Inheritance

NO REST FOR THE WEARY

Two dwarves, two men, and two Urgals-members of Nasuada’s personal guard, the Nighthawks-were stationed outside the room in the castle where Nasuada had set up her headquarters.

They stared at Roran with flat, empty eyes. He kept his face equally as blank as he stared back.

It was a game they had played before.

Despite the Nighthawks’ lack of expression, he knew they were busy figuring out the fastest and most efficient ways to kill him. He knew, because he was doing the same with regard to them, as he always did.

I’d have to backtrack as fast as I could … spread them out a bit, he decided. The men would get to me first; they’re faster than the dwarves, and they’d slow the Urgals behind them.… Have to get those halberds away from them. It’d be tricky, but I think I could-one of them, at least. Might have to throw my hammer. Once I had a halberd, I could keep the rest at a distance. The dwarves wouldn’t stand much of a chance, then, but the Urgals would be trouble. Ugly brutes, those.… If I used that pillar as cover, I could-

The ironbound door that stood between the two lines of guards creaked as it swung open. A brightly dressed page of ten or twelve stepped out and announced, louder than was necessary, “Lady Nasuada will see you now!”

Several of the guards twitched, distracted, and their stares wavered for a second. Roran smiled as he swept past them and into the room beyond, knowing that their lapse, slight as it was, would have allowed him to kill at least two before they could have retaliated. Until next time, he thought.

The room was large, rectangular, and sparsely decorated: a too-small rug lay on the floor; a narrow, moth-eaten tapestry hung from the wall to his left; and a single lancet window pierced the wall to his right. Other than that, the room was devoid of ornamentation. Shoved into one corner was a long wooden table piled high with books, scrolls, and loose sheets of paper. A few massive chairs-upholstered with leather fastened with rows of tarnished brass tacks-stood scattered about the table, but neither Nasuada nor the dozen people who bustled around her deigned to use them. Jormundur was not there, but Roran was familiar with several of the other warriors present: some he had fought under, others he had seen in action during battle or heard tell of from the men in his company.

“-and I don’t care if it does give him a ‘pain in his goiter’!” she exclaimed, and brought her right hand down flat on the table with a loud slap. “If we don’t have those horseshoes, and more besides, we might as well eat our horses for all the good they’ll do us. Do I make myself understood?”

As one, the men she addressed answered in the affirmative. They sounded somewhat intimidated, even abashed. Roran found it both strange and impressive that Nasuada, a woman, was able to command such respect from her warriors, a respect that he shared. She was one of the most determined and intelligent people he had ever known, and he was convinced that she would have succeeded no matter where she had been born.

“Now go,” said Nasuada, and as eight men filed past her, she motioned Roran to the table. He waited patiently as she dipped a quill in an inkpot and scribbled several lines onto a small scroll, then handed it to one of the pages and said, “For the dwarf Narheim. And this time, make sure you get his reply before you return, or I’ll send you over to the Urgals to fetch and clean for them.”

“Yes, my Lady!” said the boy, and sprinted off, half frightened out of his wits.

Nasuada began to leaf through a stack of papers in front of her. Without looking up, she said, “Are you well rested, Roran?”

He wondered why she was interested. “Not particularly.”

“That’s unfortunate. Were you up all night?”

“Part of it. Elain, the wife of our smith, gave birth yesterday, but-”

“Yes, I was informed. I take it that you didn’t stand vigil until Eragon healed the child?”

“No, I was too tired.”

“At least you had that much sense.” Reaching across the table, she picked up another sheet of paper and scrutinized it before adding it to her pile. In the same matter-of-fact tone she had been using, she said, “I have a mission for you, Stronghammer. Our forces at Aroughs have encountered stiff resistance-more than we anticipated. Captain Brigman has failed to resolve the situation, and we need those men back now. Therefore, I am sending you to Aroughs to replace Brigman. A horse is waiting for you by the south gate. You will ride fast as you can to Feinster, then from Feinster to Aroughs. Fresh horses will be waiting for you every ten miles between here and Feinster. Past there, you will have to find replacements on your own. I expect you to reach Aroughs within four days. Once you have caught up on your rest, that will leave you approximately … three days to end the siege.” She glanced up at him. “A week from today, I want our banner flying over Aroughs. I don’t care how you do it, Stronghammer; I just want it done. If you can’t, then I’ll have no choice but to send Eragon and Saphira to Aroughs, which will leave us barely able to defend ourselves should Murtagh or Galbatorix attack.”

And then Katrina would be in danger, thought Roran. An unpleasant feeling settled in his gut. Riding to Aroughs in only four days would be a miserable ordeal, especially given how sore and bruised he was. Having to also capture the city in so little time would be compounding misery with madness. All in all, the mission was about as appealing as wrestling a bear with his hands tied behind his back.

He scratched his cheek through his beard. “I don’t have any experience with sieges,” he said. “Leastways, not like this. There must be someone else in the Varden who would be better suited to the task. What about Martland Redbeard?”

