Read a part of Eragon Inheritance Book 1

Eragon knelt in a bed of trampled reed grass and scanned the tracks with a practicedeye. The prints told him that the deer had been in the meadow only a half-hour before.Soon they would bed down. His target, a small doe with a pronounced limp in her leftforefoot, was still with the herd. He was amazed she had made it so far without a wolf orbear catching her.

The sky was clear and dark, and a slight breeze stirred the air. A silvery cloud driftedover the mountains that surrounded him, its edges glowing with ruddy light cast from theharvest moon cradled between two peaks. Streams flowed down the mountains fromstolid glaciers and glistening snowpacks. A brooding mist crept along the valley’s floor,almost thick enough to obscure his feet.

Eragon was fifteen, less than a year from manhood. Dark eyebrows rested above hisintense brown eyes. His clothes were worn from work. A hunting knife with a bonehandle was sheathed at his belt, and a buckskin tube protected his yew bow from the mist.He carried a wood-frame pack.

The deer had led him deep into the Spine, a range of untamed mountains that extended upand down the land of Alagaësia. Strange tales and men often came from those mountains, usually boding ill. Despite that, Eragon did not fear the Spine—he was the only hunternear Carvahall who dared track game deep into its craggy recesses.

It was the third night of the hunt, and his food was half gone. If he did not fell the doe, hewould be forced to return home empty-handed. His family needed the meat for therapidly approaching winter and could not afford to buy it in Carvahall.

Eragon stood with quiet assurance in the dusky moonlight, then strode into the foresttoward a glen where he was sure the deer would rest. The trees blocked the sky fromview and cast feathery shadows on the ground. He looked at the tracks only occasionally;he knew the way.

At the glen, he strung his bow with a sure touch, then drew three arrows and nocked one,holding the others in his left hand. The moonlight revealed twenty or so motionless lumpswhere the deer lay in the grass. The doe he wanted was at the edge of the herd, her leftforeleg stretched out awkwardly.

Eragon slowly crept closer, keeping the bow ready. All his work of the past three dayshad led to this moment. He took a last steadying breath and—an explosion shattered thenight.

The herd bolted. Eragon lunged forward, racing through the grass as a fiery wind surgedpast his cheek. He slid to a stop and loosed an arrow at the bounding doe. It missed by afinger’s breadth and hissed into darkness. He cursed and spun around, instinctivelynocking another arrow.

Behind him, where the deer had been, smoldered a large circle of grass and trees. Manyof the pines stood bare of their needles. The grass outside the charring was flattened. Awisp of smoke curled in the air,carrying a burnt smell. In the center of the blast radiuslay a polished blue stone. Mist snaked across the scorched area and swirled insubstantialtendrils over the stone.

Eragon watched for danger for several long minutes, but the only thing that moved wasthe mist. Cautiously, he released the tension from his bow and moved forward. Moonlightcast him in pale shadow as he stopped before the stone. He nudged it with an arrow, then jumped back. Nothing happened, so he warily picked it up.

Nature had never polished a stone as smooth as this one. Its flawless surface was dark blue, except for thin veins of white that spiderwebbed across it. The stone was cool andfrictionless under his fingers, like hardened silk. Oval and about a foot long, it weighedseveral pounds, though it felt lighter than it should have.

Eragon found the stone both beautiful and frightening.
Where did it come from? Does it have a purpose?
Then a more disturbing thought came to him:
Was it sent here byaccident, or am I meant to have it?
If he had learned anything from the old stories, it wasto treat magic, and those who used it, with great caution.

But what should I do with the stone?
It would be tiresome to carry, and there was a chanceit was dangerous. It might be better to leave it behind. A flicker of indecision ran throughhim, and he almost dropped it, but something stayed his hand.

At the very least, it might  pay for some food,
he decided with a shrug, tucking the stone into his pack.The glen was too exposed to make a safe camp, so he slipped back into the forest andspread his bedroll beneath the upturned roots of a fallen tree. After a cold dinner of breadand cheese, he wrapped himself in blankets and fell asleep, pondering what had occurred. Read more...

Read the Chapter Hammerfall of Book 4

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.

Eragon Inheritance Book 4 - The Vault of Souls

download the Eragon Inheritance Book 4 - The Vault of Souls Read more...