the prow and handed Roran one of Fisk’s shields.

  “Thought you might need that,” said Horst.

  “Thanks. I—”

  Roran stopped as the air around them vibrated, as if from a mighty concussion. Thud. His teeth jarred together. Thud. His ears hurt from the pressure. Close upon the heels of the second impact came a third—thud—and with it a raw-throated yell that Roran recognized, for he had heard it many times in his childhood. He looked up and beheld a gigantic sapphire dragon diving out of the shifting clouds. And on the dragon’s back, at the juncture between its neck and shoulders, sat his cousin, Eragon.

  It was not the Eragon he remembered, but rather as if an artist had taken his cousin’s base features and enhanced them, streamlined them, making them both more noble and more feline. This Eragon was garbed like a prince, in fine cloth and armor—though tarnished by the grime of war—and in his right hand he wielded a blade of iridescent red. This Eragon, Roran knew, could kill without hesitation. This Eragon was powerful and implacable.… This Eragon could slay the Ra’zac and their mounts and help him to rescue Katrina.

  Flaring its translucent wings, the dragon pulled up sharply and hung before the ship. Then Eragon met Roran’s eyes.

  Until that moment, Roran had not completely believed Jeod’s story about Eragon and Brom. Now, as he stared at his cousin, a wave of confused emotions washed over him. Eragon is a Rider! It seemed inconceivable that the slight, moody, overeager boy he grew up with had turned into this fearsome warrior. Seeing him alive again filled Roran with unexpected joy. Yet, at the same time, a terrible, familiar anger welled up inside him over Eragon’s role in Garrow’s death and the siege of Carvahall. In those few seconds, Roran knew not whether he loved or hated Eragon.

  He stiffened with alarm as a vast and alien being touched his mind. From that consciousness emanated Eragon’s voice: Roran?

  “Aye.”

  Think your an
swers and I’ll hear them. Is everyone from Carvahall with you?

  Just about.

  How did you … No, we can’t go into it; there’s no time. Stay where you are until the battle is decided. Better yet, go back farther down the river, where the Empire can’t attack you.

  We have to talk, Eragon. You have much to answer for.

  Eragon hesitated with a troubled expression, then said, I know. But not now, later. With no visible prompting, the dragon veered away from the ship and flew off to the east, vanishing in the haze over the Burning Plains.

  In an awed voice, Horst said, “A Rider! A real Rider! I never thought I’d see the day, much less that it would be Eragon.” He shook his head. “I guess you told us the truth, eh, Longshanks?” Jeod grinned in response, looking like a delighted child.

  Their words sounded muted to Roran as he stared at the deck, feeling like he was about to explode with tension. A host of unanswerable questions assailed him. He forced himself to ignore them. I can’t think about Eragon now. We have to fight. The Varden must defeat the Empire.

  A rising tide of fury consumed him. He had experienced this before, a berserk frenzy that allowed him to overcome nearly any obstacle, to move objects he could not shift ordinarily, to face an enemy in combat and feel no fear. It gripped him now, a fever in his veins, quickening his breath and setting his heart a-pounding.

  He pushed himself off the railing, ran the length of the ship to the quarterdeck, where Uthar stood by the wheel, and said, “Ground the ship.”

  “What?”

  “Ground the ship, I say! Stay here with the rest of the soldiers and use the ballistae to wreak what havoc you can, keep the Dragon Wing from being boarded, and guard our families with your lives. Understand?”