Eragon
Page 118
Apprehensive, Eragon tried to remember if he had seen any breaks in the mountains around them; he had not thought about Murtagh’s dilemma for a while. “It’s dark,” he began evasively, dodging a low branch, “so I might have missed something, but . . . no.”
Murtagh swore explosively and came to an abrupt stop, dragging on the horses’ reins until they halted as well. “Are you saying that the only place I can go is to the Varden?”
“Yes, but keep running. The Urgals are almost upon us!”
“No!” said Murtagh angrily. He stabbed a finger at Eragon. “I warned you that I wouldn’t go to the Varden, but you went ahead and trapped me between a hammer and an anvil! You’re the one with the elf’s memories. Why didn’t you tell me this was a dead end?”
Eragon bristled at the barrage and retorted, “All I knew was where we had to go, not what lay in between. Don’t blame me for choosing to come.”
Murtagh’s breath hissed between his teeth as he furiously spun away. All Eragon could see of him was a motionless, bowed figure. His own shoulders were tense, and a vein throbbed on the side of his neck. He put his hands on his hips, impatience rising.
Why have you stopped?asked Saphira, alarmed.
Don’t distract me.“What’s your quarrel with the Varden? It can’t be so terrible that you must keep it hidden even now. Would you rather fight the Kull than reveal it? How many times will we go through this before you trust me?”
There was a long silence.
The Urgals!reminded Saphira urgently.
I know,said Eragon, pushing back his temper.But we have to resolve this.
Quickly, quickly.
“Murtagh,” said Eragon earnestly, “unless you wish to die, we must go to the Varden. Don’t let me walk into their arms without knowing how they will react to you. It’s going to be dangerous enough without unnecessary surprises.”
Finally Murtagh turned to Eragon. His breathing was hard and fast, like that of a cornered wolf. He paused, then said with a tortured voice, “You have a right to know. I . . . I am the son of Morzan, first and last of the Forsworn.”
T HEHORNS OF
ADILEMMA
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.”
Murtagh swore explosively and came to an abrupt stop, dragging on the horses’ reins until they halted as well. “Are you saying that the only place I can go is to the Varden?”
“Yes, but keep running. The Urgals are almost upon us!”
“No!” said Murtagh angrily. He stabbed a finger at Eragon. “I warned you that I wouldn’t go to the Varden, but you went ahead and trapped me between a hammer and an anvil! You’re the one with the elf’s memories. Why didn’t you tell me this was a dead end?”
Eragon bristled at the barrage and retorted, “All I knew was where we had to go, not what lay in between. Don’t blame me for choosing to come.”
Murtagh’s breath hissed between his teeth as he furiously spun away. All Eragon could see of him was a motionless, bowed figure. His own shoulders were tense, and a vein throbbed on the side of his neck. He put his hands on his hips, impatience rising.
Why have you stopped?asked Saphira, alarmed.
Don’t distract me.“What’s your quarrel with the Varden? It can’t be so terrible that you must keep it hidden even now. Would you rather fight the Kull than reveal it? How many times will we go through this before you trust me?”
There was a long silence.
The Urgals!reminded Saphira urgently.
I know,said Eragon, pushing back his temper.But we have to resolve this.
Quickly, quickly.
“Murtagh,” said Eragon earnestly, “unless you wish to die, we must go to the Varden. Don’t let me walk into their arms without knowing how they will react to you. It’s going to be dangerous enough without unnecessary surprises.”
Finally Murtagh turned to Eragon. His breathing was hard and fast, like that of a cornered wolf. He paused, then said with a tortured voice, “You have a right to know. I . . . I am the son of Morzan, first and last of the Forsworn.”
T HEHORNS OF
ADILEMMA
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.”
