Eldest (The Inheritance Cycle 2)

“If they aren’t human, then what kind of creatures can they be?” demanded Roran. “They’re not Urgals.”

“Who knows?”

Fear now joined Roran’s revulsion—fear of the supernatural. He saw it echoed on Baldor’s face as the young man clasped his hands. For all the stories of Galbatorix’s misdeeds, it was still a shock to have the king’s evil roosted among their homes. A sense of history settled on Roran as he realized he was involved with forces he had previously been acquainted with only through songs and stories. “Something should be done,” he muttered.

The air grew warmer through the night, until by afternoon Palancar Valley shimmered and sweltered with the unexpected spring heat. Carvahall looked peaceful under the bald blue sky, yet Roran could feel the sour resentment that clenched its inhabitants with malicious intensity. The calm was like a sheet stretched taut in the wind.

Despite the aura of expectation, the day proved to be utterly boring; Roran spent most of his time brushing Horst’s mare. At last he lay to sleep, looking up past the towering pines at the haze of stars that adorned the night sky. They seemed so close, it felt as if he hurtled among them, falling toward the blackest void.

The moon was setting when Roran woke, his throat raw from smoke. He coughed and rolled upright, blinking as his eyes burned and watered. The noxious fumes made it difficult to breathe.

Roran grabbed his blankets and saddled the frightened mare, then spurred her farther up the mountain, hoping to find clear air. It quickly became apparent that the smoke was ascending with him, so he turned and cut sideways through the forest.

After several minutes spent maneuvering in the dark, they finally broke free and rode onto a ledge swept clean by a breeze. Purging his lungs with long breaths, Roran scanned the valley for the fire. He spotted it in an instant.

Carvahall’s hay barn glowed white in a cyclone of flames, transforming its precious contents into a fountain of amber motes. Roran trembled as he watched the destruction of the town’s feed. He wanted to scream and run through the forest to help with the bucket brigade, yet he could not force himself to abandon his own safety.

Now a molten spark landed on Delwin’s house. Within seconds, the thatched roof exploded in a wave of fire.

Roran cursed and tore his hair, tears streaming down his face. This was why mishandling fire was a hanging offense in Carvahall. Was it an accident? Was it the soldiers? Are the Ra’zac punishing the villagers for shielding me?…Am I somehow responsible for this?

Fisk’s house joined the conflagration next. Aghast, Roran could only avert his face, hating himself for his cowardice.

By dawn all the fires had been extinguished or burned out on their own. Only sheer luck and a calm night saved the rest of Carvahall from being consumed.

Roran waited until he was sure of the outcome, then retreated to his old camp and threw himself down to rest. From morning through evening, he was oblivious to the world, except through the lens of his troubled dreams.

Upon his return to awareness, Roran simply waited for the visitor he was sure would appear. This time it was Albriech. He arrived at dusk with a grim, worn expression. “Come with me,” he said.

Roran tensed. “Why?” Have they decided to give me up? If he was the cause of the fire, he could understand the villagers wanting him gone. He might even agree it was necessary. It was unreasonable to expect everyone in Carvahall to sacrifice themselves for him. Still, that did not mean he would allow them to just hand him over to the Ra’zac. After what the two monsters had done to Quimby, Roran would fight to the death to avoid being their prisoner.

“Because,” said Albriech, clenching his jaw muscles, “it was the soldiers who started the fire. Morn banned them from the Seven Sheaves, but they still got drunk on their own beer. One of them dropped a torch against the hay barn on his way to bed.”

“Was anyone hurt?” asked Roran.

“A few burns. Gertrude was able to handle them. We tried to negotiate with the Ra’zac. They spat on our requests that the Empire replace our losses and the guilty face justice. They even refused to confine the soldiers to the tents.”

“So why should I return?”

Albriech chuckled hollowly. “For hammer and tongs. We need your help to…remove the Ra’zac.”

“You would do that for me?”

“We’re not risking ourselves for your sake alone. This concerns the entire village now. At least come talk to Father and the others and hear their thoughts…I’d think you would be glad to get out of these cursed mountains.”

