Eragon: Book One (The Inheritance cycle 1)
Eragon: Chapter 49

ERAGON WAS SPEECHLESS. Disbelief roared through his mind as he tried to reject Murtagh’s words. The Forsworn never had any children, least of all Morzan. Morzan! The man who betrayed the Riders to Galbatorix and remained the king’s favorite servant for the rest of his life. Could it be true?

Saphira’s own shock reached him a second later. She crashed through trees and brush as she barreled from the river to his side, fangs bared, tail raised threateningly. Be ready for anything, she warned. He may be able to use magic.

“You are his heir?” asked Eragon, surreptitiously reaching for Zar’roc. What could he want with me? Is he really working for the king?

“I didn’t choose this!” cried Murtagh, anguish twisting his face. He ripped at his clothes with a desperate air, tearing off his tunic and shirt to bare his torso. “Look!” he pleaded, and turned his back to Eragon.

Unsure, Eragon leaned forward, straining his eyes in the darkness. There, against Murtagh’s tanned and muscled skin, was a knotted white scar that stretched from his right shoulder to his left hip—a testament to some terrible agony.

“See that?” demanded Murtagh bitterly. He talked quickly now, as if relieved to have his secret finally revealed. “I was only three when I got it. During one of his many drunken rages, Morzan threw his sword at me as I ran by. My back was laid open by the very sword you now carry—the only thing I expected to receive as inheritance, until Brom stole it from my father’s corpse. I was lucky, I suppose—there was a healer nearby who kept me from dying. You must understand, I don’t love the Empire or the king. I have no allegiance to them, nor do I mean you harm!” His pleas were almost frantic.

Eragon uneasily lifted his hand from Zar’roc’s pommel. “Then your father,” he said in a faltering voice, “was killed by …”

“Yes, Brom,” said Murtagh. He pulled his tunic back on with a detached air.

A horn rang out behind them, prompting Eragon to cry, “Come, run with me.” Murtagh shook the horses’ reins and forced them into a tired trot, eyes fixed straight ahead, while Arya bounced limply in Snowfire’s saddle. Saphira stayed by Eragon’s side, easily keeping pace with her long legs. You could walk unhindered in the riverbed, he said as she was forced to smash through a dense web of branches.

I’ll not leave you with him.

Eragon was glad for her protection. Morzan’s son! He said between strides, “Your tale is hard to believe. How do I know you aren’t lying?”

“Why would I lie?”

“You could be—”

Murtagh interrupted him quickly. “I can’t prove anything to you now. Keep your doubts until we reach the Varden. They’ll recognize me quickly enough.”

“I must know,” pressed Eragon. “Do you serve the Empire?”

“No. And if I did, what would I accomplish by traveling with you? If I were trying to capture or kill you, I would have left you in prison.” Murtagh stumbled as he jumped over a fallen log.

“You could be leading the Urgals to the Varden.”

“Then,” said Murtagh shortly, “why am I still with you? I know where the Varden are now. What reason could I have for delivering myself to them? If I were going to attack them, I’d turn around and join the Urgals.”

“Maybe you’re an assassin,” stated Eragon flatly.

“Maybe. You can’t really know, can you?”

Saphira? Eragon asked simply.

Her tail swished over his head. If he wanted to harm you, he could have done it long ago.

A branch whipped Eragon’s neck, causing a line of blood to appear on his skin. The waterfall was growing louder. I want you to watch Murtagh closely when we get to the Varden. He may do something foolish, and I don’t want him killed by accident.

I’ll do my best, she said as she shouldered her way between two trees, scraping off slabs of bark. The horn sounded behind them again. Eragon glanced over his shoulder, expecting Urgals to rush out of the darkness. The waterfall throbbed dully ahead of them, drowning out the sounds of the night.

The forest ended, and Murtagh pulled the horses to a stop. They were on a pebble beach directly to the left of the mouth of the Beartooth River. The deep lake Kóstha-mérna filled the valley, blocking their way. The water gleamed with flickering starlight. The mountain walls restricted passage around Kóstha-mérna to a thin strip of shore on either side of the lake, both no more than a few steps wide. At the lake’s far end, a broad sheet of water tumbled down a black cliff into boiling mounds of froth.

