The metallic scent of blood clogged the air, and curtains of smoke wafted over the Burning Plains, alternately concealing and revealing the knots, clumps, ranks, and battalions of thrashing bodies. Overhead, the carrion birds waited for their meal and the sun climbed in the firmament toward noon.

From the minds of those around them, Eragon and Saphira caught glimpses of how they appeared. Saphira was always noticed first: a great ravening creature with claws and fangs dyed red, who slew all in her path with swipes of her paws and lashes of her tail and with billowing waves of flame that engulfed entire platoons of soldiers. Her brilliant scales glittered like stars and nearly blinded her foes with their reflected light. Next they saw Eragon running alongside Saphira. He moved faster than the soldiers could react and, with strength beyond men, splintered shields with a single blow, rent armor, and clove the swords of those who opposed him. Shot and dart cast at him fell to the pestilent ground ten feet away, stopped by his wards.

It was harder for Eragon—and, by extension, Saphira—to fight his own race than it had been to fight the Urgals in Farthen Dûr. Every time he saw a frightened face or looked into a soldier’s mind, he thought,This could be me. But he and Saphira could afford no mercy; if a soldier stood before them, he died.

Three times they sallied forth and three times Eragon and Saphira slew every man in the Empire’s first few ranks before retreating to the main body of the Varden to avoid being surrounded. By the end of their last attack, Eragon had to reduce or eliminate certain wards around Arya, Orik, Nasuada, Saphira, and himself in order to keep the spells from exhausting him too quickly. For though his strength was great, so too were the demands of battle.

Ready?he asked Saphira after a brief respite. She growled an affirmative.

A cloud of arrows whistled toward Eragon the instant he dove back into combat. Fast as an elf, he dodged the bulk of them—since his magic no longer protected him from such missiles—caught twelve on his shield, and stumbled as one struck his belly and one his side. Neither shaft pierced his armor, but they knocked the wind out of him and left bruises the size of apples.Don’t stop! You’ve dealt with worse pain than this before, he told himself.

Rushing a cluster of eight soldiers, Eragon darted from one to the next, knocking aside their pikes and jabbing Zar’roc like a deadly bolt of lightning. The fighting had dulled his reflexes, though, and one soldier managed to drive his pike through Eragon’s hauberk, slicing his left triceps.

The soldiers cringed as Saphira roared.

Eragon took advantage of the distraction to fortify himself with energy stored within the ruby in Zar’roc’s pommel and then to kill the three remaining soldiers.

Sweeping her tail over him, Saphira knocked a score of men out of his way. In the lull that followed, Eragon looked over at his throbbing arm and said, “Waíse heill.” He also healed his bruises, relying upon Zar’roc’s ruby, as well as the diamonds in the belt of Beloth the Wise.

Then the two of them pressed onward.

Eragon and Saphira choked the Burning Plains with mountains of their enemies, and yet the Empire never faltered or fell back. For every man they killed, another stepped forth to take his place. A sense of hopelessness engulfed Eragon as the mass of soldiers gradually forced the Varden to retreat toward their own camp. He saw his despair mirrored in the faces of Nasuada, Arya, King Orrin, and even Angela when he passed them in battle.

All our training and we still can’t stop the Empire,raged Eragon.There are just too many soldiers! We can’t keep this up forever. And Zar’roc and the belt are almost depleted.

You can draw energy from your surroundings if you have to.

I won’t, not unless I kill another of Galbatorix’s magicians and can take it from the soldiers. Otherwise, I’ll just be hurting the rest of the Varden, since there are no plants or animals here I can use to support us.

As the long hours dragged by, Eragon grew sore and weary and—stripped of many of his arcane defenses—accumulated dozens of minor injuries. His left arm went numb from the countless blows that hammered his mangled shield. A scratch on his forehead kept blinding him with rivulets of hot, sweat-mixed blood. He thought one of his fingers might be broken.

Saphira fared no better. The soldiers’ armor tore the inside of her mouth, dozens of swords and arrows cut her unprotected wings, and a javelin punctured one of her own plates of armor, wounding her in the shoulder. Eragon saw the spear coming and tried to deflect it with a spell but was too slow. Whenever Saphira moved, she splattered the ground with hundreds of drops of blood.

Beside them, three of Orik’s warriors fell, and two of the Kull.

And the sun began its descent toward evening.

As Eragon and Saphira prepared for their seventh and final assault, a trumpet sounded in the east, loud and clear, and King Orrin shouted, “The dwarves are here! The dwarves are here!”

Dwarves?Eragon blinked and glanced around, confused. He saw nothing but soldiers. Then a jolt of excitement raced through him as he understood.The dwarves! He climbed onto Saphira and she jumped into the air, hanging for a moment on her tattered wings as they surveyed the battlefield.

It was true—a great host marched out of the east toward the Burning Plains. At its head strode King Hrothgar, clad in gold mail, his jeweled helm upon his brow, and Volund, his ancient war hammer, gripped in his iron fist. The dwarf king raised Volund in greeting when he saw Eragon and Saphira.

Eragon howled at the top of his lungs and returned the gesture, brandishing Zar’roc in the air. A surge of renewed vigor made him forget his wounds and feel fierce and determined again. Saphira added her voice to his, and the Varden looked to her with hope, while the Empire’s soldiers hesitated with fear.