Inheritance

MOONEATER

Eragon rolled his shoulders as he walked through the Varden’s camp, trying to work out the kink in his neck that he had acquired while sparring with Arya and Blodhgarm earlier that afternoon.

As he topped a small hill, which stood like a lone island amid the sea of tents, he rested his hands on his hips and paused to take in the view. Before him lay the dark spread of Leona Lake, gleaming in the twilight as the crests of the shallow waves reflected the orange torchlight from the camp. The road the Varden had been following lay between the tents and the shore: a broad strip of paving stones set with mortar that had been constructed, or so Jeod had informed him, long before Galbatorix had overthrown the Riders. A quarter mile to the north, a small, squat fishing village sat close against the water; Eragon knew its inhabitants were far from happy that an army was camped on their doorstep.

You must learn … to see what you are looking at.

Since leaving Belatona, Eragon had spent hours pondering Glaedr’s advice. He was not certain exactly what the dragon had meant by it, as Glaedr had refused to say anything more after delivering his enigmatic statement, so Eragon had chosen to interpret his instruction literally. He had striven to truly see everything before him, no matter how small or apparently insignificant, and to understand the meaning of that which he beheld.

Try though he might, he felt as if he failed miserably. Wherever he looked, he saw an overwhelming amount of detail, but he was convinced there was even more that he was not perceptive enough to notice. Worse, he was rarely able to make sense of what he wasaware of, like why there was no smoke rising from three of the chimneys in the fishing village.

Despite his sense of futility, the effort had proved helpful in at least one regard: Arya no longer defeated him every time they crossed blades. He had watched her with redoubled attention-studying her as closely as a deer he was stalking-and as a result, he had won a few of their matches. However, he still was not her equal, much less her better. And he did not know what he needed to learn-nor who could teach him-in order to become as skilled with a blade as she was.

Perhaps Arya is right, and experience is the only mentor that can help me now, Eragon thought. Experience requires time, though, and time is what I have the least of. We’ll be at Dras-Leona soon, and then Uru’baen. A few months, at the most, and we’ll have to face Galbatorix and Shruikan.

He sighed and rubbed his face, trying to turn his mind in other, less troubling directions. Always he returned to the same set of doubts, worrying at them like a dog with a marrow bone, only with nothing to show for it other than a constant and increasing sense of anxiety.

Lost in rumination, he continued down the hill. He wandered among the shadowy tents, heading generally toward his own, but paying little attention to his exact path. As it invariably did, walking helped calm him. The men who were still about moved aside for him when they met and clapped a fist against their chests, usually accompanied by a soft greeting of “Shadeslayer,” to which Eragon responded with a polite nod.

He had been walking for a quarter hour, stopping and starting in counterpoint to his thoughts, when the high-pitched tone of a woman describing something with great enthusiasm interrupted his reverie. Curious, he followed the sound until he arrived at a tent set apart from the rest, near the base of a gnarled willow tree, the only tree near the lake that the army had not chopped down for firewood.

There, under the ceiling of branches, was the strangest sight he had ever seen.

Twelve Urgals, including their war chief, Nar Garzhvog, sat in a semicircle around a low, flickering campfire. Fearsome shadows danced on their faces, emphasizing their heavy brows, broad cheekbones, and massive jaws, as well as the ridges on their horns, which sprouted from their foreheads and curved back and around the sides of their heads. The Urgals were bare-armed and bare-chested, except for the leather cuffs on their wrists and the woven straps they wore slung from shoulder to waist. In addition to Garzhvog, three other Kull were present. Their hulking size made the rest of the Urgals-not one of whom was under six feet tall-appear childishly small.

Scattered among the Urgals-among and on them-were several dozen werecats in their animal forms. Many of the cats sat upright before the fire, utterly still, not even moving their tails, their tufted ears pricked forward attentively. Others lay sprawled on the ground, or on the Urgals’ laps, or in their arms. To Eragon’s astonishment, he even spotted one werecat-a slim white female-resting curled atop the broad head of a Kull, her right foreleg draped over the edge of his skull and her paw pressed possessively against the middle of his brow. Tiny though the werecats were compared to the Urgals, they looked equally savage, and Eragon had no doubt whom he would rather face in battle; Urgals he understood, whereas werecats were … unpredictable.

