Brisingr
Page 63
The other soldiers held spears pointed at Eragon and Arya. So much dirt covered them, it was impossible to see the flames stitched on their tunics.
“Now then,” said the man, and his mustache wobbled like an unbalanced set of scales. “Who are you? Where are you going? And what is your business in the king’s lands?” Then he waved a hand. “No, don’t bother answering. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters nowadays. The world is coming to an end, and we waste our days interrogating peasants. Bah! Superstitious vermin who scurry from place to place, devouring all the food in the land and reproducing at a ghastly rate. At my family’s estate near Urû’baen, we would have the likes of you flogged if we caught you wandering around without permission, and if we learned that you had stolen from your master, why, then we’d hang you. Whatever you want to tell me is lies. It always is. . . .
“What have you got in that pack of yours, eh? Food and blankets, yes, but maybe a pair of gold candlesticks, eh? Silverware from the locked chest? Secret letters for the Varden? Eh? Cat got your tongue? Well, we’ll soon sort the matter out. Langward, why don’t you see what treasures you can excavate from yonder knapsack, there’s a good boy.”
Eragon staggered forward as one of the soldiers struck him across the back with the haft of a spear. He had wrapped his armor in rags to keep the pieces from rubbing against each other. The rags, however, were too thin to entirely absorb the force of the blow and muffle the clang of metal.
“Oho!” exclaimed the man with the mustache.
Grabbing Eragon from behind, the soldier unlaced the top of his pack and pulled out his hauberk, saying, “Look, sir!”
The man with the mustache broke out in a delighted grin. “Armor! And of fine make as well. Very fine, I should say. Well, you are full of surprises. Going to join the Varden, were you? Intent on treason and sedition, mmh?” His expression soured. “Or are you one of those who generally give honest soldiers a bad name? If so, you are a most incompetent mercenary; you don’t even have a weapon. Was it too much trouble to cut yourself a staff or a club, eh? Well, how about it? Answer me!”
“No, sir.”
“No, sir? Didn’t occur to you, I suppose. It’s a pity we have to accept such slow-minded wretches, but that’s what this blasted war has reduced us to, scrounging for leftovers.”
“Accept me where, sir?”
“Silence, you insolent rascal! No one gave you permission to speak!” His mustache quivering, the man gestured. Red lights exploded across Eragon’s field of vision as the soldier behind him bashed him on the head. “Whether you are a thief, a traitor, a mercenary, or merely a fool, your fate will be the same. Once you swear the oath of service, you will have no choice but to obey Galbatorix and those who speak for him. We are the first army in history to be free of dissent. No mindless blathering about what we should do. Only orders, clear and direct. You too shall join our cause, and you shall have the privilege of helping to make real the glorious future our great king has foreseen. As for your lovely companion, there are other ways she can be of use to the Empire, eh? Now tie them up!”
Eragon knew then what he had to do. Glancing over, he found Arya already looking at him, her eyes hard and bright. He blinked once. She blinked in return. His hand tightened around the pebble.
Most of the soldiers Eragon had fought on the Burning Plains had possessed certain rudimentary wards intended to shield them from magical attacks, and he suspected these men were likewise equipped. He was confident he could break or circumvent any spells Galbatorix’s magicians invented, but it would require more time than he now had. Instead, he cocked his arm and, with a flick of his wrist, threw the pebble at the man with the mustache.
The pebble punctured the side of his helm.
Before the soldiers could react, Eragon twisted around, yanked the spear from the hands of the man who had been tormenting him, and used it to knock him off his horse. As the man landed, Eragon stabbed him through the heart, breaking the blade of the spear on the metal plates of the soldier’s gambeson. Releasing the spear, Eragon dove backward, his body parallel with the ground as he passed underneath seven spears that were flying toward where he had been. The lethal shafts seemed to float above him as he fell.
The instant Eragon had released the pebble, Arya bounded up the side of the horse nearest her, jumping from stirrup to saddle, and kicked the head of the oblivious soldier who was perched on the mare. He went hurtling more than thirty feet. Then Arya leaped from the back of horse to horse, killing the soldiers with her knees, her feet, and her hands in an incredible display of grace and balance.
Jagged rocks tore at Eragon’s stomach as he tumbled to a stop. Grimacing, he sprang upright. Four soldiers who had dismounted confronted him with drawn swords. They charged. Dodging to the right, he caught the first soldier’s wrist as the man swung his sword and punched him in the armpit. The man collapsed and was still. Eragon dispatched his next opponents by twisting their heads until their spines snapped. The fourth soldier was so close by then, running at him with sword held high, Eragon could not evade him.
Trapped, he did the one thing he could: he struck the man in the chest with all his might. A fount of blood and sweat erupted as his fist connected. The blow staved in the man’s ribs and propelled him more than a dozen feet over the grass, where he fetched up against another corpse.
Eragon gasped and doubled over, cradling his throbbing hand. Four of his knuckles were disjointed, and white cartilage showed through his mangled skin. Blast, he thought as hot blood poured from the wounds. His fingers refused to move when he ordered them to; he realized that his hand would be useless until he could heal it. Fearing another attack, he looked around for Arya and the rest of the soldiers.
