“Defend yourself!” barked Brom, standing.

Eragon looked at the stick in his hand and saw that it was shaped in the crude likeness of a sword. Brom wanted to fight him? What chance did the old man stand?If he wants to play this game, so be it, but if he thinks to beat me, he’s in for a surprise.

He rose as Brom circled the fire. They faced each other for a moment, then Brom charged, swinging his stick. Eragon tried to block the attack but was too slow. He yelped as Brom struck him on the ribs, and stumbled backward.

Without thinking, he lunged forward, but Brom easily parried the blow. Eragon whipped the stick toward Brom’s head, twisted it at the last moment, and then tried to hit his side. The solid smack of wood striking wood resounded through the camp. “Improvisation—good!” exclaimed Brom, eyes gleaming. His arm moved in a blur, and there was an explosion of pain on the side of Eragon’s head. He collapsed like an empty sack, dazed.

A splash of cold water roused him to alertness, and he sat up, sputtering. His head was ringing, and there was dried blood on his face. Brom stood over him with a pan of melted snow water. “You didn’t have to do that,” said Eragon angrily, pushing himself up. He felt dizzy and unsteady.

Brom arched an eyebrow. “Oh? A real enemy wouldn’t soften his blows, and neither will I. Should I pander to your . . . incompetence so you’ll feel better? I don’t think so.” He picked up the stick that Eragon had dropped and held it out. “Now, defend yourself.”

Eragon stared blankly at the piece of wood, then shook his head. “Forget it; I’ve had enough.” He turned away and stumbled as he was whacked loudly across the back. He spun around, growling.

“Never turn your back to the enemy!” snapped Brom, then tossed the stick at him and attacked. Eragon retreated around the fire, beneath the onslaught. “Pull your arms in. Keep your knees bent,” shouted Brom. He continued to give instructions, then paused to show Eragon exactly how to execute a certain move. “Do it again, but this timeslowly !” They slid through the forms with exaggerated motions before returning to their furious battle. Eragon learned quickly, but no matter what he tried, he could not hold Brom off for more than a few blows.

When they finished, Eragon flopped on his blankets and groaned. He hurt everywhere—Brom had not been gentle with his stick. Saphira let out a long, coughing growl and curled her lip until a formidable row of teeth showed.

What’s wrong with you?he demanded irritably.

Nothing,she replied.It’s funny to see a hatchling like you beaten by the old one. She made the sound again, and Eragon turned red as he realized that she was laughing. Trying to preserve some dignity, he rolled onto his side and fell asleep.

He felt even worse the next day. Bruises covered his arms, and he was almost too sore to move. Brom looked up from the mush he was serving and grinned. “How do you feel?” Eragon grunted and bolted down the breakfast.

Once on the road, they traveled swiftly so as to reach Therinsford before noon. After a league, the road widened and they saw smoke in the distance. “You’d better tell Saphira to fly ahead and wait for us on the other side of Therinsford,” said Brom. “She has to be careful here, otherwise people are bound to notice her.”

“Why don’t you tell her yourself?” challenged Eragon.

“It’s considered bad manners to interfere with another’s dragon.”

“You didn’t have a problem with it in Carvahall.”

Brom’s lips twitched with a smile. “I did what I had to.”

Eragon eyed him darkly, then relayed the instructions. Saphira warned,Be careful; the Empire’s servants could be hiding anywhere.

As the ruts in the road deepened, Eragon noticed more footprints. Farms signaled their approach to Therinsford. The village was larger than Carvahall, but it had been constructed haphazardly, the houses aligned in no particular order.

“What a mess,” said Eragon. He could not see Dempton’s mill.Baldor and Albriech have surely fetched Roran by now. Either way, Eragon had no wish to face his cousin.

“It’s ugly, if nothing else,” agreed Brom.

The Anora River flowed between them and the town, spanned by a stout bridge. As they approached it, a greasy man stepped from behind a bush and barred their way. His shirt was too short, and his dirty stomach spilled over a rope belt. Behind his cracked lips, his teeth looked like crumbling tombstones. “You c’n stop right there. This’s my bridge. Gotta pay t’ get over.”

“How much?” asked Brom in a resigned voice. He pulled out a pouch, and the bridgekeeper brightened.

“Five crowns,” he said, pulling his lips into a broad smile. Eragon’s temper flared at the exorbitant price, and he started to complain hotly, but Brom silenced him with a quick look. The coins were wordlessly handed over. The man put them into a sack hanging from his belt. “Thank’ee much,” he said in a mocking tone, and stood out of the way.

As Brom stepped forward, he stumbled and caught the bridgekeeper’s arm to support himself. “Watch y’re step,” snarled the grimy man, sidling away.

“Sorry,” apologized Brom, and continued over the bridge with Eragon.

“Why didn’t you haggle? He skinned you alive!” exclaimed Eragon when they were out of earshot. “He probably doesn’t even own the bridge. We could have pushed right past him.”

“Probably,” agreed Brom.

“Then why pay him?”