CHAPTER VII
Deadfall
At long last, spring had come to Mount Arngor.
Eragon was outside the main hall, grubbing up roots from several plots of dirt along the edge of the surrounding forest. Once cleared, the plots would be planted with herbs, vegetables, berries, and other useful crops, including cardus weed for the dwarves and humans to smoke and fireweed to help dragons better digest their food.
He’d taken his shirt off and was enjoying the noonday sun on his skin. It was a welcome pleasure amid weather that was still often cold and cloudy. Saphira lounged nearby, basking on a bed of trampled grass. Before he started, she’d raked the plots with her claws to break up the soil, which made the work far easier.
With Eragon were several dwarves: two male, three female, all from Orik’s clan, the Dûrgrimst Ingeitum. As they worked, they laughed and sang in their language, and Eragon sang along with them as best he could. He had been trying to learn something of Dwarvish in his limited spare time. Also the Urgals’ even harsher tongue. As the ancient language had taught him, words were power. Sometimes literally, sometimes figuratively, but either way, Eragon wanted to know and understand everything he could, both for his own benefit and the benefit of those he was now responsible for.
A memory came to him then: He was standing in a small meadow near the outskirts of Ellesméra, surrounded by the pine trees sung into graceful shapes by the elves. A treasure trove of flowers lay before him, growing in flowing patterns within that grassy oasis amid the shadowed forest. Bees hummed among the profusion of blossoms, and butterflies flitted about the clearing, like petals given flight. Beneath him, his shadow was that of a dragon, flecked with the refracted light from his ruddy scales.
And all was right. And all was good.
Eragon shook himself as he returned to the present. Drops of sweat flew from his face. Ever since the Eldunarí had opened their minds and shared their memories with him, he had been experiencing flashes of recollection not his own. The bursts were disorienting, both on account of their unexpectedness and because he had grasped only a small part of the great storehouse of knowledge now packed into his head. To fully master it would be the task of a lifetime.
That was okay. Learning was one of Eragon’s chief pleasures, and he still had so much to learn about history, Alagaësia, the dragons, and life in general.
That particular memory had come from a dragon named Ivarros, who—as Eragon thought back—had lost his body in an unseasonably strong thunderstorm before the fall of the Riders.
The images from outside Ellesméra caused Eragon to pause and remember his own time in the elven city. A slight twinge of heartsickness formed in his chest as he thought of Arya, now queen of her people in the ancient forest of Du Weldenvarden. They had spoken several times through the scrying mirrors he kept in the hold’s eyrie, but both he and she were busy with their duties, and their conversations had been few and far between.
Saphira eyed him from underneath hooded lids. Then she snorted, sending a small puff of smoke rolling across the ground.
Eragon smiled and hoisted his pick overhead again. Life was good. Winter had broken. The main hall was finished, with the roof now sealed. More chambers were nearing completion. Three of the formerly mad Eldunarí had been moved from the caves below into the Hall of Colors, as a direct result of Elva applying her particular talents.
The girl and the herbalist and the werecat had departed two weeks previously. While Eragon was not sorry to see them go—their presence was always somewhat disquieting—he was proud of the time he’d spent with Elva. He had worked with the girl every day since her arrival, training her as Brom and Oromis had trained him. She had also spent long hours with Saphira, Glaedr, and several of the other—sane—dragons. By the time she and Angela departed, Eragon could already see a change in her attitude. Elva had appeared calmer and more relaxed, and some of the sting had dissipated from her responses.
Eragon just hoped the improvements would stick.
When he’d asked where they intended to go, Angela said, “Oh, to some distant shore, I should think. A place nice and isolated, where we don’t have to worry about unwelcome surprises.”
Over the past few months, Eragon had done his best to ferret out more answers from the herbalist—on a range of subjects—but he might as well have tried to cut through a wall of granite with a twig. She deflected and dissembled and otherwise stymied his efforts with perfect success. The one new thing he had learned was the story of how she and Solembum had first met—and that had made for a most entertaining evening indeed.
A strip of pink amid the overturned soil caught Eragon’s attention. He lowered his pick and crouched down to see a long, banded earthworm feeling its way across the clumps of fragrant earth.
“Here now,” he said, feeling sorry for having disturbed the worm’s home. He put his hand in front of the worm and allowed it to crawl onto his palm. Then he lifted the worm out of the plot, carried it a few feet away, and set it down near a clump of dry grass, where it might burrow back into the ground.