Roran considered Albriech’s proposition long and hard before deciding to accompany him. It’s this or run for it, and I can always run later. He fetched the mare, tied his bags to the saddle, then followed Albriech toward the valley floor.

Their progress slowed as they neared Carvahall, using trees and brush for cover. Slipping behind a rain barrel, Albriech checked to see if the streets were clear, then signaled to Roran. Together they crept from shadow to shade, constantly on guard for the Empire’s servants. At Horst’s forge, Albriech opened one of the double doors just far enough for Roran and the mare to quietly enter.

Inside, the workshop was lit by a single candle, which cast a trembling glow over the ring of faces that hovered about it in the surrounding darkness. Horst was there—his thick beard protruded like a shelf into the light—flanked by the hard visages of Delwin, Gedric, and then Loring. The rest of the group was composed of younger men: Baldor, Loring’s three sons, Parr, and Quimby’s boy, Nolfavrell, who was only thirteen.

They all turned to look as Roran entered the assembly. Horst said, “Ah, you made it. You escaped misfortune while in the Spine?”

“I was lucky.”

“Then we can proceed.”

“With what, exactly?” Roran hitched the mare to an anvil as he spoke.

Loring answered, the shoemaker’s parchment face a mass of contorting lines and grooves. “We have attempted reason with these Ra’zac…these invaders.” He stopped, his thin frame racked with an unpleasant, metallic wheeze deep in his chest. “They have refused reason. They have endangered us all with no sign of remorse or contrition.” He made a noise in his throat, then said with pronounced deliberation, “They…must…go. Such creatures—”

“No,” said Roran. “Not creatures. Desecrators.”

The faces scowled and bobbed in agreement. Delwin picked up the thread of conversation: “The point is, everyone’s life is at stake. If that fire had spread any farther, dozens of people would have been killed and those who escaped would have lost everything they own. As a result, we’ve agreed to drive the Ra’zac away from Carvahall. Will you join us?”

Roran hesitated. “What if they return or send for reinforcements? We can’t defeat the entire Empire.”

“No,” said Horst, grave and solemn, “but neither can we stand silent and allow the soldiers to kill us and to destroy our property. A man can endure only so much abuse before he must strike back.”

Loring laughed, throwing back his head so the flame gilded the stumps of his teeth. “First we fortify,” he whispered with glee, “then we fight. We’ll make them regret they ever clapped their festering eyes on Carvahall! Ha ha!”

RETALIATION

After Roran agreed to their plan, Horst began distributing shovels, pitchforks, flails—anything that could be used to beat the soldiers and the Ra’zac away.

Roran hefted a pick, then set it aside. Though he had never cared for Brom’s stories, one of them, the “Song of Gerand,” resonated with him whenever he heard it. It told of Gerand, the greatest warrior of his time, who relinquished his sword for a wife and farm. He found no peace, however, as a jealous lord initiated a blood feud against Gerand’s family, which forced Gerand to kill once more. Yet he did not fight with his blade, but with a simple hammer.

Going to the wall, Roran removed a medium-sized hammer with a long handle and a rounded blade on one side of the head. He tossed it from hand to hand, then

went to Horst and asked, “May I have this?”

Horst eyed the tool and Roran. “Use it wisely.” Then he said to the rest of the group, “Listen. We want to scare, not kill. Break a few bones if you want, but don’t get carried away. And whatever you do, don’t stand and fight. No matter how brave or heroic you feel, remember that they are trained soldiers.”

When everyone was equipped, they left the forge and wound their way through Carvahall to the edge of the Ra’zac’s camp. The soldiers had already gone to bed, except for four sentries who patrolled the perimeter of the gray tents. The Ra’zac’s two horses were picketed by a smoldering fire.

Horst quietly issued orders, sending Albriech and Delwin to ambush two of the sentries, and Parr and Roran to ambush the other two.

Roran held his breath as he stalked the oblivious soldier. His heart began to shudder as energy spiked through his limbs. He hid behind the corner of a house, quivering, and waited for Horst’s signal. Wait.

Wait.

