“Eragon saved my life in Feinster, you know,” said Svern.
“Aye, and if you bore us with the story one more time, I’ll have you scrubbing pots for a week.”
“Well, he did.…”
There was another silence, which was broken when the deep-voiced warrior sighed. “We need a way to protect ourselves. That’s the problem. We’re at the mercy of the elves, the magicians—ours and theirs—and every other strange creature that roams the land. It’s all well and fine for the likes of Eragon, but we’re not so fortunate. What we need is—”
“What we need,” said Svern, “are the Riders. They’d put the world in order.”
“Pfft. With what dragons? You can’t have Riders without dragons. Besides, we still wouldn’t be able to defend ourselves, and that’s what bothers me. I’m not a child to go hiding behind my mother’s skirts, but if a Shade were to appear out of the night, there isn’t a blasted thing we could do to keep it from tearing our heads off.”
“That reminds me, did you hear about Lord Barst?” asked the third man.
Svern uttered a sound of agreement. “I heard he ate his heart afterward.”
“What’s this now?” asked the deep-voiced warrior.
“Barst—”
“Barst?”
“You know, the earl with an estate up by Gil’ead—”
“Isn’t he the one who drove his horses into the Ramr just to spite—”
“Aye, that’s the one. Anyway, so he goes to this village and orders all the men to join Galbatorix’s army. Same story as always. Only, the men refuse, and they attack Barst and his soldiers.”
“Brave,” said the deep-voiced man. “Stupid, but brave.”
“Well, Barst was too clever for them; he had archers posted around the village before he went in. The soldiers kill half the men and thrash the rest within an inch of their lives. No surprise there. Then Barst takes the leader, the man who started the fight, and he grabs him by the neck, and with his bare hands, he pulls his head right off!”
“No.”
“Like a chicken. And what’s worse, he ordered the man’s family burned alive as well.”
“Barst must be as strong as an Urgal to tear off a man’s head,” said Svern.
“Maybe there’s a trick to it.”
“Could it be magic?” asked the deep-voiced man.
“By all accounts, he’s always been strong—strong and smart. When he was just a young man, he’s said to have killed a wounded ox with a single blow of his fist.”
“Still sounds like magic to me.”
“That’s because you see evil magicians lurking in every shadow, you do.”
The deep-voiced warrior grunted, but did not speak.
After that, the men dispersed to walk their rounds, and Eragon heard nothing more from them. At any other time, their conversation might have disturbed him, but because of his meditation, he remained unperturbed throughout, although he made an effort to remember what they said, so that he could consider it properly later.
Once his thoughts were in order, and he felt calm and relaxed, Eragon closed off his mind, opened his eyes, and slowly unfolded his legs, working the stiffness out of his muscles.
The motion of the candle flame caught his eye, and he stared at it for a minute, enthralled by the contortions of the fire.
Then he went over to where he had dropped Saphira’s saddlebags earlier and removed the quill, the brush, the bottle of ink, and the sheets of parchment that he had begged off Jeod several days before, as well as the copy of Domia abr Wyrda that the old scholar had given him.
Returning to the cot, Eragon placed the heavy book well away from him, so as to minimize the chances of spilling ink on it. He laid his shield across his knees, like a tray, and spread the sheets of parchment over the curved surface. A sharp, tannic odor filled his nostrils as he unstoppered the bottle and dipped the quill into the oak-gall ink.