RETURN
ragon frowned as he stepped out of the tunnel into the early-afternoon sunlight that bathed the clearing before the Rock of Kuthian.
He felt as if he had forgotten something important. He tried to remember what, but nothing came to mind, only a sense of emptiness that unsettled him. Had it to do with … no, he could not recall. Saphira, did you … he started to say, then trailed off.
What?
Nothing. I just thought … Never mind; it doesn’t matter.
Behind them, the doors to the tunnel swung shut with a hollow boom, and the lines of glyphs upon them faded away, and the rough, mossy spire once again appeared to be a solid piece of stone.
Come, said Umaroth, let us be away. The day grows long, and many leagues lie between here and Urû’baen.
Eragon glanced around the clearing, still feeling as if he was missing something; then he nodded and climbed into Saphira’s saddle.
As he tightened the straps around his legs, the eerie chatter of a shadow bird sounded among the heavy-boughed fir trees to the right. He looked, but the creature was nowhere to be seen. He made a face. He was glad to have visited Vroengard, but he was equally glad to be leaving. The island was an unfriendly place.
Shall we? asked Saphira.
Let’s, he said with a sense of relief.
With a sweep of her wings, Saphira jumped into the air and took flight over the grove of apple trees at the other side of the clearing. She rose quickly above the floor of the bowl-shaped valley, circling the ruins of Doru Araeba as she climbed. Once she was high enough to soar over the mountains, she turned east and set off for the mainland and Urû’baen, leaving behind the remains of the Riders’ once-glorious stronghold.
THE CITY OF SORROWS
he sun was still near its zenith when the Varden arrived at Urû’baen.
Roran heard the cries from the men at the head of his column as they crested a ridge. Curious, he looked up from the heels of the dwarf in front of him, and when he arrived at the top of the ridge, he paused to take in the view, as had each of the warriors before him.
The land sloped gently downward for several miles, flattening out into a broad plain dotted with farms, mills, and grand stone estates that reminded him of the ones near Aroughs. Some five miles away, the plain arrived at the outer walls of Urû’baen.
Unlike those of Dras-Leona, the walls of the capital were long enough to encompass the whole of the city. They were taller, too; even from a distance, Roran could see that they dwarfed those of both Dras-Leona and Aroughs. He guessed that they stood at least three hundred feet tall. Upon the wide battlements, he spotted ballistae and catapults mounted at regular intervals.
The sight worried him. The machines would be difficult to take down—no doubt they were protected from magical attacks—and he knew from experience just how deadly such weapons could be.
Behind the walls was an odd mixture of human-built structures and those he guessed the elves had made. The most prominent of the elven buildings were six tall, graceful towers—made of a malachite-green stone—which were scattered in an arc throughout what he assumed was the oldest part of the city. Two of the towers were missing their roofs, and he thought he saw the stumps of two more partially buried among the jumble of houses below.
What interested him most, however, was not the wall or the buildings, but the fact that much of the city lay shadowed underneath a huge stone shelf, which must have been over half a mile wide and five hundred feet thick at its narrowest. The overhang formed one end of a massive, sloping hill that stretched off to the northeast for several miles. Atop the craggy lip of the shelf stood another wall, like that which surrounded the city, and several thick watchtowers.
At the back of the cavelike recess underneath the shelf was an enormous citadel adorned with a profusion of towers and parapets. The citadel rose high above the rest of the city, high enough that it almost scraped the underside of the shelf. Most intimidating of all was the gate set within the front of the fortress: a great, gaping cavern that looked large enough for Saphira and Thorn to walk through side by side.
Roran’s gut tightened. If the gate was any indication, Shruikan was big enough to wipe out their whole army by himself. Eragon and Saphira had better hurry up, he thought. And the elves too. From what he had seen, the elves might be able to hold their own against the king’s black dragon, but even they would be hard-pressed to kill him.
All that and more Roran took in as he paused on the ridge. Then he tugged on Snowfire’s reins. Behind him, the white stallion snorted and followed as Roran resumed his weary march, following the winding road as it descended to the lowlands.
He could have ridden—was supposed to ride, actually, as captain of his battalion—but after his trip to Aroughs and back, he had come to loathe sitting in a saddle.
As he walked, he tried to figure out how best to attack the city. The pocket of stone Urû’baen sat nestled within would prevent assaults from the sides and the rear and would interfere with attacks from above, which was surely why the elves had chosen to settle in that location to begin with.
If we could somehow break off the overhang, we could crush the citadel and most of the city, he thought, but he deemed that unlikely, as the stone was too thick. Still, we might be able to take the wall at the top of the hill. Then we could drop stones and pour boiling oil onto those below. It wouldn’t be easy, though. Uphill fighting, and those walls … Maybe the elves could manage it. Or the Kull. They might enjoy it.
The Ramr River was several miles north of Urû’baen, too far to be of any help. Saphira could dig a ditch large enough to divert it, but even she would need weeks to complete such a project, and the Varden did not have weeks’ worth of food. They had only a few days left. After that, they would have to starve or disband.
Their only option was to attack before the Empire did. Not that Roran believed Galbatorix would attack. So far the king had seemed content to allow the Varden to come to him. Why should he risk his neck? The longer he waits, the weaker we grow.
Which meant a frontal assault—a brazen fool’s charge over open ground toward walls too thick to breach and too tall to climb while archers and war machines shot at them the whole time. Just imagining it made a sweat break out on his brow. They would die in droves. He cursed. We’ll dash ourselves to pieces, and all the while Galbatorix will sit laughing in his throne room.… If we can get close to the walls, the soldiers won’t be able to hit us with their foul contraptions, but then we’ll be vulnerable to pitch and oil and rocks being dropped on our heads.
Even if they managed to breach the walls, they would still have the whole of Galbatorix’s army to overcome. More important than the defenses of the city, then, would be the character and quality of the men the Varden would face. Would they fight to their last breath? Could they be frightened? Would they break and flee if pushed hard enough? What manner of oaths and spells bound them?