With a roar, Horst burst from hiding, leading the charge into the tents. Roran darted forward and swung his hammer, catching the sentry on the shoulder with a grisly crunch.

The man howled and dropped his halberd. He staggered as Roran struck his ribs and back. Roran raised the hammer again and the man retreated, screaming for help.

Roran ran after him, shouting incoherently. He knocked in the side of a wool tent, trampling whatever was inside, then smashed the top of a helmet he saw emerging from another tent. The metal rang like a bell. Roran barely noticed as Loring danced past—the old man cackled and hooted in the night as he jabbed the soldiers with a pitchfork. Everywhere was a confusion of struggling bodies.

Whirling around, Roran saw a soldier attempting to string his bow. He rushed forward and hit the back of the bow with his steel mallet, breaking the wood in two. The soldier fled.

The Ra’zac scrambled free of their tent with terrible screeches, swords in hand. Before they could attack, Baldor untethered the horses and sent them galloping toward the two scarecrow figures. The Ra’zac separated, then regrouped, only to be swept away as the soldiers’ morale broke and they ran.

Then it was over.

Roran panted in the silence, his hand cramped around the hammer’s handle. After a moment, he picked his way through the crumpled mounds of tents and blankets to Horst. The smith was grinning under his beard. “That’s the best brawl I’ve had in years.”

Behind them, Carvahall jumped to life as people tried to discover the source of the commotion. Roran watched lamps flare up behind shuttered windows, then turned as he heard soft sobbing.

The boy, Nolfavrell, was kneeling by the body of a soldier, methodically stabbing him in the chest as tears slid down his chin. Gedric and Albriech hurried over and pulled Nolfavrell away from the corpse.

“He shouldn’t have come,” said Roran.

Horst shrugged. “It was his right.”

All the same, killing one of the Ra’zac’s men will only make it harder to rid ourselves of the desecrators. “We should barricade the road and between the houses so they won’t catch us by surprise.” Studying the men for any injuries, Roran saw that Delwin had received a long cut on his forearm, which the farmer bandaged with a strip torn from his ruined shirt.

With a few shouts, Horst organized their group. He dispatched Albriech and Baldor to retrieve Quimby’s wagon from the forge and had Loring’s sons and Parr scour Carvahall for items that could be used to secure the village.

Even as he spoke, people congregated on the edge of the field, staring at what was left of the Ra’zac’s camp and the dead soldier. “What happened?” cried Fisk.

Loring scuttled forward and stared the carpenter in the eye. “What happened? I’ll tell you what happened. We routed the dung-beardlings…caught them with their boots off and whipped them like dogs!”

“I am glad.” The strong voice came from Birgit, an auburn-haired woman who clasped Nolfavrell against her bosom, ignoring the blood smeared across his face. “They deserve to die like cowards for my husband’s death.”

The villagers murmured in agreement, but then Thane spoke: “Have you gone mad, Horst? Even if you frightened off the Ra’zac and their soldiers, Galbatorix will just send more men. The Empire will never give up until they get Roran.”

“We should hand him over,” snarled Sloan.

Horst raised his hands. “I agree; no one is worth more than all of Carvahall. But if we surrender Roran, do you really think Galbatorix will let us escape punishment for our resistance? In his eyes, we’re no better than the Varden.”

“Then why did you attack?” demanded Thane. “Who gave you the authority to make this decision? You’ve doomed us all!”

This time Birgit answered. “Would you let them kill your wife?” She pressed her hands on either side of her son’s face, then showed Thane her bloody palms, like an accusation. “Would you let them burn us?…Where is your manhood, loam breaker?”

He lowered his gaze, unable to face her stark expression.

“They burned my farm,” said Roran, “devoured Quimby, and nearly destroyed Carvahall. Such crimes cannot go unpunished. Are we frightened rabbits to cower down and accept our fate? No! We have a right to defend ourselves.” He stopped as Albriech and Baldor trudged up the street, dragging the wagon. “We can debate later. Now we have to prepare. Who will help us?”

Forty or more men volunteered. Together they set about the difficult task of making Carvahall impenetrable. Roran worked incessantly, nailing fence slats between houses, piling barrels full of rocks for makeshift walls, and dragging logs across the main road, which they blocked with two wagons tipped on their sides.