Nasuada made a dismissive motion. “He can’t ride at full gallop with only one hand. You should have more confidence in yourself, Stronghammer. There are others among the Varden who know more about the arts of war, it’s true-men who have been in the field longer, men who received instruction from the finest warriors of their father’s generation-but when swords are drawn and battle is joined, it’s not knowledge or experience that matters most, it’s whether you can win, and that’s a trick you seem to have mastered. What’s more, you’re lucky.”

She put down the topmost papers and leaned on her arms. “You’ve proven that you can fight. You’ve proven that you can follow orders … when it pleases you, that is.” He resisted the urge to hunch his shoulders as he remembered the bitter, white-hot bite of the whip cutting into his back after he had been disciplined for defying Captain Edric’s orders. “You’ve proven that you can lead a raiding party. So, Roran Stronghammer, let us see if you are capable of something more, shall we?”

He swallowed. “Yes, my Lady.”

“Good. I am promoting you to captain for the time being. If you succeed in Aroughs, you may consider the title permanent, at least until you demonstrate that you are deserving of either greater or lesser honors.” Returning her gaze to the table, she began to sort through a morass of scrolls, evidently searching for something hidden underneath.

“Thank you.”

Nasuada responded with a faint, noncommittal sound.

“How many men will I have under my command at Aroughs?” he asked.

“I gave Brigman a thousand warriors to capture the city. Of those, no more than eight hundred remain who are still fit for duty.”

Roran nearly swore out loud. So few.

As if she had heard him, Nasuada said in a dry voice, “We were led to believe that Aroughs’s defenses would be easier to overwhelm than has been the case.”

“I see. May I take two or three men from Carvahall with me? You said once that you would let us serve together if we-”

“Yes, yes”-she waved a hand-“I know what I said.” She pursed her lips, considering. “Very well, take whomever you want, just so long as you leave within the hour. Let me know how many are going with you, and I’ll see to it that the appropriate number of horses are waiting along the way.”

“May I take Carn?” he asked, naming the magician he had fought alongside on several occasions.

She paused and stared at the wall for a moment, her eyes unfocused. Then, to his relief, she nodded and resumed digging in the jumble of scrolls. “Ah, here we are.” She pulled out a tube of parchment tied with a leather thong. “A map of Aroughs and its environs, as well as a larger map of Fenmark Province. I suggest you study them both most carefully.”

She handed him the tube, which he slipped inside his tunic. “And here,” she said, giving him a rectangle of folded parchment sealed with a blob of red wax, “is your commission, and”-a second rectangle, thicker than the first-“here are your orders. Show them to Brigman, but don’t let him keep them. If I remember correctly, you’ve never learned to read, have you?”

He shrugged. “What for? I can count and figure as well as any man. My father said that teaching us to read made no more sense than teaching a dog to walk on his hind legs: amusing, but hardly worth the effort.”

“And I might agree, had you stayed a farmer. But you didn’t, and you’re not.” She motioned toward the pieces of parchment he held. “For all you know, one of those might be a writ ordering your execution. You are of limited use to me like this, Stronghammer. I cannot send you messages without others having to read them to you, and if you need to report to me, you will have no choice but to trust one of your underlings to record your words accurately. It makes you easy to manipulate. It makes you untrustworthy. If you hope to advance any further in the Varden, I suggest you find someone to teach you. Now begone; there are other matters that demand my attention.”

She snapped her fingers, and one of the pages ran over to her. Placing a hand on the boy’s shoulder, she bent down to his level and said, “I want you to fetch Jormundur directly here. You’ll find him somewhere along the market street, where those three houses-” In the midst of her instructions, she stopped and raised an eyebrow as she noticed that Roran had not budged. “Is there something else, Stronghammer?” she asked.

“Yes. Before I leave, I’d like to see Eragon.”

“And why is that?”

“Most of the wards he gave me before the battle are gone now.”

Nasuada frowned, then said to the page, “On the market street, where those three houses were burned. Do you know the place I mean? Right, off you go, then.” She patted the boy on the back and stood upright as he ran out of the room. “It would be better if you didn’t.”

Her statement confused Roran, but he kept quiet, expecting that she would explain herself. She did, but in a roundabout way: “Did you notice how tired Eragon was during my audience with the werecats?”

“He could barely stay on his feet.”

“Exactly. He’s spread too thin, Roran. He can’t protect you, me, Saphira, Arya, and who knows who else and still do what he has to. He needs to husband his strength for when he will have to fight Murtagh and Galbatorix. And the closer we get to Uru’baen, the more important it is that he be ready to face them at any given moment, night or day. We can’t allow all of these other worries and distractions to weaken him. It was noble of him to heal the child’s cat lip, but his doing so could have cost us the war!

“You fought without the advantage of wards when the Ra’zac attacked your village in the Spine. If you care about your cousin, if you care about defeating Galbatorix, you must learn to fight without them again.”

When she finished, Roran bowed his head. She was right. “I’ll depart at once.”

“I appreciate that.”

“By your leave …”

Turning, Roran strode toward the door. Just as he crossed the threshold, Nasuada called out, “Oh, and Stronghammer?”

He looked back, curious.

“Try not to burn down Aroughs, would you? Cities are rather hard to replace.”