Eldest
Page 80
Roran knew that mere reason could not persuade anyone to leave; it would require messianic zeal to stir people’s emotions, to make themfeel in the depths of their hearts the need to relinquish the trappings of their identities and lives. Nor would it be enough to simply instill fear—for he knew that fear often made those in peril fight harder. Rather, he had to instill a sense of purpose and destiny, to make the villagers believe, as he did, that joining the Varden and resisting Galbatorix’s tyranny was the noblest action in the world.
It required passion that could not be intimidated by hardship, deterred by suffering, or quenched by death.
In his mind, Roran saw Katrina standing before him, pale and ghostly with solemn amber eyes. He remembered the heat of her skin, the mulled scent of her hair, and what it felt like to be with her under the cover of darkness. Then in a long line behind her appeared his family, friends, and everyone he had known in Carvahall, both dead and alive.If not for Eragon . . . and me . . . the Ra’zac would have never come here. I must rescue the village from the Empire as surely as I must rescue Katrina from those desecrators.
Drawing upon the strength of his vision, Roran rose from bed, causing his maimed shoulder to burn and sting. He staggered and leaned against a wall.Will I ever regain the use of my right arm ? He waited for the pain to subside. When it did not, he bared his teeth, shoved himself upright, and marched from the room.
Elain was folding towels in the hallway. She cried out with amazement. “Roran! What are you—”
“Come,” he growled, lurching past.
With a worried expression, Baldor stepped out of a doorway. “Roran, you shouldn’t be walking around. You lost too much blood. I’ll help—”
“Come.”
Roran heard them follow as he descended the curved stairs toward the entrance of the house, where Horst and Albriech stood talking. They looked up with astonishment.
“Come.”
He ignored the babble of questions, opened the front door, and stepped into the evening’s faded light. Above, an imposing plume of clouds was laced with gold and purple.
Leading the small group, Roran stomped to the edge of Carvahall—repeating his monosyllabic message whenever he passed a man or woman—pulled a torch mounted on a pole from the grasping mud, wheeled about, and retraced his path to the center of town. There he stabbed the pole between his feet, then raised his left arm and roared,“COME!”
The village rang with his voice. He continued the summons as people drifted from the houses and shadowed alleyways and began to gather around him. Many were curious, others sympathetic, some awed, and some angry. Again and again, Roran’s chant echoed in the valley. Loring arrived with his sons in tow. From the opposite direction came Birgit, Delwin, and Fisk with his wife, Isold. Morn and Tara left the tavern together and joined the crush of spectators.
When most of Carvahall stood before him, Roran fell silent, tightening his left fist until his fingernails cut into his palm.Katrina. Raising his hand, he opened it and showed everyone the crimson tears that dripped down his arm. “This,” he said, “is my pain. Look well, for it will be yours unless we defeat the curse wanton fate has set upon us. Your friends and family will be bound in chains, destined for slavery in foreign lands, or slain before your eyes, hewn open by soldiers’ merciless blades. Galbatorix will sow our land with salt so that it lies forever fallow. This I have seen. This I know.” He paced like a caged wolf, glowering and swinging his head. He had their attention. Now he had to stoke them into a frenzy to match his own.
“My father was killed by the desecrators. My cousin has fled. My farm was razed. And my bride-to-be was kidnapped by her own father, who murdered Byrd and betrayed us all! Quimby eaten, the hay barn burned along with Fisk’s and Delwin’s houses. Parr, Wyglif, Ged, Bardrick, Farold, Hale, Garner, Kelby, Melkolf, Albem, and Elmund: all slain. Many of you have been injured, like me, so that you can no longer support your family. Isn’t it enough that we toil every day of our lives to eke a living from the earth, subjected to the whims of nature? Isn’t it enough that we are forced to pay Galbatorix’s iron taxes, without also having to endure these senseless torments?” Roran laughed maniacally, howling at the sky and hearing the madness in his own voice. No one stirred in the crowd.
“I know now the true nature of the Empire and of Galbatorix; they areevil. Galbatorix is an unnatural blight on the world. He destroyed the Riders and the greatest peace and prosperity we ever had. His servants are foul demons birthed in some ancient pit. But is Galbatorix content to grind us beneath his heel? No! He seeks to poison all of Alagaësia, to suffocate us with his cloak of misery. Our children and their descendants shall live in the shadow of his darkness until the end of time, reduced to slaves, worms,vermin for him to torture at his pleasure. Unless . . .”
Roran stared into the villagers’ wide eyes, conscious of his control over them. No one had ever dared say what he was about to. He let his voice rasp low in his throat: “Unless we have the courage to resist evil.