“Now then,” said the man, and his mustache wobbled like an unbalanced set of scales. “Who are you? Where are you going? And what is your business in the king’s lands?” Then he waved a hand. “No, don’t bother answering. It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters nowadays. The world is coming to an end, and we waste our days interrogating peasants. Bah! Superstitious vermin who scurry from place to place, devouring all the food in the land and reproducing at a ghastly rate. At my family’s estate near Urû’baen, we would have the likes of you flogged if we caught you wandering around without permission, and if we learned that you had stolen from your master, why, then we’d hang you. Whatever you want to tell me is lies. It always is. . . .
“What have you got in that pack of yours, eh? Food and blankets, yes, but maybe a pair of gold candlesticks, eh? Silverware from the locked chest? Secret letters for the Varden? Eh? Cat got your tongue? Well, we’ll soon sort the matter out. Langward, why don’t you see what treasures you can excavate from yonder knapsack, there’s a good boy.”
Eragon staggered forward as one of the soldiers struck him across the back with the haft of a spear. He had wrapped his armor in rags to keep the pieces from rubbing against each other. The rags, however, were too thin to entirely absorb the force of the blow and muffle the clang of metal.
“Oho!” exclaimed the man with the mustache.
Grabbing Eragon from behind, the soldier unlaced the top of his pack and pulled out his hauberk, saying, “Look, sir!”
The man with the mustache broke out in a delighted grin. “Armor! And of fine make as well. Very fine, I should say. Well, you are full of surprises. Going to join the Varden, were you? Intent on treason and sedition, mmh?” His expression soured. “Or are you one of those who generally give honest soldiers a bad name? If so, you are a most incompetent mercenary; you don’t even have a weapon. Was it too much trouble to cut yourself a staff or a club, eh? Well, how about it? Answer me!”
“No, sir.”
“No, sir? Didn’t occur to you, I suppose. It’s a pity we have to accept such slow-minded wretches, but that’s what this blasted war has reduced us to, scrounging for leftovers.”
“Accept me where, sir?”
“Silence, you insolent rascal! No one gave you permission to speak!” His mustache quivering, the man gestured. Red lights exploded across Eragon’s field of vision as the soldier behind him bashed him on the head. “Whether you are a thief, a traitor, a mercenary, or merely a fool, your fate will be the same. Once you swear the oath of service, you will have no choice but to obey Galbatorix and those who speak for him. We are the first army in history to be free of dissent. No mindless blathering about what we should do. Only orders, clear and direct. You too shall join our cause, and you shall have the privilege of helping to make real the glorious future our great king has foreseen. As for your lovely companion, there are other ways she can be of use to the Empire, eh? Now tie them up!”
Eragon knew then what he had to do. Glancing over, he found Arya already looking at him, her eyes hard and bright. He blinked once. She blinked in return. His hand tightened around the pebble.
Most of the soldiers Eragon had fought on the Burning Plains had possessed certain rudimentary wards intended to shield them from magical attacks, and he suspected these men were likewise equipped. He was confident he could break or circumvent any spells Galbatorix’s magicians invented, but it would require more time than he now had. Instead, he cocked his arm and, with a flick of his wrist, threw the pebble at the man with the mustache.
The pebble punctured the side of his helm.
Before the soldiers could react, Eragon twisted around, yanked the spear from the hands of the man who had been tormenting him, and used it to knock him off his horse. As the man landed, Eragon stabbed him through the heart, breaking the blade of the spear on the metal plates of the soldier’s gambeson. Releasing the spear, Eragon dove backward, his body parallel with the ground as he passed underneath seven spears that were flying toward where he had been. The lethal shafts seemed to float above him as he fell.
The instant Eragon had released the pebble, Arya bounded up the side of the horse nearest her, jumping from stirrup to saddle, and kicked the head of the oblivious soldier who was perched on the mare. He went hurtling more than thirty feet. Then Arya leaped from the back of horse to horse, killing the soldiers with her knees, her feet, and her hands in an incredible display of grace and balance.
Jagged rocks tore at Eragon’s stomach as he tumbled to a stop. Grimacing, he sprang upright. Four soldiers who had dismounted confronted him with drawn swords. They charged. Dodging to the right, he caught the first soldier’s wrist as the man swung his sword and punched him in the armpit. The man collapsed and was still. Eragon dispatched his next opponents by twisting their heads until their spines snapped. The fourth soldier was so close by then, running at him with sword held high, Eragon could not evade him.
Trapped, he did the one thing he could: he struck the man in the chest with all his might. A fount of blood and sweat erupted as his fist connected. The blow staved in the man’s ribs and propelled him more than a dozen feet over the grass, where he fetched up against another corpse.
Eragon gasped and doubled over, cradling his throbbing hand. Four of his knuckles were disjointed, and white cartilage showed through his mangled skin. Blast, he thought as hot blood poured from the wounds. His fingers refused to move when he ordered them to; he realized that his hand would be useless until he could heal it. Fearing another attack, he looked around for Arya and the rest of the soldiers.
