o!” shouted Eragon as the wall of the keep tumbled down with a thunderous crash, burying Roran and
five other men beneath a mound of stone twenty feet high and flooding the courtyard with a dark cloud of
dust.
Eragon’s shout was so loud, his voice broke, and slick, copper-tasting blood coated the back of his
throat. He inhaled and doubled over, coughing.
“Vaetna,” he gasped, and waved his hand. With a sound like rustling silk, the thick gray dust parted,
leaving the center of the courtyard clear. Concerned as he was for Roran, Eragon barely noticed the
strength the spell took from him.
“No, no, no, no,” Eragon muttered.He can’t be dead. He can’t, he can’t, he can’t .… As if repetition
might make it true, Eragon continued to think the phrase. But with every repetition, it became less a
statement of fact or hope and more a prayer to the world at large.
Before him, Arya and the other warriors of the Varden stood coughing and rubbing their eyes with the
palms of their hands. Many were hunched over, as if expecting a blow; others gaped at the front of the
damaged keep. The rubble from the building spilled into the middle of the courtyard, obscuring the
mosaic. Two and a half rooms on the second story of the keep, and one on the third—the room where
the magician had expired so violently—stood exposed to the elements. The chambers and their
furnishings seemed dirty and rather shabby in the full light of the sun. Within, a half-dozen soldiers armed
with crossbows were scrambling back from the drop they now found themselves standing by. With much
pushing and shoving, they hurried through the doors at the far ends of the rooms and vanished into the
depths of the keep.
Eragon tried to guess the weight of a block in the pile of rubble; it must have been many hundreds of
pounds. If he, Saphira, and the elves all worked together, he was sure that they could shift the stones
with magic, but the effort would leave them weak and vulnerable. Moreover, it would take an
impractically long time. For a moment, Eragon thought of Glaedr—the golden dragon was more than
strong enough to lift the whole pile at once—but haste was of the essence, and Glaedr’s Eldunarí would
take too long to retrieve. In any case, Eragon knew that he might not even be able to convince Glaedr to
talk with him, much less to help rescue Roran and the other men.
Then Eragon pictured Roran as he had appeared just before the deluge of stones and dust had hidden
him from view, standing underneath the eaves of the doorway to the keep, and with a start, he realized
what to do.
“Saphira, help them!” Eragon shouted as he cast aside his shield and bounded forward.
Behind him, he heard Arya say something in the ancient language—a short phrase that might have been
“Hide this!” Then she had caught up to him, running with her sword in hand, ready to fight.
When he reached the base of the rubble, Eragon leaped as high as he could. He alit with a single foot
upon the slanting face of a block and then jumped again, bounding from point to point like a mountain
goat scaling the side of a gorge. He hated to risk disturbing the blocks, but climbing the pile was the
fastest way to reach his destination.
With one last lunge, Eragon cleared the edge of the second story, then raced across the room. He
shoved the door in front of him with such force that he broke the latch and hinges and sent the door flying
into the wall of the corridor beyond, splitting the heavy oak planks.
Eragon sprinted down the corridor. His footsteps and his breathing sounded strangely muted to him, as if
his ears were filled with water.
He slowed as he drew near an open doorway. Through it, he saw a study with five armed men pointing
at a map and arguing. None of them noticed Eragon.
He kept running.
He sped around a corner and collided with a soldier walking in the opposite direction. Eragon’s vision
flashed red and yellow as his forehead struck the rim of the man’s shield. He clung to the soldier, and the
two of them staggered back and forth across the corridor like a pair of drunk dancers.
The soldier uttered an oath as he struggled to regain his balance. “What’s wrong with you, you
thrice-blasted—” he said, and then he saw Eragon’s face, and his eyes widened. “You!”
Eragon balled his right hand and punched the man in the belly, directly underneath his rib cage. The blow
lifted the man off his feet and smashed him into the ceiling. “Me,” Eragon agreed as the man dropped to
the floor, lifeless.
Eragon continued down the corridor. His already rapid pulse seemed to have doubled since he entered
the keep; he felt as if his heart were about to burst out of his chest.