Shouts rang out from within the main hall: “Ebrithil! Ebrithil!” The elf Ästrith emerged from the shadowed doorway, covered in dirt and dust, a bloody scrape along her right forearm and a strained expression on her face.
The nape of Eragon’s neck prickled, old instincts taking hold. He sprinted back to the plot, grabbed the pick, and ran to Ästrith even as she said, “The tunnel we were working in collapsed. Two of—”
“Which tunnel?” Eragon asked, hurrying into the hall with her. Behind them, Saphira heaved herself to her feet and lumbered after.
“On the lowest level. The dwarves were trying to reopen a branch tunnel they found yesterday. The ceiling gave way, and two of them are trapped beneath the stones.”
“Did you tell Blödhgarm?”
“He will meet us there.”
Eragon grunted.
Together, they crossed the main hall and hurried down the stairs and through the door that granted access to the mining tunnels beneath the hold. As the cold underground air hit his skin, Eragon regretted not pausing to grab his shirt. Oh well.
For a few silent minutes, they hurried through the switchback tunnels, descending ever deeper into the side of Mount Arngor. Lanterns had been hung on the walls at regular, but sparse, intervals, and the shadows pooled thick and heavy between them.
In the back of his mind, Eragon felt Saphira keeping close watch. She said, How can I help? He could sense her frustration; the tunnels were too small for a grown dragon like her.
Just stand ready. I may need your strength.
As he and Ästrith neared the lower depths of the old mine, angry voices sounded ahead of them, echoing off the bare stone in a confusing chorus. A cloud of dust still clogged the air near the collapsed section, and three separate werelights hung near the ceiling, providing additional—if unsteady—illumination.
Four dwarves emerged from the haze; Eragon recognized them all. They had been digging through the rubble, stacking the broken pieces of rock on either side of the tunnel as they attempted to excavate their buried brethren.
Ästrith pointed at a huge slab of stone that lay across the narrow passageway. Several cracks, straight as an arrow, had split the slab into sections. She said, “I broke the rock, Ebrithil, so as to lift the pieces away, but if even one part is removed, the rest will settle farther, and I am not strong enough to hold all of them at once.”
The lead dwarf—a thick-bearded fellow by the name of Drûmgar—nodded. “She is right, Jurgencarmeitder. We need your help, and the help of the dragons.”
Eragon placed his pick against the wall and closed his eyes for a moment. Reaching out with his mind, he searched for the buried dwarves….There. Several feet ahead of him, a single consciousness, faint and faltering, like a candle in the wind.
Hadn’t there been two dwarves trapped in the cave-in?
Eragon didn’t dare wait any longer. He could feel the life ebbing from the one dwarf. “Stand clear,” he said.
Ästrith and the dwarves hurried back. Then Eragon drew upon his connection with Saphira—and through her, upon the Eldunarí in the Hall of Colors—and he spoke a single word of power: “Rïsa.”
The word was simple, but his intent was not, and it was intent that guided the execution of a spell.
Creaks and groans and shivering screeches rang out through the tunnel as the pile of fallen stone lifted off the ground. The cost in energy was immediate and immense; if not for the strength of the dragons, Eragon would have passed out and lost control of the spell.
Billows of fresh dust choked the air as Eragon pressed the stones back into the broken ceiling. He coughed, despite himself, and then said, “Melthna.”
At his magic-borne command, all the stones he held suspended flowed together, rejoining the surrounding walls, welding themselves back to the bones of Mount Arngor. A pulse of heat—hot enough to make Eragon’s cheeks sting and to singe the hairs on his chest—emanated from the now-solid casing of rocks.
He let out the breath he’d been holding and ended the spell. Thank you, he said to Saphira and, by extension, the Eldunarí.
As the dust settled, the wavering illumination of the werelights revealed the crumpled forms of the two dwarves lying in the tunnel ahead. Smears of blood surrounded them.
Drûmgar and the rest of the dwarves rushed toward their fallen compatriots. Eragon followed more slowly, still feeling the effects of the weirding he had wrought.
Then the dwarves groaned and began to pull at their beards and hair as they filled the mine with their lamentations. Eragon’s heart sank at the sound. Again he reached out with his mind, searching for any sign of life in the two broken bodies.
