Eldest

A SPECIAL PREVIEW OF BRISINGR

Closing his eyes, Eragon turned his face toward the noonday sun and smiled up at the sky, content. The weather was pleasant. The aroma of yeast, flour, roasting meat, freshly poured wine, boiling soups, sweet pastries, and melted candies suffused the clearing. His friends and family were gathered around him for celebration and not for mourning. And for the moment, he was safe and Saphira was safe. This is how life ought to be.

A single horn rang out across the land, unnaturally loud.

Then again.

And again.

Everyone froze, uncertain what the three notes signified.

The Varden’s war drums at the north end of the camp began to beat. Chaos erupted. Mothers ran for their children, and cooks dampened their fires, while the rest of the men and women scrambled after their weapons.

Eragon sprinted toward Saphira even as she surged to her feet. Reaching out with his mind, he found Blödhgarm and, once the elf lowered his defenses somewhat, said, Meet us at the north entrance.

We hear and obey, Shadeslayer.

Eragon flung himself onto Saphira. The instant he got a leg over her neck, she jumped four rows of tents, landed, and then jumped a second time, her wings half-furled, not flying but rather bounding through the camp. The impact of each landing jarred Eragon’s teeth and spine and threatened to knock him off his perch. As they rose and fell, frightened warriors dodging out of their path, Eragon contacted Trianna and the other members of Du Vrangr Gata, identifying the location of each spellcaster and organizing them for battle.

Someone who was not of Du Vrangr Gata touched his thoughts. He recoiled, slamming walls up around his consciousness, before he realized that it was Angela the herbalist and allowed the contact. She said, I am with Nasuada and Elva. Nasuada wants you and Saphira at the north entrance—

As soon as we can. Yes, yes, we’re on our way. What of Elva? Does she sense anything?

Pain. Great pain. Yours. The Varden’s. The others’. I’m sorry, she’s not very coherent right now. I’m going to put her to sleep until the violence is at an end. Angela severed the connection.

Like a carpenter laying out and examining his tools before beginning a new project, Eragon reviewed the wards he had placed around himself, Saphira, Nasuada, Arya, and Roran. They all seemed to be in order.

As Saphira slid to a stop before his tent, furrowing the packed earth with her talons, he leaped off her back, rolling as he struck the ground. Bouncing upright, he dashed inside, undoing his sword belt as he went. He dropped the belt and the attached falchion into the dirt and scrabbled under his cot to retrieve his armor. With an icy tinkle, the mail hauberk slid over his head and settled on his shoulders. Fingers fumbling, he tied on his arming cap, placed the coif over it, and then jammed his head into his helm. Next he snatched up the belt and sword, and refastened the belt around his waist. Holding his greaves and his bracers in his left hand, he hooked the pinkie of that hand through the arm strap of his shield, grabbed Saphira’s heavy saddle with his right hand, and, thus laden, burst out of the tent.

Releasing the greaves, the bracers, and the shield to fall in a noisy clatter, he threw the saddle onto the mound of Saphira’s shoulders and climbed after it. In his haste, his excitement, his apprehension, he had trouble threading the straps of the saddle through the buckles and fitting the prongs of the buckles into the correct holes of the straps.

Saphira shifted her stance. Hurry. You’re taking too long.

Yes! I’m moving as fast as I can! It doesn’t help you’re so blasted big! She growled.

Around them, the camp swarmed with activity, men and dwarves streaming in jangling rivers toward the north, rushing to answer the summons of the war drums.

Finished, Eragon sprang off Saphira’s left front leg, where he had been standing. He collected his abandoned armor, mounted Saphira, and settled into the saddle.

With a flash of downswept wings, a jolt of acceleration, a blast of swirling air, and the bitter complaint of bracers scraping against shield, Saphira took to the air, actually flying this time, instead of vaulting from place to place like a mountain cat crossing a fast-flowing river. While they sped toward the northern edge of the camp, Eragon strapped the greaves to his shins, holding himself on Saphira merely with the strength of his legs. The bracers he wedged between his belly and the front of the saddle. The shield he hung from a nearby neck spike. When the greaves were secure, he fit his legs through the row of leather loops on either side of the saddle, then tightened the slip knot on each loop, so he could not fall off Saphira even if she turned upside down.

He was just fitting on the bracers when Saphira arched her wings, cupping the air with the translucent membranes, and reared upward, stalling to a standstill as she alighted upon the crest of one of the embankments that ringed the camp.