“Do we go to the falls?” asked Murtagh tightly.

“Yes.” Eragon took the lead and picked his way along the lake’s left side. The pebbles underfoot were damp and slime covered. There was barely enough room for Saphira between the sheer valley wall and the lake; she had to walk with two feet in the water.

They were halfway to the waterfall when Murtagh warned, “Urgals!”

Eragon whirled around, rocks spraying from under his heel. By the shore of Kóstha-mérna, where they had been only minutes before, hulking figures streamed out of the forest. The Urgals massed before the lake. One of them gestured at Saphira; guttural words drifted over the water. Immediately the horde split and started around both sides of the lake, leaving Eragon and Murtagh without an escape route. The narrow shore forced the bulky Kull to march single file.

“Run!” barked Murtagh, drawing his sword and slapping the horses on their flanks. Saphira took off without warning and wheeled back toward the Urgals.

“No!” cried Eragon, shouting with his mind, Come back! but she continued, heedless to his pleas. With an agonizing effort, he tore his gaze from her and plunged forward, wrenching Zar’roc from its sheath.

Saphira dived at the Urgals, bellowing fiercely. They tried to scatter but were trapped against the mountainside. She caught a Kull between her talons and carried the screaming creature aloft, tearing at him with her fangs. The silent body crashed into the lake a moment later, an arm and a leg missing. Sᴇaʀch Thᴇ ꜰindNʘvel.ɴet website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

The Kull continued around Kóstha-mérna undeterred. With smoke streaming from her nostrils, Saphira dived at them again. She twisted and rolled as a cloud of black arrows shot toward her. Most of the darts glanced off her scaled sides, leaving no more than bruises, but she roared as the rest pierced her wings.

Eragon’s arms twinged with sympathetic pain, and he had to restrain himself from rushing to her defense. Fear flooded his veins as he saw the line of Urgals closing in on them. He tried to run faster, but his muscles were too tired, the rocks too slippery.

Then, with a loud splash, Saphira plunged into Kóstha-mérna. She submerged completely, sending ripples across the lake. The Urgals nervously eyed the dark water lapping their feet. One growled something indecipherable and jabbed his spear at the lake.

The water exploded as Saphira’s head shot out of the depths. Her jaws closed on the spear, breaking it like a twig as she tore it out of the Kull’s hands with a vicious twist. Before she could seize the Urgal himself, his companions thrust at her with their spears, bloodying her nose.

Saphira jerked back and hissed angrily, beating the water with her tail. Keeping his spear pointed at her, the lead Kull tried to edge past, but halted when she snapped at his legs. The string of Urgals was forced to stop as she held him at bay. Meanwhile, the Kull on the other side of the lake still hurried toward the falls.

I’ve trapped them, she told Eragon tersely, but hurry—I cannot hold them long. Archers on the shore were already taking aim at her. Eragon concentrated on going faster, but a rock gave under his boot and he pitched forward. Murtagh’s strong arm kept him on his feet, and clasping each other’s forearms, they urged the horses forward with shouts.

They were almost to the waterfall. The noise was overwhelming, like an avalanche. A white wall of water gushed down the cliff, pounding the rocks below with a fury that sent mist spraying through the air to run down their faces. Four yards from the thunderous curtain, the beach widened, giving them room to maneuver.

Saphira roared as an Urgal spear grazed her haunch, then retreated underwater. With her withdrawal the Kull rushed forward with long strides. They were only a few hundred feet away. “What do we do now?” Murtagh demanded coldly.

“I don’t know. Let me think!” cried Eragon, searching Arya’s memories for her final instructions. He scanned the ground until he found a rock the size of an apple, grabbed it, then pounded on the cliff next to the falls, shouting, “Aí varden abr du Shur’tugalar gata vanta!”

Nothing happened.

He tried again, shouting louder than before, but only succeeded in bruising his hand. He turned in despair to Murtagh. “We’re trap—” His words were cut off as Saphira leapt out of the lake, dousing them with icy water. She landed on the beach and crouched, ready to fight.

