Eragon

A WARRIOR AND A HEALER

Saphira drifted down to a clearing, landed on the crest of a hill, and rested her outstretched wings on the ground. Eragon could feel her shaking beneath him. They were only a half-league from Gil’ead.

Picketed in the clearing were Snowfire and Tornac, who snorted nervously at Saphira’s arrival. Eragon slid to the ground and immediately turned to Saphira’s injuries, while Murtagh readied the horses.

Unable to see well in the darkness, Eragon ran his hands blindly over Saphira’s wings. He found three places where arrows had punctured the thin membrane, leaving bloody holes as thick around as his thumb. A small piece had also been torn out of the back edge of her left wing. She shivered when his fingers brushed the injuries. He tiredly healed the wounds with words from the ancient language. Then he went to the arrow that was embedded in one of the large muscles of her flying arm. The arrowhead poked through its underside. Warm blood dripped off it.

Eragon called Murtagh over and instructed, “Hold her wing down. I have to remove this arrow.” He indicated where Murtagh should grip. This will be painful, he warned Saphira, but it’ll be over quickly. Try not to struggle — you’ll hurt us.

She extended her neck and grabbed a tall sapling between her curved teeth. With a yank of her head, she pulled the tree out of the ground and clamped it firmly in her jaws. I’m ready.

Okay, said Eragon. “Hold on,” he whispered to Murtagh, then broke off the head of the arrow. Trying not cause any more damage, he swiftly pulled the shaft out of Saphira. As it left her muscle, she threw back her head and whimpered past the tree in her mouth. Her wing jerked involuntarily, clipping Murtagh under the chin and knocking him to the ground.

With a growl, Saphira shook the tree, spraying them with dirt before tossing it away. After Eragon sealed the wound, he helped Murtagh up. “She caught me by surprise,” admitted Murtagh, touching his scraped jaw.

I’m sorry.

“She didn’t mean to hit you,” assured Eragon. He checked on the unconscious elf. You’re going to have to carry her a bit longer, he told Saphira. We can’t take her on the horses and ride fast enough. Flying should be easier for you now that the arrow is out.

Saphira dipped her head. I will do it.

Thank you, said Eragon. He hugged her fiercely. What you did was incredible; I’ll never forget it.

Her eyes softened. I will go now. He backed away as she flew up in a flurry of air, the elf’s hair streaming back. Seconds later they were gone. Eragon hurried to Snowfire, pulled himself into the saddle, and galloped away with Murtagh.

While they rode, Eragon tried to remember what he knew about elves. They had long lives — that fact was oft repeated — although he knew not how long. They spoke the ancient language, and many could use magic. After the Riders’ fall, elves had retreated into seclusion. None of them had been seen in the Empire since. So why is one here now? And how did the Empire manage to capture her? If she can use magic, she’s probably drugged as I was.

They traveled through the night, not stopping even when their flagging strength began to slow them. They continued onward despite burning eyes and clumsy movements. Behind them, lines of torch-bearing horsemen searched around Gil’ead for their trail.

After many bleary hours, dawn lightened the sky. By unspoken consent Eragon and Murtagh stopped the horses. “We have to make camp,” said Eragon wearily. “I must sleep — whether they catch us or not.”

“Agreed,” said Murtagh, rubbing his eyes. “Have Saphira land. We’ll meet her.”

They followed Saphira’s directions and found her drinking from a stream at the base of a small cliff, the elf still slouched on her back. Saphira greeted them with a soft bugle as Eragon dismounted.

Murtagh helped him remove the elf from Saphira’s saddle and lower her to the ground. Then they sagged against the rock face, exhausted. Saphira examined the elf curiously. I wonder why she hasn’t woken. It’s been hours since we left Gil’ead.

Who knows what they did to her? said Eragon grimly.

