Eldest

EXODUS

A wall of thick, smoky air engulfed Roran as he entered the Seven Sheaves, Morn’s tavern. He stopped beneath the Urgal horns pegged over the door and let his eyes adjust to the dim interior. “Hello?” he called.

The door to the back rooms banged open as Tara plowed forward, trailed by Morn. They both glared sullenly at Roran. Tara planted her meaty fists on her hips and demanded, “What do you want here?”

Roran stared at her for a moment, trying to determine the source of her animosity. “Have you decided whether to accompany me into the Spine?”

“That’s none of your business,” snapped Tara.

Oh yes, it is. He restrained himself, though, and instead said, “Whatever your intentions are, if you were to go, Elain would like to know if you have room in your bags for a few more items, or if you need extra room yourself. She has—”

“Extra room!” burst out Morn. He waved at the wall behind the bar, which was lined with oak casks. “I have, packed in straw, twelve barrels of the clearest winter ale, which have been kept at the perfect temperature for the past five months. They were Quimby’s last batch! What am I supposed to do with them? Or my hogsheads of lager and stout? If I leave them, the soldiers will dispose of it in a week, or they’ll spike the barrels and pour the beer into the ground, where the only creatures who’ll enjoy it will be grubs and worms. Oh!” Morn sat and wrung his hands, shaking his head. “Twelve years of work! Ever since Father died I ran the tavern the same way he did, day in and day out. And then you and Eragon had to cause this trouble. It …” He stopped, breathing with difficulty, and wiped his mashed face with the edge of his sleeve.

“There, there now,” said Tara. She put her arm around Morn and jabbed a finger at Roran. “Who gave you leave to stir up Carvahall with your fancy words? If we go, how will my poor husband make a living? He can’t take his trade with him like Horst or Gedric. He can’t squat in an empty field and farm it like you! Impossible! Everyone will go and we will starve. Or we will go and we will still starve. You have ruined us!”

Roran looked from her flushed, angry face to Morn’s distraught one, then turned and opened the door. He paused on the threshold and said in a low voice, “I have always counted you among my friends. I would not have you killed by the Empire.” Stepping outside, he pulled his vest tight around himself and paced away from the tavern, ruminating the whole way.

At Fisk’s well, he stopped for a drink and found himself joined by Birgit. She watched him struggle to turn the crank with only one hand, then took it from him and brought up the water bucket, which she passed to him without drinking. He sipped the cool liquid, then said, “I’m glad that you are coming.” He handed the bucket back.

Birgit eyed him. “I recognize the force that drives you, Roran, for it propels me as well; we both wish to find the Ra’zac. Once we do, though, I will have my compensation from you for Quimby’s death. Never forget that.” She pushed the full bucket back into the well and let it fall unchecked, the crank spinning wildly. A second later, the well echoed with a hollow splash.

Roran smiled as he watched her walk away. He was more pleased than upset by her declaration; he knew that even if everyone else in Carvahall were to forsake the cause or die, Birgit would still help him to hunt the Ra’zac. Afterward, though—if an afterward existed—he would have to pay her price or kill her. That was the only way to resolve such matters.

By evening Horst and his sons had returned to the house, bearing two small bundles wrapped in oilcloth. “Is that all?” asked Elain. Horst nodded curtly, lay the bundles on the kitchen table, and unwrapped them to expose four hammers, three tongs, a clamp, a medium-sized bellows, and a three-pound anvil.

As the five of them sat to dinner, Albriech and Baldor discussed the various people they had seen making covert preparations. Roran listened intently, trying to keep track of who had lent donkeys to whom, who showed no signs of departing, and who might need help to leave.

“The biggest problem,” said Baldor, “is food. We can only carry so much, and it’ll be difficult to hunt enough in the Spine to feed two or three hundred people.”

“Mmm.” Horst shook his finger, his mouth full of beans, then swallowed. “No, hunting won’t work. We have to bring our flocks with us. Combined, we own enough sheep and goats to feed the lot of us for a month or more.”

Roran raised his knife. “Wolves.”

“I’m more worried about keeping the animals from wandering off into the forest,” replied Horst. “Herding them will be a chore.”

Roran spent the following day assisting whomever he could, saying little, and generally allowing people to see him working for the good of the village. Late that night, he tumbled into bed exhausted but hopeful.

The advent of dawn pierced Roran’s dreams and woke him with a sense of momentous expectation. He stood and tiptoed downstairs, then went outside and stared at the misty mountains, absorbed by the morning’s silence. His breath formed a white plume in the air, but he felt warm, for his heart throbbed with fear and eagerness.

After a subdued breakfast, Horst brought the horses to the front of the house, where Roran helped Albriech and Baldor load them with saddlebags and other bundles of supplies. Next Roran took up his own pack, hissing as the leather shoulder strap pressed down on his injury.

Horst closed the door to the house. He lingered for a moment with his fingers on the steel doorknob, then took Elain’s hand and said, “Let’s go.”

As they walked through Carvahall, Roran saw somber families gathering by their houses with their piles of possessions and yammering livestock. He saw sheep and dogs with bags tied on their backs, teary-eyed children on donkeys, and makeshift sledges hitched to horses with crates of fluttering chickens hung on each side. He saw the fruits of his success, and he knew not whether to laugh or to cry.