On the other side of the fire, in front of the tent, was the herbalist Angela. She was sitting cross-legged on a folded blanket, spinning a pile of carded wool into fine thread using a drop spindle, which she held out before her as if to entrance those who were watching. Both werecats and Urgals stared at her intently, their eyes never leaving her as she said:

“-but he was too slow, and the raging, red-eyed rabbit ripped out Hord’s throat, killing him instantly. Then the hare fled into the forest, and out of recorded history. However”-and here Angela leaned forward and lowered her voice-“if you travel through those parts, as I have … sometimes, even to this day, you will come across a freshly killed deer or Feldunost that looks as if it has been nibbled at, like a turnip. And all around it, you’ll see the prints of an unusually large rabbit. Every now and then, a warrior from Kvoth will go missing, only to be found lying dead with his throat torn out … always with his throat torn out.”

She resumed her former position. “Terrin was horribly upset by the loss of his friend, of course, and he wanted to chase after the hare, but the dwarves still needed his help. So he returned to the stronghold, and for three more days and three more nights the defenders held the walls, until their supplies were low and every warrior was covered in wounds.

“At last, on the morning of the fourth day, when all seemed hopeless, the clouds parted, and far in the distance, Terrin was amazed to see Mimring flying toward the stronghold at the head of a huge thunder of dragons. The sight of the dragons frightened the attackers so much, they threw down their weapons and fled into the wilderness.” Angela’s mouth quirked. “This, as you can imagine, made the dwarves of Kvoth rather happy, and there was much rejoicing.

“And when Mimring landed, Terrin saw, much to his surprise, that his scales had become as clear as diamonds, which, it is said, happened because Mimring flew so close to the sun-for in order to fetch the other dragons in time, he had had to fly over the peaks of the Beor Mountains, higher than any dragon has ever flown before or since. From then on, Terrin was known as the hero of the Siege of Kvoth, and his dragon was known as Mimring the Brilliant, on account of his scales, and they lived happily ever after. Although, if truth be told, Terrin always remained rather afraid of rabbits, even into his old age. And that is what really happened at Kvoth.”

As she fell silent, the werecats began to purr, and the Urgals uttered several low grunts of approval.

“You tell a good story, Uluthrek,” Garzhvog said, his voice sounding like the rumble of falling rock.

“Thank you.”

“But not as I have heard it told,” Eragon commented as he stepped into the light.

Angela’s expression brightened. “Well, you can hardly expect the dwarves to admit they were at the mercy of a rabbit. Have you been lurking in the shadows this whole time?”

“Only for a minute,” he confessed.

“Then you missed the best part of the story, and I’m not about to repeat myself tonight. My throat is too dry now for talking at length.”

Eragon felt the vibration through the soles of his boots as the Kull and the other Urgals got to their feet, much to the displeasure of the werecats resting on them, several of whom uttered yowls of protest as they dropped to the ground.

As he gazed at the collection of grotesque horned faces gathered around the fire, Eragon had to suppress the urge to grasp the hilt of his sword. Even after having fought, traveled, and hunted alongside the Urgals, and even after having sifted through the thoughts of several of them, being in their presence still gave him pause. He knew in his mind that they were allies, but his bones and his muscles could not forget the visceral terror that had gripped him during the numerous occasions when he had confronted their kind in battle.

Garzhvog removed something from the leather pouch he wore on his belt. Extending his thick arm over the fire, he handed it to Angela, who set down her spinning to accept the object with cupped hands. It was a rough orb of sea-green crystal, which twinkled like crusted snow. She slipped it inside the sleeve of her garment, then picked up her drop spindle.

Garzhvog said, “You must come to our camp sometime, Uluthrek, and we will tell you many stories of our own. We have a chanter with us. He is good; when you listen to him recite the tale of Nar Tulkhqa’s victory at Stavarosk, your blood grows hot and you feel like bellowing at the moon and locking horns with even the strongest of your foes.”

“That would depend on whether you have horns to lock,” said Angela. “I would be honored to sit story with you. Perhaps tomorrow evening?”

The giant Kull agreed; then Eragon asked, “Where is Stavarosk? I’ve not heard of it before.”