Murtagh followed their gaze. “As far as I know, she’s the first elf the king has captured. Ever since they went into hiding, he’s been looking for them without success — until now. So he’s either found their sanctuary, or she was captured by chance. I think it was chance. If he had found the elf haven, he would have declared war and sent his army after the elves. Since that hasn’t happened, the question is, Were Galbatorix’s men able to extract the elves’ location before we rescued her?”

“We won’t know until she regains consciousness. Tell me what happened after I was captured. How did I end up in Gil’ead?”

“The Urgals are working for the Empire,” said Murtagh shortly, pushing back his hair. “And, it seems, the Shade as well. Saphira and I saw the Urgals give you to him — though I didn’t know who it was at the time — and a group of soldiers. They were the ones who took you to Gil’ead.”

It’s true, said Saphira, curling up next to them.

Eragon’s mind flashed back to the Urgals he had spoken with at Teirm and the “master” they had mentioned. They meant the king! I insulted the most powerful man in Alagaësia! he realized with dread. Then he remembered the horror of the slaughtered villagers in Yazuac. A sick, angry feeling welled in his stomach. The Urgals were under Galbatorix’s orders! Why would he commit such an atrocity on his own subjects?

Because he is evil, stated Saphira flatly.

Glowering, Eragon exclaimed, “This will mean war! Once the people of the Empire learn of it, they will rebel and support the Varden.”

Murtagh rested his chin in his hand. “Even if they heard of this outrage, few would make it to the Varden. With the Urgals under his command, the king has enough warriors to close the Empire’s borders and remain in control, no matter how disruptive people are. With such a rule of terror, he will be able to shape the Empire however he wants. And though he is hated, people could be galvanized into joining him if they had a common enemy.”

“Who would that be?” asked Eragon, confused.

“The elves and the Varden. With the right rumors they can be portrayed as the most despicable monsters in Alagaësia — fiends who are waiting to seize your land and wealth. The Empire could even say that the Urgals have been misunderstood all this time and that they are really friends and allies against such terrible enemies. I only wonder what the king promised them in return for their services.”

“It wouldn’t work,” said Eragon, shaking his head. “No one could be deceived that easily about Galbatorix and the Urgals. Besides, why would he want to do that? He’s already in power.”

“But his authority is challenged by the Varden, with whom people sympathize. There’s also Surda, which has defied him since it seceded from the Empire. Galbatorix is strong within the Empire, but his arm is weak outside of it. As for people seeing through his deceptions, they’ll believe whatever he wants them to. It’s happened before.” Murtagh fell silent and gazed moodily into the distance.

His words troubled Eragon. Saphira touched him with her mind: Where is Galbatorix sending the Urgals?

What?

In both Carvahall and Teirm, you heard that Urgals were leaving the area and migrating southeast, as if to brave the Hadarac Desert. If the king truly does control them, why is he sending them in that direction? Maybe an Urgal army is being gathered for his private use or an Urgal city is being formed.

Eragon shuddered at the thought. I’m too tired to figure it out. Whatever Galbatorix’s plans, they’ll only cause us trouble. I just wish that we knew where the Varden are. That’s where we should be going, but we’re lost without Dormnad. It doesn’t matter what we do; the Empire will find us.

Don’t give up, she said encouragingly, then added dryly, though you’re probably right.

Thanks. He looked at Murtagh. “You risked your life to rescue me; I owe you for that. I couldn’t have escaped on my own.” It was more than that, though. There was a bond between them now, welded in the brotherhood of battle and tempered by the loyalty Murtagh had shown.

“I’m just glad I could help. It...” Murtagh faltered and rubbed his face. “My main worry now is how we’re going to travel with so many men searching for us. Gil’ead’s soldiers will be hunting us tomorrow; once they find the horses’ tracks, they’ll know you didn’t fly away with Saphira.”

Eragon glumly agreed. “How did you manage to get into the castle?”

Murtagh laughed softly. “By paying a steep bribe and crawling through a filthy scullery chute. But the plan wouldn’t have worked without Saphira. She,” he stopped and directed his words at her, “that is, you, are the only reason we escaped alive.”