The horses backpedaled wildly, trying to bolt. Eragon reached out with his mind to steady them. Behind you! cried Saphira. He turned and glimpsed the lead Urgal running at him, heavy spear raised. Up close a Kull was as tall as a small giant, with legs and arms as thick as tree trunks.

Murtagh drew back his arm and threw his sword with incredible speed. The long weapon revolved once, then struck the Kull point first in the chest with a dull crunch. The huge Urgal toppled to the ground with a strangled gurgle. Before another Kull could attack, Murtagh dashed forward and yanked his sword out of the body.

Eragon raised his palm, shouting, “Jierda theirra kalfis!” Sharp cracks resounded off the cliff. Twenty of the charging Urgals fell into Kóstha-mérna, howling and clutching their legs where shards of bone protruded. Without breaking stride, the rest of the Urgals advanced over their fallen companions. Eragon struggled against his weariness, putting a hand on Saphira for support.

A flight of arrows, impossible to see in the darkness, brushed past them and clattered against the cliff. Eragon and Murtagh ducked, covering their heads. With a small growl, Saphira jumped over them so that her armored sides shielded them and the horses. A chorus of clinks sounded as a second volley of arrows bounced off her scales.

“What now?” shouted Murtagh. There was still no opening in the cliff. “We can’t stay here!”

Eragon heard Saphira snarl as an arrow caught the edge of her wing, tearing the thin membrane. He looked around wildly, trying to understand why Arya’s instructions had not worked. “I don’t know! This is where we’re supposed to be!”

“Why don’t you ask the elf to make sure?” demanded Murtagh. He dropped his sword, snatched his bow from Tornac’s saddlebags, and with a swift motion loosed an arrow from between the spikes on Saphira’s back. A moment later an Urgal toppled into the water.

“Now? She’s barely alive! How’s she going to find the energy to say anything?”

“I don’t know,” shouted Murtagh, “but you’d better think of something because we can’t stave off an entire army!”

Eragon, growled Saphira urgently.

What!

We’re on the wrong side of the lake! I’ve seen Arya’s memories through you, and I just realized that this isn’t the right place. She tucked her head against her breast as another flight of arrows sped toward them. Her tail flicked in pain as they struck her. I can’t keep this up! They’re tearing me to pieces!

Eragon slammed Zar’roc back into its sheath and exclaimed, “The Varden are on the other side of the lake. We have to go through the waterfall!” He noted with dread that the Urgals across Kóstha-mérna were almost to the falls.

Murtagh’s eyes shot toward the violent deluge blocking their way. “We’ll never get the horses through there, even if we can hold our own footing.”

“I’ll convince them to follow us,” snapped Eragon. “And Saphira can carry Arya.” The Urgals’ cries and bellows made Snowfire snort angrily. The elf lolled on his back, oblivious to the danger.

Murtagh shrugged. “It’s better than being hacked to death.” He swiftly cut Arya loose from Snowfire’s saddle, and Eragon caught the elf as she slid to the ground.

I’m ready, said Saphira, rising into a half-crouch. The approaching Urgals hesitated, unsure of her intentions.

“Now!” cried Eragon. He and Murtagh heaved Arya onto Saphira, then secured her legs in the saddle’s straps. The second they were finished, Saphira swept up her wings and soared over the lake. The Urgals behind her howled as they saw her escaping. Arrows clattered off her belly. The Kull on the other shore redoubled their pace so as to attain the waterfall before she landed.

Eragon reached out with his mind to force himself into the frightened thoughts of the horses. Using the ancient language, he told them that unless they swam through the waterfall, they would be killed and eaten by the Urgals. Though they did not understand everything he said, the meaning of his words was unmistakable.

Snowfire and Tornac tossed their heads, then dashed into the thundering downpour, whinnying as it struck their backs. They floundered, struggling to stay above water. Murtagh sheathed his sword and jumped after them; his head disappeared under a froth of bubbles before he bobbed up, sputtering.

