The man on the sorrel horse signaled with his mace, sending the horsemen cantering toward them. The men shook javelins over their heads, whooping loudly as they neared. Battered sheaths hung from their sides. Their weapons were rusty and stained. Four of them trained arrows on Eragon and Murtagh.

Their leader swirled the mace in the air, and his men responded with yells as they wildly encircled Eragon and Murtagh. Eragon’s lips twitched. He almost loosed a blast of magic into their midst, then restrained himself.We don’t know what they want yet, he reminded himself, containing his growing apprehension.

The moment Eragon and Murtagh were thoroughly surrounded, the leader reined in his horse, then crossed his arms and examined them critically. He raised his eyebrows. “Well, these are better than the usual dregs we find! At least we got healthy ones this time. And we didn’t even have to shoot them. Grieg will be pleased.” The men chuckled.

At his words, a sinking sensation filled Eragon’s gut. A suspicion stirred in his mind.Saphira . . .

“Now as for you two,” said the leader, speaking to Eragon and Murtagh, “if you would be so good as to drop your weapons, you’ll avoid being turned into living quivers by my men.” The archers grinned suggestively; the men laughed again.

Murtagh’s only movement was to shift his sword. “Who are you and what do you want? We are free men traveling through this land. You have no right to stop us.”

“Oh, I have every right,” said the man contemptuously. “And as for my name,slaves do not address their masters in that manner, unless they want to be beaten.”

Eragon cursed to himself.Slavers! He remembered vividly the people he had seen at auction in Dras-Leona. Rage boiled within him. He glared at the men around him with new hatred and disgust.

The lines deepened on the leader’s face. “Throw down your swords and surrender!” The slavers tensed, staring at them with cold eyes as neither Eragon nor Murtagh lowered his weapon. Eragon’s palm tingled. He heard a rustle behind him, then a loud curse. Startled, he spun around.

One of the slavers had pulled the blanket off Arya, revealing her face. He gaped in astonishment, then shouted, “Torkenbrand, this one’s an elf!” The men stirred with surprise while the leader spurred his horse over to Snowfire. He looked down at Arya and whistled.

“Well, ’ow much is she worth?” someone asked.

Torkenbrand was quiet for a moment, then spread his hands and said, “At the very least? Fortunes upon fortunes. The Empire will pay a mountain of gold for her!”

The slavers yelled with excitement and pounded each other on the back. A roar filled Eragon’s mind as Saphira banked sharply far overhead.Attack now! he cried.But let them escape if they run. She immediately folded her wings and plummeted downward. Eragon caught Murtagh’s attention with a sharp signal. Murtagh took the cue. He smashed his elbow into a slaver’s face, knocking the man out of his saddle, and jabbed his heels into Tornac.

With a toss of his mane, the war-horse jumped forward, twirled around, and reared. Murtagh brandished his sword as Tornac plunged back down, driving his forehooves into the back of the dismounted slaver. The man screamed.

Before the slavers could gather their senses, Eragon scrambled out of the commotion and raised his hands, invoking words in the ancient language. A globule of indigo fire struck the ground in the midst of the fray, bursting into a fountain of molten drops that dissipated like sun-warmed dew. A second later, Saphira dropped from the sky and landed next to him. She parted her jaws, displaying her massive fangs, and bellowed. “Behold!” cried Eragon over the furor, “I am a Rider!” He raised Zar’roc over his head, the red blade dazzling in the sunlight, then pointed it at the slavers. “Flee if you wish to live!”

The men shouted incoherently and scrambled over each other in their haste to escape. In the confusion, Torkenbrand was struck in the temple with a javelin. He tumbled to the ground, stunned. The men ignored their fallen leader and raced away in a ragged mass, casting fearful looks at Saphira.

Torkenbrand struggled to his knees. Blood ran from his temple, branching across his cheek with crimson tendrils. Murtagh dismounted and strode over to him, sword in hand. Torkenbrand weakly raised his arm as if to ward off a blow. Murtagh gazed at him coldly, then swung his blade at Torkenbrand’s neck. “No!” shouted Eragon, but it was too late.

Torkenbrand’s decapitated trunk crumpled to the ground in a puff of dirt. His head landed with a hard thump. Eragon rushed to Murtagh, his jaw working furiously. “Is your brain rotten?” he yelled, enraged. “Why did you kill him?”

Murtagh wiped his sword on the back of Torkenbrand’s jerkin. The steel left a dark stain. “I don’t see why you’re so upset—”

“Upset!” exploded Eragon. “I’m well past that! Did it even occur to you that we could just leave him here and continue on our way? No! Instead you turn into an executioner and chop off his head. He was defenseless!”

Murtagh seemed perplexed by Eragon’s wrath. “Well, we couldn’t keep him around—hewas dangerous. The others ran off . . . without a horse he wouldn’t have made it far. I didn’t want the Urgals to find him and learn about Arya. So I thought it would—”

“But tokill him?” interrupted Eragon. Saphira sniffed Torkenbrand’s head curiously. She opened her mouth slightly, as if to snap it up, then appeared to decide better of it and prowled to Eragon’s side.