Eragon solemnly put a hand on her scaly neck. As she hummed contentedly, he gazed at the elf’s face, captivated. Reluctantly, he dragged himself upright. “We should make a bed for her.”

Murtagh got to his feet and stretched out a blanket for the elf. When they lifted her onto it, the cuff of her sleeve tore on a branch. Eragon began to pinch the fabric together, then gasped.

The elf’s arm was mottled with a layer of bruises and cuts; some were half healed, while others were fresh and oozing. Eragon shook his head with anger and pulled the sleeve up higher. The injuries continued to her shoulder. With trembling fingers, he unlaced the back of her shirt, dreading what might be under it.

As the leather slipped off, Murtagh cursed. The elf’s back was strong and muscled, but it was covered with scabs that made her skin look like dry, cracked mud. She had been whipped mercilessly and branded with hot irons in the shape of claws. Where her skin was still intact, it was purple and black from numerous beatings. On her left shoulder was a tattoo inscribed with indigo ink. It was the same symbol that had been on the sapphire of Brom’s ring. Eragon silently swore an oath that he would kill whoever was responsible for torturing the elf.

“Can you heal this?” asked Murtagh.

“I–I don’t know,” said Eragon. He swallowed back sudden queasiness. “There’s so much.”

Eragon! said Saphira sharply. This is an elf. She cannot be allowed to die. Tired or not, hungry or not, you must save her. I will meld my strength with yours, but you are the one who must wield the magic.

Yes... you are right, he murmured, unable to tear his eyes from the elf. Determined, he pulled off his gloves and said to Murtagh, “This is going to take some time. Can you get me food? Also, boil rags for bandages; I can’t heal all her wounds.”

“We can’t make a fire without being seen,” objected Murtagh. “You’ll have to use unwashed cloths, and the food will be cold.” Eragon grimaced but acquiesced. As he gently laid a hand on the elf’s spine, Saphira settled next to him, her glittering eyes fixed on the elf. He took a deep breath, then reached for the magic and started working.

He spoke the ancient words, “Waíse heill!” A burn shimmered under his palm, and new, unmarked skin flowed over it, joining together without a scar. He passed over bruises or other wounds that were not life-threatening — healing them all would consume the energy he needed for more serious injuries. As Eragon toiled, he marveled that the elf was still alive. She had been repeatedly tortured to the edge of death with a precision that chilled him.

Although he tried to preserve the elf’s modesty, he could not help but notice that underneath the disfiguring marks, her body was exceptionally beautiful. He was exhausted and did not dwell upon it — though his ears turned red at times, and he fervently hoped that Saphira did not know what he was thinking.

He labored through dawn, pausing only at brief intervals to eat and drink, trying to replenish himself from his fast, the escape, and now healing the elf. Saphira remained by his side, lending her strength where she could. The sun was well into the sky when he finally stood, groaning as his cramped muscles stretched. His hands were gray and his eyes felt dry and gritty. He stumbled to the saddlebags and took a long drink from the wineskin. “Is it done?” asked Murtagh.

Eragon nodded, trembling. He did not trust himself to speak. The camp spun before him; he nearly fainted. You did well, said Saphira soothingly.

“Will she live?”

“I don’t — don’t know,” he said in a ravaged voice. “Elves are strong, but even they cannot endure abuse like this with impunity. If I knew more about healing, I might be able to revive her, but...” He gestured helplessly. His hand was shaking so badly he spilled some of the wine. Another swig helped to steady him. “We’d better start riding again.”

“No! You must sleep,” protested Murtagh.

“I... can sleep in the saddle. But we can’t afford to stay here, not with the soldiers closing on us.”

Murtagh reluctantly gave in. “In that case I’ll lead Snowfire while you rest.” They resaddled the horses, strapped the elf onto Saphira, and departed the camp. Eragon ate while he rode, trying to replace his depleted energy before he leaned forward against Snowfire and closed his eyes.