Roran knew they had to be stopped, else Carvahall would be taken. He jumped at a soldier, catching him by surprise, and hit him in the face with the hammer’s blade. The soldier crumpled without a sound. As the man’s compatriots rushed toward him, Roran wrestled the corpse’s shield off his limp arm. He barely managed to get it free in time to block the first strike.

Backstepping toward the Ra’zac, Roran parried a sword thrust, then swung his hammer up under the man’s chin, sending him to the ground. “To me!” shouted Roran. “Defend your homes!” He sidestepped a jab as five men attempted to encircle him. “To me!”

Baldor answered his call first, then Albriech. A few seconds later, Loring’s sons joined him, followed by a score of others. From the side streets, women and children pelted the soldiers with rocks. “Stay together,” ordered Roran, standing his ground. “There are more of us.”

The soldiers halted as the line of villagers before them continued to thicken. With more than a hundred men at his back, Roran slowly advanced.

“Attack, you foolsss,” screamed a Ra’zac, dodging Loring’s pitchfork.

A single arrow whizzed toward Roran. He caught it on his shield and laughed. The Ra’zac were level with the soldiers now, hissing with frustration. They glared at the villagers from under their inky cowls. Suddenly Roran felt himself become lethargic and powerless to move; it was hard to even think. Fatigue seemed to chain his arms and legs in place.

Then from farther in Carvahall, Roran heard a raw shout from Birgit. A second later, a rock hurtled over his head and bored toward the lead Ra’zac, who twitched with supernatural speed to avoid the missile. The distraction, slight though it was, freed Roran’s mind from the soporific influence.Was that magic? he wondered.

He dropped the shield, grasped his hammer with both hands, and raised it far above his head—just like Horst did when spreading metal. Roran went up on tiptoe, his entire body bowed backward, then whipped his arms down with ahuh! The hammer cartwheeled through the air and bounced off the Ra’zac’s shield, leaving a formidable dent.

The two attacks were enough to disrupt the last of the Ra’zac’s strange power. They clicked rapidly to each other as the villagers roared and marched forward, then the Ra’zac yanked on their reins, wheeling around.

“Retreat,” they growled, riding past the soldiers. The crimson-clad warriors sullenly backed out of Carvahall, stabbing at anyone who came too close. Only when they were a good distance from the burning wagons did they dare turn their backs.

Roran sighed and retrieved his hammer, feeling the bruises on his side and back where he had hit the wall. He bowed his head as he saw that the explosion had killed Parr. Nine other men had died. Already wives and mothers rent the night with their wails of grief.

How could this happen here?

“Everyone, come!” called Baldor.

Roran blinked and stumbled to the middle of the road, where Baldor stood. A Ra’zac sat beetle-like on a horse only twenty yards away. The creature crooked a finger at Roran and said, “You . . . you sssmell like your cousin. We never forget a sssmell.”

“What do you want?” he shouted. “Why are you here?”

The Ra’zac chuckled in a horrible, insectile way. “We want . . .information. ” It glanced over its shoulder, where its companions had disappeared, then cried, “Release Roran and you ssshall be sold as ssslaves. Protect him, and we will eat you all. We ssshall have your answer when next we come. Be sssure it is the right one.”

AZSWELDN RAKANHÛIN

Light burst into the tunnel as the doors dragged open. Eragon winced, his eyes sorely unaccustomed to daylight after so long underground. Beside him, Saphira hissed and arched her neck to get a better view of their surroundings.

It had taken them two days to traverse the subterranean passage from Farthen Dûr, though it felt longer to Eragon, due to the never-ending dusk that surrounded them and the silence it had imposed upon their group. In all, he could recall only a handful of words being exchanged during their journey.

Eragon had hoped to learn more about Arya while they traveled together, but the only information he had gleaned came simply as a result of observation. He had not supped with her before and was startled to see that she brought her own food and ate no meat. When he asked her why, she said, “You will never again consume an animal’s flesh after you have been trained, or if you do, it will be only on the rarest of occasions.”

“Why should I give up meat?” he scoffed.

“I cannot explain with words, but you will understand once we reach Ellesméra.”

All that was forgotten now as he hurried to the threshold, eager to see their destination. He found himself standing on a granite outcropping, more than a hundred feet above a purple-hued lake, brilliant under the eastern sun. Like Kóstha-mérna, the water reached from mountain to mountain, filling the valley’s end. From the lake’s far side, the Az Ragni flowed north, winding between the peaks until—in the far distance—it rushed out onto the eastern plains.

To his right, the mountains were bare, save for a few trails, but to his left . . . to his left was the dwarf city Tarnag. Here the dwarves had reworked the seemingly immutable Beors into a series of terraces. The lower terraces were mainly farms—dark curves of land waiting to be planted—dotted with squat halls, which as best he could tell were built entirely of stone. Above those empty levels rose tier upon tier of interlocking buildings until they culminated in a giant dome of gold and white. It was as if the entire city was nothing more than a line of steps leading to the dome. The cupola glistened like polished moonstone, a milky bead floating atop a pyramid of gray slate.