The Urgals were right behind Eragon; he could hear their feet crunching on the gravel. With a fierce war cry he leapt after Murtagh, closing his eyes a second before the cold water pummeled him.

The tremendous weight of the waterfall slammed down on his shoulders with backbreaking force. The water’s mindless roar filled his ears. He was driven to the bottom, where his knees gouged the rocky lakebed. He kicked off with all his strength and shot partway out of the water. Before he could take a gulp of air, the cascade rammed him back underwater.

All he could see was a white blur as foam billowed around him. He frantically tried to surface and relieve his burning lungs, but he only rose a few feet before the deluge halted his ascent. He panicked, thrashing his arms and legs, fighting the water. Weighed down by Zar’roc and his drenched clothes, he sank back to the lakebed, unable to speak the ancient words that could save him.

Suddenly a strong hand grasped the back of his tunic and dragged him through the water. His rescuer sliced through the lake with quick, short strokes; Eragon hoped it was Murtagh, not an Urgal. They surfaced and stumbled onto the pebble beach. Eragon was trembling violently; his entire body shivered in bursts.

Sounds of combat erupted to his right, and he whirled toward them, expecting an Urgal attack. The monsters on the opposite shore—where he had stood only moments before—fell beneath a withering hail of arrows from crevasses that pockmarked the cliff. Scores of Urgals already floated belly up in the water, riddled with shafts. The ones on Eragon’s shore were similarly engaged. Neither group could retreat from their exposed positions, for rows of warriors had somehow appeared behind them, where the lake met the mountainsides. All that prevented the nearest Kull from rushing Eragon was the steady rain of arrows—the unseen archers seemed determined to keep the Urgals at bay.

A gruff voice next to Eragon said, “Akh Guntéraz dorzâda! What were they thinking? You would have drowned!” Eragon jerked with surprise. It was not Murtagh standing by him but a diminutive man no taller than his elbow.

The dwarf was busy wringing water out of his long braided beard. His chest was stocky, and he wore a chain-mail jacket cut off at the shoulders to reveal muscular arms. A war ax hung from a wide leather belt strapped around his waist. An iron-bound oxhide cap, bearing the symbol of a hammer surrounded by twelve stars, sat firmly on his head. Even with the cap, he barely topped four feet. He looked longingly at the fighting and said, “Barzul, but I wish I could join them!”

A dwarf! Eragon drew Zar’roc and looked for Saphira and Murtagh. Two twelve-foot-thick stone doors had opened in the cliff, revealing a broad tunnel nearly thirty feet tall that burrowed its way into the mysterious depths of the mountain. A line of flameless lamps filled the passageway with a pale sapphire light that spilled out onto the lake.

Saphira and Murtagh stood before the tunnel, surrounded by a grim mixture of men and dwarves. At Murtagh’s elbow was a bald, beardless man dressed in purple and gold robes. He was taller than all the other humans—and he was holding a dagger to Murtagh’s throat.

Eragon reached for his power, but the robed man said in a sharp, dangerous voice, “Stop! If you use magic, I’ll kill your lovely friend here, who was so kind as to mention you’re a Rider. Don’t think I won’t know if you’re drawing upon it. You can’t hide anything from me.” Eragon tried to speak, but the man snarled and pressed the dagger harder against Murtagh’s throat. “None of that! If you say or do anything I don’t tell you to, he will die. Now, everyone inside.” He backed into the tunnel, pulling Murtagh with him and keeping his eyes on Eragon.

Saphira, what should I do? Eragon asked quickly as the men and dwarves followed Murtagh’s captor, leading the horses along with them.

Go with them, she counseled, and hope that we live. She entered the tunnel herself, eliciting nervous glances from those around her. Reluctantly, Eragon followed her, aware that the warriors’ eyes were upon him. His rescuer, the dwarf, walked alongside him with a hand on the haft of his war ax.

Utterly exhausted, Eragon staggered into the mountain. The stone doors swung shut behind them with only a whisper of sound. He looked back and saw a seamless wall where the opening had been. They were trapped inside. But were they any safer?

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