Eragon yanked on the buckles of the straps that held him and Elva in the saddle. Then he helped the girl down from Saphira’s back and they hurried after the elves toward the gate.
The entrance to the citadel took the form of two giant black doors, which met in a point high above. They looked to be made of solid iron and were studded with hundreds, if not thousands, of spiked rivets, each the size of Eragon’s head. The sight was daunting; Eragon could not imagine a less inviting entrance.
Spear in hand, Arya ran to the sally port set within the left-hand door. The port was visible only as a thin, dark seam that outlined a rectangle barely wide enough for a single man to pass through. Within the rectangle was a horizontal strip of metal, perhaps three fingers wide and thrice as long, that was slightly lighter than its surroundings.
As Arya neared the door, the strip sank inward a half inch, then slid to the side with a rusty scrape. A pair of owlish eyes peered out of the dark interior.
“Who are you, then?” demanded a haughty voice. “State your business or be gone!”
Without hesitation, Arya jabbed the Dauthdaert through the open slot. A gurgle emanated from within; then Eragon heard the sound of a body falling to the floor.
Arya pulled the lance back and shook the blood and scraps of flesh from the barbed blade. Then she grasped the haft of the weapon with both hands, placed the tip of it along the right seam of the sally port, and said, “Verma!”
Eragon squinted and turned aside as a fierce blue flame appeared between the lance and the gate. Even from several feet away, he could feel the heat.
Her face contorted with strain, Arya pressed the blade of the spear into the gate, slowly cutting through the iron. Sparks and drops of molten metal poured out from underneath the blade and skittered across the paved ground like grease on a hot pan, causing Eragon and the others to step back.
As she worked, Eragon glanced in the direction of Thorn and the shadow-Saphira. He could not see them, but he could still hear roars and the crash of breaking masonry.
Elva sagged against him, and he looked down to see that she was shaking and sweating, as if she had a fever. He knelt next to her. “Do you want me to carry you?”
She shook her head. “I’ll be better once we’re inside and away from … that.” She motioned in the direction of the battle.
At the edges of the courtyard, Eragon saw a number of people—they did not look like soldiers—standing in the spaces between the grand houses, watching what they were doing. Scare them off, would you? he asked Saphira. She swung her head around and gave a low growl, and the onlookers scurried away.
When the fountain of sparks and white-hot metal ceased, Arya kicked at the sally port until—on the third kick—the door fell inward and landed on the body of the gatekeeper. A second later, the smell of burning wool and skin wafted out.
Still holding the Dauthdaert, Arya stepped through the dark portal. Eragon held his breath. Whatever wards Galbatorix had placed on the citadel, the Dauthdaert ought to allow her to pass through them without harm, even as it had allowed her to cut open the sally port. But there was always a chance that the king had cast a spell the Dauthdaert would be unable to counter.
To his relief, nothing happened as Arya entered the citadel.
Then a group of twenty soldiers rushed toward her, pikes outstretched. Eragon drew Brisingr and ran to the sally port, but he dared not cross the threshold of the citadel to join her, not yet.
Wielding the spear with the same proficiency as her sword, Arya fought her way through the men, dispatching them with impressive speed.
“Why didn’t you warn her?” exclaimed Eragon, never taking his eyes off the fight.
Elva joined him by the hole in the gate. “Because they won’t hurt her.”
Her words proved prophetic; none of the soldiers managed to land a blow. The last two men tried to flee, but Arya bounded after them and slew them before they had gone more than a dozen yards down the immense hallway, which was even larger than the four main corridors of Tronjheim.
When all of the soldiers were dead, Arya pulled the bodies aside so that there was a clear path to the sally port. Then she walked down the hallway a good forty feet, placed the Dauthdaert on the floor, and slid it back out to Eragon.
As her hand left the spear, she tensed as if in preparation for a blow, but she seemed to remain unaffected by whatever magics were in the area.
“Do you feel anything?” Eragon called. His voice echoed in the interior of the hall.
She shook her head. “As long as we stay clear of the gate, we should be fine.”
Eragon handed the spear to Blödhgarm, who took it and entered through the sally port. Together Arya and the fur-covered elf went into the rooms on either side of the gate and worked the hidden mechanisms to open it, a task that would have been beyond the same number of humans.
The clanking of chains filled the air as the giant iron doors slowly swung outward.
Once the gap was wide enough for Saphira, Eragon shouted, “Stop!” and the doors ground to a halt.
Blödhgarm emerged from the room to the right and—keeping a safe distance from the threshold—slid the Dauthdaert to another of the elves.
In that fashion, they entered the citadel one by one.