Eragon worked the sword upward, burning through the immense wooden beam that barred the doors shut from the inside. As soon as he felt the resistance against Brisingr’s blade lessen, he withdrew the sword and extinguished the flame. He wore thick gloves, so he did not shrink from grasping the glowing edges of one door and pulling it open with a mighty heave. The other door also swung outward, seemingly of its own accord, although a moment later, Eragon saw that it was Saphira who had pushed it open; she sat to the right of the entryway, peering at him with sparkling sapphire eyes. Behind her, the four catapults lay in ruins.

Eragon went to stand with Saphira as the Varden poured into the courtyard, filling the air with their clamorous battle-cries. Exhausted by his efforts, Eragon placed a hand over the belt of Beloth the Wise and bolstered his flagging strength with some of the energy he had stored within the twelve diamonds hidden inside the belt. He offered the rest of it to Saphira, who was equally tired, but she declined, saying, Keep it for yourself. You haven’t that much left. Besides, what I really need is a meal and a full night’s sleep.

Eragon leaned against her and allowed his eyelids to drift halfway closed. Soon, he said. Soon this will all be over.

I hope so, she replied.

Among the warriors who streamed past was Angela, garbed in her strange, flanged armor of green and black and carrying her hûthvír, the double-bladed staff weapon of the dwarf priests. The herbalist paused next to Eragon and, with an impish expression, said, “An impressive display, but don’t you think you’re overdoing it a bit?”

“What do you mean?” asked Eragon, frowning.

She lifted an eyebrow. “Come now, was it really necessary to set your sword on fire?”

Eragon’s expression cleared as he understood her objection. He laughed. “Not for the portcullis, no, but I enjoyed it. Besides, I can’t help it. I named the sword Fire in the ancient language, and every time I say the word, the blade flares up like a branch of dry wood in a bonfire.”

“You named your sword Fire?” Angela exclaimed with a note of incredulity. “Fire? What kind of a boring name is that? You might as well name your sword Blazing Blade and be done with it. Fire indeed. Humph. Wouldn’t you rather have a sword called Sheepbiter or Chrysanthemum Cleaver or something else with imagination?”

“I already have one Sheepbiter here,” said Eragon, and laid a hand on Saphira. “Why would I need another?”

Angela broke out into a wide smile. “So you’re not entirely devoid of wit after all! There just might be hope for you.” And she danced off toward the keep, twirling her double-bladed staff by her side and muttering, “Fire? Bah!”

A soft growl emanated from Saphira, and she said, Be careful whom you call Sheepbiter, Eragon, or you might get bitten yourself.

Yes, Saphira.

SHADOW OF DOOM

By then, Blödhgarm and his fellow elves had joined Eragon and Saphira in the courtyard, but Eragon ignored them and looked for Arya. When he spotted her, running alongside Jörmundur on his charger, Eragon hailed her and brandished his shield to attract her attention.

Arya heeded his call and loped over, her stride as graceful as a gazelle’s. She had acquired a shield, a full-sized helm, and a mail hauberk since they had parted, and the metal of her armor gleamed in the gray half-light that pervaded the city. As she drew to a stop, Eragon said, “Saphira and I are going to enter the keep from above and try to capture Lady Lorana. Do you want to come with us?”

Arya agreed with a terse nod.

Springing from the ground onto one of Saphira’s front legs, Eragon climbed into her saddle. Arya followed his example an instant later and sat close behind him, the links of her hauberk pressing against his back.

Saphira unfurled her velvety wings and took flight, leaving Blödhgarm and the other elves gazing up at her with looks of frustration.

“You should not abandon your guards so lightly,” Arya murmured in Eragon’s left ear. She wrapped her sword arm around his waist and held him tightly as Saphira wheeled above the courtyard.

Before Eragon could respond, he felt the touch of Glaedr’s vast mind. For a moment, the city below vanished, and he saw and felt only what Glaedr saw and felt.

Little-stinging-hornet-arrows bounced off his belly as he rose above the scattered wood-caves of the two-legs-round-ears. The air was smooth and firm beneath his wings, perfect for the flying he would need to do. On his back, the saddle rubbed against his scales as Oromis altered his position.

Glaedr flicked his tongue out and tasted the enticing aroma of burnt-wood-cooked-meat-spilled-blood. He had been to this place many times before. In his youth, it had been known by a different name than Gil’ead, and then the only inhabitants had been the somber-laughing-quick-tongued-elves and the friends of elves. His previous visits had always been pleasant, but it pained him to remember the two nest-mates who had died here, slain by the twisted-mind-Forsworn.

The lazy-one-eye-sun hovered just above the horizon. To the north, the big-water-Isenstar was a rippling sheet of polished silver. Below, the herd of pointed-ears commanded by Islanzadí was arrayed around the broken-anthill-city. Their armor glittered like crushed ice. A pall of blue smoke lay over the whole area, thick as cold morning mist.

And from the south, the small-angry-rip-claw-Thorn winged his way toward Gil’ead, bellowing his challenge for all to hear. Morzan-son-Murtagh sat upon his back, and in Murtagh’s right hand, Zar’roc shone as bright as a nail.