Where is it?he thought, frantic as he glanced through yet another doorway and saw nothing but an
empty room.
At last, at the end of a dingy side passage, he caught sight of a winding staircase. He took the stairs five
at a time, heedless of his own safety as he descended toward the first story, pausing only to push a
startled archer out of his way.
The stairs ended, and he emerged into a high-vaulted chamber reminiscent of the cathedral in
Dras-Leona. He spun around, gathering quick impressions: shields and arms and red pennants hung on
the walls; narrow windows close under the ceiling; torches mounted in wrought-iron brackets; empty
fireplaces; long, dark trestle tables stacked along both sides of the hall; and a dais at the head of the
room, where a robed and bearded man stood before a high-backed chair. Eragon was in the main hall of
the castle. To his right, between him and the doors that led to the entrance of the keep, was a contingent
of fifty or more soldiers. The gold thread in their tunics glittered as they stirred with surprise.
“Kill him!” the robed man ordered, sounding more frightened than lordly. “Whosoever kills him shall
have a third of my treasure! So I promise!”
A terrible frustration welled up inside Eragon at being delayed once again. He tore his sword from its
scabbard, lifted it over his head, and shouted:
“Brisingr!”
With a rush of air, a cocoon of wraithlike blue flames sprang into existence around the blade, running up
toward the tip. The heat from the fire warmed Eragon’s hand, arm, and the side of his face.
Then Eragon lowered his gaze to the soldiers. “Move,” he growled.
The soldiers hesitated a moment more, then turned and fled.
Eragon charged forward, ignoring the panicked laggards within reach of his burning sword. One man
tripped and fell before him; Eragon jumped completely over the soldier, not even touching the tassel on
his helm.
The wind from Eragon’s passage tore at the flames on the blade, stretching them out behind the sword
like the mane of a galloping horse.
Hunching his shoulders, Eragon bulled past the double doors that guarded the entrance to the main hall.
He dashed through a long, wide chamber edged with rooms full of soldiers—as well as gears, pulleys,
and other mechanisms used for raising and lowering the gates of the keep—and then ran full tilt into the
portcullis that blocked the way to where Roran had been standing when the keep wall collapsed.
The iron grating bent as Eragon slammed into it, but not enough to break the metal.
He staggered back a step.
He again channeled energy stored within the diamonds of his belt—the belt of Beloth the Wise—and
into Brisingr, emptying the gemstones of their precious store as he stoked the sword’s fire to an almost
unbearable intensity. A wordless shout escaped him as he drew back his arm and struck at the portcullis.
Orange and yellow sparks sprayed him, pitting his gloves and tunic and stinging his exposed flesh. A drop
of molten iron fell sizzling onto the tip of his boot. With a twitch of his ankle, he shook it off.
Three cuts he made, and a man-sized section of the portcullis fell inward. The severed ends of the
grating glowed white-hot, lighting the area with their soft radiance.
Eragon allowed the flames rising from Brisingr to die out as he proceeded through the opening he had
created.
First to the left, then to the right, and then to the left again he ran as the passage alternated directions, the
convoluted path designed to slow the advance of troops if they managed to gain access to the keep.
When he rounded the last corner, Eragon saw his destination: the debris-choked vestibule. Even with his
elflike vision, he could make out only the largest shapes in the darkness, for the falling stones had
extinguished the torches on the walls. He heard an odd huffing and scuffling, as if some sort of clumsy
beast were rooting through the rubble.
“Naina,” said Eragon.
A directionless blue light illuminated the space. And there before him, covered in dirt, blood, ash, and
sweat, with his teeth bared in a fearsome snarl, appeared Roran, grappling with a soldier over the
corpses of two others.
The soldier winced at the sudden brightness, and Roran took advantage of the man’s distraction to twist
and push him to his knees, whereupon he grabbed the soldier’s dagger from his belt and drove it up
under the corner of his jaw.
The soldier kicked twice and then was still.
Panting for breath, Roran rose from the body, blood dripping from his fingers. He looked over at Eragon
with a curiously glazed expression.
“About time you—” he said, and then his eyes rolled back into his head as he fainted.
download the Eragon Inheritance Book 4 - The Vault of Souls
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