As Roran hurried from one chore to another, Katrina waylaid him in an alley. She hugged him, then said, “I’m glad you’re back, and that you’re safe.”

He kissed her lightly. “Katrina…I have to speak with you as soon as we’re finished.” She smiled uncertainly, but with a spark of hope. “You were right; it was foolish of me to delay. Every moment we spend together is precious, and I have no desire to squander what time we have when a whim of fate could tear us apart.”

Roran was tossing water on the thatching of Kiselt’s house—so it could not catch fire—when Parr shouted, “Ra’zac!”

Dropping the bucket, Roran ran to the wagons, where he had left his hammer. As he grabbed the weapon, he saw a single Ra’zac sitting on a horse far down the road, almost out of bowshot. The creature was illuminated by a torch in its left hand, while its right was drawn back, as if to throw something.

Roran laughed. “Is he going to toss rocks at us? He’s too far away to even hit—” He was cut off as the Ra’zac whipped down its arm and a glass vial arched across the distance between them and shattered against the wagon to his right. An instant later, a fireball launched the wagon into the air while a fist of burning air flung Roran against a wall.

Dazed, he fell to his hands and knees, gasping for breath. Through the roaring in his ears came the tattoo of galloping horses. He forced himself upright and faced the sound, only to dive aside as the Ra’zac raced into Carvahall through the burning gap in the wagons.

The Ra’zac reined in their steeds, blades flashing as they hacked at the people strewn around them. Roran saw three men die, then Horst and Loring reached the Ra’zac and began pressing them back with pitchforks. Before the villagers could rally, soldiers poured through the breach, killing indiscriminately in the darkness.

Roran knew they had to be stopped, else Carvahall would be taken. He jumped at a soldier, catching him by surprise, and hit him in the face with the hammer’s blade. The soldier crumpled without a sound. As the man’s compatriots rushed toward him, Roran wrestled the corpse’s shield off his limp arm. He barely managed to get it free in time to block the first strike.

Backstepping toward the Ra’zac, Roran parried a sword thrust, then swung his hammer up under the man’s chin, sending him to the ground. “To me!” shouted Roran. “Defend your h

omes!” He sidestepped a jab as five men attempted to encircle him. “To me!”

Baldor answered his call first, then Albriech. A few seconds later, Loring’s sons joined him, followed by a score of others. From the side streets, women and children pelted the soldiers with rocks. “Stay together,” ordered Roran, standing his ground. “There are more of us.”

The soldiers halted as the line of villagers before them continued to thicken. With more than a hundred men at his back, Roran slowly advanced.

“Attack, you foolsss,” screamed a Ra’zac, dodging Loring’s pitchfork.

A single arrow whizzed toward Roran. He caught it on his shield and laughed. The Ra’zac were level with the soldiers now, hissing with frustration. They glared at the villagers from under their inky cowls. Suddenly Roran felt himself become lethargic and powerless to move; it was hard to even think. Fatigue seemed to chain his arms and legs in place.

Then from farther in Carvahall, Roran heard a raw shout from Birgit. A second later, a rock hurtled over his head and bored toward the lead Ra’zac, who twitched with supernatural speed to avoid the missile. The distraction, slight though it was, freed Roran’s mind from the soporific influence. Was that magic? he wondered.

He dropped the shield, grasped his hammer with both hands, and raised it far above his head—just like Horst did when spreading metal. Roran went up on tiptoe, his entire body bowed backward, then whipped his arms down with a huh! The hammer cartwheeled through the air and bounced off the Ra’zac’s shield, leaving a formidable dent.

The two attacks were enough to disrupt the last of the Ra’zac’s strange power. They clicked rapidly to each other as the villagers roared and marched forward, then the Ra’zac yanked on their reins, wheeling around.

“Retreat,” they growled, riding past the soldiers. The crimson-clad warriors sullenly backed out of Carvahall, stabbing at anyone who came too close. Only when they were a good distance from the burning wagons did they dare turn their backs.