They stopped at Carvahall’s north end and waited to see who would join them. A minute passed, then Birgit approached from the side, accompanied by Nolfavrell and his younger siblings. Birgit greeted Horst and Elain and stationed herself nearby.

Ridley and his family arrived outside the wall of trees, driving over a hundred sheep from the east side of Palancar Valley. “I figured that it would be better to keep them out of Carvahall,” shouted Ridley over the animals.

“Good thinking!” replied Horst.

Next came Delwin, Lenna, and their five children; Orval and his family; Loring with his sons; Calitha and Thane—who gave Roran a large smile; and then Kiselt’s clan. Those women who had been recently widowed, like Nolla, clustered around Birgit. Before the sun had cleared the mountain peaks, most of the village had assembled along the wall. But not all.

Morn, Tara, and several others had yet to show themselves, and when Ivor arrived, it was without any supplies. “You’re staying,” observed Roran. He sidestepped a knot of testy goats that Gertrude was attempting to restrain.

“Aye,” said Ivor, drawing out the word into a weary admission. He shivered, crossed his bony arms for warmth, and faced the rising sun, lifting his head so as to catch the transparent rays. “Svart refused to leave. Heh! It was like carving against the grain to get him into the Spine in the first place. Someone has to look after him, an’ I don’t have any children, so …” He shrugged. “Doubt I could give up the farm anyway.”

“What will you do when the soldiers arrive?”

“Give them a fight that they’ll remember.”

Roran laughed hoarsely and clapped Ivor on the arm, doing his best to ignore the unspoken fate that they both knew awaited anyone who remained.

A thin, middle-aged man, Ethlbert, marched to the edge of the congregation and shouted, “You’re all fools!” With an ominous rustle, people turned to look at their accuser. “I’ve held my peace through this madness, but I’ll not follow a nattering lunatic! If you weren’t blinded by his words, you’d see that he’s leading you to destruction! Well, I won’t go! I’ll take my chances sneaking past the soldiers and finding refuge in Therinsford. They’re our own people at least, not the barbarians you’ll find in Surda.” He spat on the ground, then spun on his heel and stomped away.

Afraid that Ethlbert might convince others to defect, Roran scanned the crowd and was relieved to see nothing more than restless muttering. Still, he did not want to dawdle and give people a chance to change their minds. He asked Horst under his breath, “How long should we wait?”

“Albriech, you and Baldor run around as fast as you can and check if anyone else is coming. Otherwise, we’ll leave.” The brothers dashed off in opposite directions.

Half an hour later, Baldor returned with Fisk, Isold, and their borrowed horse. Leaving her husband, Isold hurried toward Horst, shooing her hands at anyone who got in her way, oblivious to the fact that most of her hair had escaped imprisonment in its bun and stuck out in odd tufts. She stopped, wheezing for breath. “I am sorry we’re so late, but Fisk had trouble closing up the shop. He couldn’t pick which planers or chisels to bring.” She laughed in a shrill tone, almost hysterical. “It was like watching a cat surrounded by mice trying to decide which one to chase. First this one, then that one.”

A wry smile tugged at Horst’s lips. “I understand perfectly.”

Roran strained for a glimpse of Albriech, but to no avail. He gritted his teeth. “Where is he?”

Horst tapped his shoulder. “Right over there, I do believe.”

Albriech advanced between the houses with three beer casks tied to his back and an aggrieved look that was comic enough to make Baldor and several others laugh. On either side of Albriech walked Morn and Tara, who staggered under the weight of their enormous packs, as did the donkey and two goats that they towed behind them. To Roran’s astonishment, the animals were burdened with even more casks.

“They won’t last a mile,” said Roran, growing angry at the couple’s foolishness. “And they don’t have enough food. Do they expect us to feed them or—”

With a chuckle, Horst cut him off. “I wouldn’t worry about the food. Morn’s beer will be good for morale, and that’s worth more than a few extra meals. You’ll see.”

As soon as Albriech had freed himself of the casks, Roran asked him and his brother, “Is that everyone?” When they answered in the affirmative, Roran swore and struck his thigh with a clenched fist. Excluding Ivor, three families were determined to remain in Palancar Valley: Ethlbert’s, Parr’s, and Knute’s. I can’t force them to come. He sighed. “All right. There’s no sense in waiting longer.”

Excitement rippled through the villagers; the moment had finally arrived. Horst and five other men pulled open the wall of trees, then laid planks across the trench so that the people and animals could walk over.

Horst gestured. “I think that you should go first, Roran.”

“Wait!” Fisk ran up and, with evident pride, handed Roran a blackened six-foot-long staff of hawthorn wood with a knot of polished roots at the top, and a blued-steel ferrule that tapered into a blunt spike at the base. “I made it last night,” said the carpenter. “I thought that you might have need of it.”

Roran ran his left hand over the wood, marveling at its smoothness. “I couldn’t have asked for anything better. Your skill is masterful.… Thank you.” Fisk grinned and backed away.

Conscious of the fact that the entire crowd was watching, Roran faced the mountains and the Igualda Falls. His shoulder throbbed beneath the leather strap. Behind him lay his father’s bones and everything he had known in life. Before him the jagged peaks piled high into the pale sky and blocked his way and his will. But he would not be denied. And he would not look back.

Katrina.

Lifting his chin, Roran strode forward. His staff knocked against the hard planks as he crossed the trench and passed out of Carvahall, leading the villagers into the wilderness.