The Urgals shifted uneasily, and Garzhvog lowered his head and snorted like a bull. “What trickery is this, Firesword?” he demanded. “Do you seek to challenge me by insulting us so?” He opened and closed his hands with unmistakable menace.

Wary, Eragon said, “I meant no harm, Nar Garzhvog. It was an honest question; I’ve never heard the name of Stavarosk before.”

A murmur of surprise spread among the Urgals. “How can this be?” said Garzhvog. “Do not all humans know of Stavarosk? Is it not sung of in every hall from the northern wastes to the Beor Mountains as our greatest triumph? Surely, if nowhere else, the Varden must speak of it.”

Angela sighed and, without looking up from her spinning, said, “You’d best tell them.”

In the back of his mind, Eragon felt Saphira watching their exchange, and he knew that she was readying herself to fly from their tent to his side if a fight became unavoidable.

Choosing his words with care, he said: “No one has mentioned it to me, but then I have not been with the Varden for very long, and-”

“Drajl!” swore Garzhvog. “The lack-horned betrayer does not even have the courage to admit his own defeat. He is a coward and liar!”

“Who? Galbatorix?” Eragon asked cautiously.

A number of the werecats hissed at the mention of the king.

Garzhvog nodded. “Aye. When he came to power, he sought to destroy our race forever. He sent a vast army into the Spine. His soldiers crushed our villages, burned our bones, and left the earth black and bitter behind them. We fought-at first with joy, then with despair, but still we fought. It was the only thing we could do. There was nowhere for us to run, nowhere to hide. Who would protect the Urgralgra when even the Riders had been brought to their knees?

“We were lucky, though. We had a great war chief to lead us, Nar Tulkhqa. He had once been captured by humans, and he had spent many years fighting them, so he knew how you think. Because of that, he was able to rally many of our tribes under his banner. Then he lured Galbatorix’s army into a narrow passage deep within the mountains, and our rams fell upon them from either side. It was a slaughter, Firesword. The ground was wet with blood, and the piles of bodies stood higher than my head. Even to this day, if you go to Stavarosk, you will feel the bones cracking under your feet, and you will find coins and swords and pieces of armor under every patch of moss.”

“So it was you!” Eragon exclaimed. “All my life I’ve heard it said that Galbatorix once lost half his men in the Spine, but no one could tell me how or why.”

“More than half his men, Firesword.” Garzhvog rolled his shoulders and made a guttural noise in the back of his throat. “And now I see we must work to spread word of it if any are to know of our victory. We will track down your chanters, your bards, and we will teach them the songs concerning Nar Tulkhqa, and we will make sure that they remember to recite them often and loudly.” He nodded once, as if his mind was made up-an impressive gesture considering the ponderous size of his head-then said, “Farewell, Firesword. Farewell, Uluthrek.” Then he and his warriors lumbered off into the darkness.

Angela chuckled, startling Eragon.

“What?” he asked, turning to her.

She smiled. “I’m imagining the expression some poor lute player is going to have in a few minutes when he looks out his tent and sees twelve Urgals, four of them Kull, standing outside, eager to give him an education in Urgal culture. I’ll be impressed if we don’t hear him scream.” She chuckled again.

Similarly amused, Eragon lowered himself to the ground and stirred the coals with the end of a branch. A warm, heavy weight settled in his lap, and he looked down to see the white werecat curled up on his legs. He raised a hand to pet her, then thought better of it and asked the cat, “May I?”

The werecat flicked her tail but otherwise ignored him.

Hoping that he was not doing the wrong thing, Eragon tentatively began to rub the creature’s neck. A moment later, a loud, throbbing purr filled the night air.

“She likes you,” Angela observed.

For some reason, Eragon felt inordinately pleased. “Who is she? I mean, that is, who are you? What is your name?” He cast a quick glance at the werecat, worried that he had offended her.

Angela laughed quietly. “Her name is Shadowhunter. Or rather, that is what her name means in the language of the werecats. Properly, she is …” Here the herbalist uttered a strange coughing, growling sound that made the nape of Eragon’s neck crawl. “Shadowhunter is mated to Grimrr Halfpaw, so one might say that she is queen of the werecats.”

The purring increased in volume.

“I see.” Eragon looked around at the other werecats. “Where is Solembum?”

