Eragon returned Brisingr to its sheath, then ran to Saphira and clambered up her side, cutting the pad of his left thumb on one of her scales as he did so. He was wearing his mail tunic, and his greaves and bracers too, but he had stowed his helm in one of the saddlebags, so that it would not roll off Saphira and become lost in the grass.
As he retrieved the helm, he saw the casket that contained Glaedr’s heart of hearts wrapped in a blanket and nestled at the bottom of the saddlebag. He reached down and touched the knotted bundle, silently paying tribute to what remained of the majestic golden dragon, then closed the saddlebag and swung down from Saphira’s back.
Eragon donned his arming cap and helm as he strode back to the greensward. He licked the blood off his thumb, then pulled on his gauntlets, hoping that the cut would not bleed too much into the glove. Using slight variations of the same spell, he and Wyrden placed thin barriers—invisible, save for the faint, rippling distortion they caused in the air—over the edges of their swords, so they could not cut anything. They also lowered the wards that protected them from physical danger.
Then he and Wyrden took up positions opposite each other, bowed, and raised their blades. Eragon stared into the elf’s black, unblinking eyes, even as Wyrden stared at him. Keeping his gaze fixed on his opponent, Eragon felt his way forward and tried to inch around Wyrden’s right side, where the right-handed elf would have more difficulty defending himself.
The elf slowly turned, crushing the grass beneath his heels as he kept his front oriented toward Eragon. After a few more steps, Eragon stopped. Wyrden was too alert and too experienced for Eragon to flank him; he would never catch the elf off balance. Unless, of course, I can distract him.
But before he could decide how to proceed, Wyrden feinted toward Eragon’s right leg, as if to skewer him in the knee, then in midstroke, changed directions, twisting his wrist and arm to slash Eragon across his chest and neck.
Fast as the elf was, Eragon was faster still. As he spotted the shift in Wyrden’s posture that betrayed his intentions, Eragon retreated a half step while bending his elbow and whipping his sword up past his face.
“Ha!” shouted Eragon as he caught Wyrden’s sword on Brisingr. The blades produced a piercing clang as they collided.
With an effort, Eragon shoved Wyrden back, then leaped after him, battering him with a series of furious blows.
For several minutes, they fought upon the sward. Eragon landed the first touch—a light rap on Wyrden’s hip—and the second as well, but thereafter, their duel was more equally matched, as the elf got the measure of him and began to anticipate his patterns of attack and defense. Eragon rarely had the opportunity to test himself against anyone as fast or strong as Wyrden, so he enjoyed the contest with the elf.
His pleasure, however, vanished when Wyrden landed four touches in quick succession: one on Eragon’s right shoulder, two on his ribs, and a wicked draw cut across his abdomen. The blows smarted, but Eragon’s pride smarted even more. It worried him that the elf had been able to slip past his guard so easily. If they had been fighting in earnest, Eragon knew that he would have been able to defeat Wyrden in their first few exchanges, but that thought was of little comfort.
You shouldn’t let him hit you so much, observed Saphira.
Yes, I realize that, he growled.
Do you want me to knock him over for you?
No … not today.
His mood soured, Eragon lowered his blade and thanked Wyrden for sparring. The elf bowed and said, “You’re welcome, Shadeslayer,” then returned to his place among his comrades.
Eragon planted Brisingr in the ground between his boots—something he never would have done with a sword made of ordinary steel—and rested his hands on the pommel while he watched the men and animals jostling within the confines of the road that led from the vast stone city. The turbulence within the ranks had diminished substantially, and he guessed that it would not be long before the horns signaled the Varden to advance.
In the meantime, he was still restless.
He looked over at Arya, where she stood next to Saphira, and a smile gradually spread across his face. Resting Brisingr on his shoulder, he sauntered over and motioned toward her sword. “Arya, what about you? We’ve only sparred together that one time in Farthen Dûr.” His grin widened, and he flourished Brisingr. “I’ve gotten a bit better since then.”
“So you have.”
“What say you, then?”
She cast a critical glance toward the Varden, then shrugged. “Why not?”
As they walked to the level patch of grass, he said, “You won’t be able to best me quite so easily as before.”
“I am sure you are right.”
Arya prepared her sword, then they faced each other, some thirty feet apart. Feeling confident, Eragon advanced swiftly, already knowing where he was going to strike: at her left shoulder.
Arya held her ground and made no attempt to evade him. When he was less than four yards away, she smiled at him, a warm, brilliant smile that so enhanced her beauty, Eragon faltered, his thoughts dissolving into a muddle.
A line of steel flashed toward him.
He belatedly lifted Brisingr to deflect the blow. A jolt ran up his arm as the tip of the sword glanced off something solid—hilt, blade, or flesh he was not sure, but whatever it was, he knew that he had misjudged the distance and that his response had left him open to attack.
Before he could do much more than slow his forward momentum, another impact dashed his sword arm to the side; then a knot of pain formed in his midsection as Arya stabbed him, knocking him to the ground.
Eragon grunted as he landed on his back and the air rushed out of him. He gaped at the sky and tried to inhale, but his abdomen was cramped as hard as a stone, and he could not draw air into his lungs. A constellation of crimson spots appeared before his eyes, and for a few uncomfortable seconds, he feared he would lose consciousness. Then his muscles released, and with a loud gasp, he resumed breathing.