“We’ve fought the soldiers and the Ra’zac, but it means nothing if we die alone and forgotten—or are carted away as chattel. We cannot stay here, and I won’t allow Galbatorix to obliterate everything that’s worth living for. I would rather have my eyes plucked out and my hands chopped off than see him triumph! I choose to fight! I choose to step from my grave and let my enemies bury themselves in it!
“I choose to leave Carvahall.
It required passion that could not be intimidated by hardship, deterred by suffering, or quenched by death.
In his mind, Roran saw Katrina standing before him, pale and ghostly with solemn amber eyes. He remembered the heat of her skin, the mulled scent of her hair, and what it felt like to be with her under the cover of darkness. Then in a long line behind her appeared his family, friends, and everyone he had known in Carvahall, both dead and alive.If not for Eragon . . . and me . . . the Ra’zac would have never come here. I must rescue the village from the Empire as surely as I must rescue Katrina from those desecrators.
Drawing upon the strength of his vision, Roran rose from bed, causing his maimed shoulder to burn and sting. He staggered and leaned against a wall.Will I ever regain the use of my right arm ? He waited for the pain to subside. When it did not, he bared his teeth, shoved himself upright, and marched from the room.
Elain was folding towels in the hallway. She cried out with amazement. “Roran! What are you—”
“Come,” he growled, lurching past.
With a worried expression, Baldor stepped out of a doorway. “Roran, you shouldn’t be walking around. You lost too much blood. I’ll help—”
“Come.”
Roran heard them follow as he descended the curved stairs toward the entrance of the house, where Horst and Albriech stood talking. They looked up with astonishment.
“Come.”
He ignored the babble of questions, opened the front door, and stepped into the evening’s faded light. Above, an imposing plume of clouds was laced with gold and purple.
Leading the small group, Roran stomped to the edge of Carvahall—repeating his monosyllabic message whenever he passed a man or woman—pulled a torch mounted on a pole from the grasping mud, wheeled about, and retraced his path to the center of town. There he stabbed the pole between his feet, then raised his left arm and roared,“COME!”
The village rang with his voice. He continued the summons as people drifted from the houses and shadowed alleyways and began to gather around him. Many were curious, others sympathetic, some awed, and some angry. Again and again, Roran’s chant echoed in the valley. Loring arrived with his sons in tow. From the opposite direction came Birgit, Delwin, and Fisk with his wife, Isold. Morn and Tara left the tavern together and joined the crush of spectators.
When most of Carvahall stood before him, Roran fell silent, tightening his left fist until his fingernails cut into his palm.Katrina. Raising his hand, he opened it and showed everyone the crimson tears that dripped down his arm. “This,” he said, “is my pain. Look well, for it will be yours unless we defeat the curse wanton fate has set upon us. Your friends and family will be bound in chains, destined for slavery in foreign lands, or slain before your eyes, hewn open by soldiers’ merciless blades. Galbatorix will sow our land with salt so that it lies forever fallow. This I have seen. This I know.” He paced like a caged wolf, glowering and swinging his head. He had their attention. Now he had to stoke them into a frenzy to match his own.
“My father was killed by the desecrators. My cousin has fled. My farm was razed. And my bride-to-be was kidnapped by her own father, who murdered Byrd and betrayed us all! Quimby eaten, the hay barn burned along with Fisk’s and Delwin’s houses. Parr, Wyglif, Ged, Bardrick, Farold, Hale, Garner, Kelby, Melkolf, Albem, and Elmund: all slain. Many of you have been injured, like me, so that you can no longer support your family. Isn’t it enough that we toil every day of our lives to eke a living from the earth, subjected to the whims of nature? Isn’t it enough that we are forced to pay Galbatorix’s iron taxes, without also having to endure these senseless torments?” Roran laughed maniacally, howling at the sky and hearing the madness in his own voice. No one stirred in the crowd.
“I know now the true nature of the Empire and of Galbatorix; they areevil. Galbatorix is an unnatural blight on the world. He destroyed the Riders and the greatest peace and prosperity we ever had. His servants are foul demons birthed in some ancient pit. But is Galbatorix content to grind us beneath his heel? No! He seeks to poison all of Alagaësia, to suffocate us with his cloak of misery. Our children and their descendants shall live in the shadow of his darkness until the end of time, reduced to slaves, worms,vermin for him to torture at his pleasure. Unless . . .”
Roran stared into the villagers’ wide eyes, conscious of his control over them. No one had ever dared say what he was about to. He let his voice rasp low in his throat: “Unless we have the courage to resist evil.
“We’ve fought the soldiers and the Ra’zac, but it means nothing if we die alone and forgotten—or are carted away as chattel. We cannot stay here, and I won’t allow Galbatorix to obliterate everything that’s worth living for. I would rather have my eyes plucked out and my hands chopped off than see him triumph! I choose to fight! I choose to step from my grave and let my enemies bury themselves in it!
“I choose to leave Carvahall.