Nothing. Both were dead.
Fast as he’d been, he had still failed to save them. Eragon dropped to his knees, blinking back a sudden upwelling of tears. The names of the two dwarves were Nál and Brimling, and although Eragon hadn’t known them well, he’d seen them about the fire on many a late evening, and they had always been quick with a song or a joke and generally full of good cheer.
Ästrith put a hand on his shoulder, but it was a small comfort.
Eragon bent his head and let the tears fall free. For all the spells he had learned and powers he had gained since becoming a Dragon Rider—and for all the strength of the dragons—some things were still beyond him.
He could lift staggering amounts of stone with a word, but he couldn’t turn aside death. No one could.
The rest of the day passed in a grey blur. The dwarves took their dead to straighten their limbs, wash their bodies, dress them in fine garments, oil their beards, and otherwise prepare them for interment in tombs of stone, as was the custom of their people.
Eragon helped Blödhgarm—who had arrived late to the tunnels—and Ästrith further secure that branch of the mine, so as to prevent any future collapses. Then, heartsore and tired, he retreated to the eyrie and cast himself down next to Saphira for a restless hour of sleep.
He still felt grim, glum, and out of joint when evening arrived. The elves attempted to console him with various high-minded phrases, but their dispassionate reasoning did little to improve his outlook. Nor were the few other humans—including Nasuada’s personal envoy, one Marleth Oddsford—in any better mood. Most of them had labored hard alongside the dwarves throughout the winter, and the loss of Nál and Brimling had affected them even more than Eragon.
Yet Eragon did not forget his station. He did his duty and walked among the saddened dwarves, murmuring words of encouragement and comfort. Both Hruthmund and Drûmgar thanked him, and he promised he would attend the funerals the next day.
As the night wore on, Eragon found himself drawn to the hearth where the Urgals were gathered. They were loud and boisterous, and though they had no love for the dwarves, their leader, Skarghaz, raised his cup in honor of Nál and Brimling, and as a group, the Urgals let loose with a roar that rivaled Saphira’s.
Later still, when the others had retired, Eragon remained with the Urgals, drinking rekk—which the Urgals made from fermented cattails—while Saphira slumbered in the corner.
“Rider!” boomed Skarghaz. “You are too sad.” He was a broad, slump-shouldered Kull with long hair that he wore in a braid down his bare back. Even in the depths of winter, he rarely deigned to put on more than a crude vest.
Eragon wasn’t inclined to argue. “You are not wrong,” he said, overpronouncing his words.
The massive Kull took a swig of rekk from his equally massive cup. Then he beckoned toward another of the Urgals: a stout, somewhat potbellied Urgal with a long red scar that slashed sideways across his face. “Irsk! Tell our Rider a story to settle his liver. Tell him a story of the old times.”
“In this tongue?” Irsk replied. He grimaced, baring his fangs.
“Yes, in this tongue, drajl!” roared Skarghaz. And he tossed an empty cask of rekk at the smaller Urgal.
The cask bounced off Irsk’s horns. He didn’t duck or flinch, only grunted and lowered himself onto the stone floor in front of the fire. “Give me a drum, then.”
At Skarghaz’s order, one of the Urgals ran off to their quarters and soon returned carrying a small hide drum. Irsk set it between his legs and then paused for a moment with his thick-fingered hands resting atop the hide. He said, “I must change the words of the Urgralgra to those of your kind, Rider. They will not sound as they should, though I have studied how you speak for nigh on three winters now.”
“I’m sure you will do just fine,” said Eragon. He had already noticed that Irsk was more well-spoken than his fellow Urgals, and Eragon wondered if it was because Irsk had training as a bard or poet. He straightened in his chair and leaned forward, curious to hear what would come forth from the Urgal.
In the corner, Saphira cracked open her near eye to reveal a slit of gleaming blue.
Skarghaz pounded the base of his cup against his leg, splashing rekk across the floor. “Enough slowness, Irsk! Tell the story. Tell the one of great Kulkaras.”
Again, Irsk grunted. He lowered his chin for a moment and then struck the drum a single echoing blow and began to speak.
Despite the roughness of the Urgal’s words, there was a truth to them Eragon recognized. And as he listened, he felt transported to another time and place, and the events of Irsk’s tale soon seemed as real as the hall itself.