“Busy chasing a long-whiskered female who is half his age. He’s acting as foolish as a kitten … but then, everyone’s entitled to a little foolishness once in a while.” Catching the spindle with her left hand, she stopped its motion and wound the newly formed thread around the base of the wooden disk. Then she gave the spindle a twist to start it spinning again and resumed drafting from the batt of wool in her other hand. “You look as if you are full to bursting with questions, Shadeslayer.”

“Whenever I meet you, I always end up feeling more confused than before.”

“Always? That’s rather absolutist of you. Very well, I will attempt to be informative. Ask away.”

Skeptical of her apparent openness, Eragon considered what he would like to know. Finally: “A thunder of dragons? What did you-”

“That is the proper term for a flock of dragons. If ever you had heard one in full flight, you would understand. When ten, twelve, or more dragons flew past overhead, the very air would reverberate around you, as if you were sitting inside a giant drum. Besides, what else could you call a group of dragons? You have your murder of ravens, your convocation of eagles, your gaggle of geese, your raft of ducks, your band of jays, your parliament of owls, and so on, but what about dragons? A hunger of dragons? That doesn’t sound quite right. Nor does referring to them as a blaze or a terror, although I’m rather fond of terror, all things considered: a terror of dragons.… But no, a flock of dragons is called a thunder. Which you would know if your education had consisted of more than just learning how to swing a sword and conjugate a few verbs in the ancient language.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” he said, humoring her. Through his ever-present link with Saphira, he sensed her approval of the phrase “a thunder of dragons,” an opinion he shared; it was a fitting description.

He thought for a moment longer, then asked, “And why did Garzhvog call you Uluthrek?”

“It is the title the Urgals gave me long, long ago, when I traveled among them.”

“What does it mean?”

“Mooneater.”

“Mooneater? What a strange name. How did you come by it?”

“I ate the moon, of course. How else?”

Eragon frowned and concentrated on petting the werecat for a minute. Then: “Why did Garzhvog give you that stone?”

“Because I told him a story. I thought that was obvious.”

“But what is it?”

“A piece of rock. Didn’t you notice?” She clucked with disapproval. “Really, you ought to pay better attention to what’s going on around you. Otherwise, someone’s liable to stick a knife in you when you’re not looking. And then whom would I exchange cryptic remarks with?” She tossed her hair. “Go on, ask me another question. I’m rather enjoying this game.”

He cocked an eyebrow at her and, although he was certain it was pointless, he said, “Cheep cheep?”

The herbalist brayed with laughter, and some of the werecats opened their mouths in what appeared to be toothy smiles. However, Shadowhunter seemed displeased, for she dug her claws into Eragon’s legs, making him wince.

“Well,” said Angela, still laughing, “if you must have answers, that’s as good a story as any. Let’s see.… Several years ago, when I was traveling along the edge of Du Weldenvarden, way out to the west, miles and miles from any city, town, or village, I happened upon Grimrr. At the time, he was only the leader of a small tribe of werecats, and he still had full use of both his paws. Anyway, I found him toying with a fledgling robin that had fallen out of its nest in a nearby tree. I wouldn’t have minded if he had just killed the bird and eaten it-that’s what cats are supposed to do, after all-but he was torturing the poor thing: pulling on its wings; nibbling its tail; letting it hop away, then knocking it over.” Angela wrinkled her nose with distaste. “I told him that he ought to stop, but he only growled and ignored me.” She fixed Eragon with a stern gaze. “I don’t like it when people ignore me. So, I took the bird away from him, and I wiggled my fingers and cast a spell, and for the next week, whenever he opened his mouth, he chirped like a songbird.”

“He chirped?”

Angela nodded, beaming with suppressed mirth. “I’ve never laughed so hard in my life. None of the other werecats would go anywhere near him for the whole week.”

“No wonder he hates you.”

“What of it? If you don’t make a few enemies every now and then, you’re a coward-or worse. Besides, it was worth it to see his reaction. Oh, he was angry!”

Shadowhunter uttered a soft warning growl and tightened her claws again.

Grimacing, Eragon said, “Maybe it would be best to change the subject?”

“Mmm.”

Before he could suggest a new topic, a loud scream rang out from somewhere in the middle of the camp. The cry echoed three times over the rows of tents before fading into silence.

Eragon looked at Angela, and she at him, and then they both began to laugh.