And so, the Varden waited.
As day inexorably followed day, Eragon had watched the men grow sullen and discontent, and Nasuada had become increasingly worried. An army, Eragon had learned, was a ravenous, insatiable beast that would soon die and separate into its constituent elements unless massive amounts of food were shoveled into its many thousands of stomachs upon a regular basis. When marching into new territory, obtaining supplies for an army was a simple matter of confiscating food and other essentials from the people they conquered, and stripping resources from the surrounding countryside. Like a plague of locusts, the Varden left a barren swath of land in their wake, a swath devoid of most everything needed to support life.
Once they stopped moving, they soon exhausted the stores of food close at hand and were forced to subsist entirely on provisions brought to them from Surda and the several cities they had captured. Generous as the inhabitants of Surda were, and rich as the vanquished cities were, the regular deliveries of goods were not enough to sustain the Varden for much longer.
Though Eragon knew the warriors were devoted to their cause, he had no doubt that, when faced with the prospect of a slow, agonizing death by starvation that would accomplish nothing besides giving Galbatorix the satisfaction of gloating over their defeat, most men would elect to flee to some distant corner of Alagaësia, where they could live out the rest of their lives in safety from the Empire.
That moment had not yet arrived, but it was fast approaching.
Fear of that fate, Eragon was sure, was what had been keeping Nasuada up at night, so that she appeared increasingly haggard each morning, the bags under her eyes like small, sad smiles.
The difficulties they had faced at Dras-Leona made Eragon grateful that Roran had avoided becoming similarly bogged down at Aroughs and heightened his admiration and appreciation for what his cousin had accomplished at the southern city. He’s a braver man than I. Nasuada would disapprove, but Eragon was determined that once Roran returned—which, if all went well, would be in just a few days—Eragon would once again provide him with a full set of wards. Eragon had already lost too many members of his family to the Empire and Galbatorix, and he was not about to let the same doom befall Roran.
He paused to let a trio of arguing dwarves cross the path in front of him. The dwarves wore no helms or insignia, but he knew they were not of Dûrgrimst Ingeitum, for their plaited beards were trimmed with beads—a fashion he had never seen among the Ingeitum. Whatever the dwarves were quarreling about was a mystery to him—he could not understand more than a few words of their guttural language—but the topic was obviously of all-consuming importance, judging by their loud voices, unrestrained gestures, exaggerated expressions, and their failure to notice either him or Saphira standing in the path.
Eragon smiled as they passed; he found their preoccupation somewhat comical, despite their evident seriousness. Much to the relief of everyone in the Varden, the dwarves’ army, led by their new king, Orik, had arrived at Dras-Leona two days before. That, and Roran’s victory at Aroughs, had since become the main topics of conversation throughout the camp. The dwarves nearly doubled the size of the Varden’s allied forces and would substantially increase the chances of the Varden reaching Urû’baen and Galbatorix if a favorable solution to the impasse with Murtagh and Thorn could be found.
As he and Saphira walked through the camp, Eragon caught sight of Katrina sitting outside her tent, knitting clothes for her child-to-be. She greeted him with a raised hand and by calling, “Cousin!”
He replied in kind, as had become their habit since her marriage.
After both he and Saphira enjoyed a leisurely lunch—which involved a fair amount of tearing and crunching on Saphira’s part—they retired to the patch of soft, sunlit grass next to Eragon’s tent. By order of Nasuada, the patch was always left open for Saphira’s use, a dictate that the Varden observed with religious zeal.
There Saphira curled up to doze in the midday warmth, while Eragon fetched Domia abr Wyrda from his saddlebags, then climbed under the overhang of her left wing to nestle in the partially shaded hollow between the inner curve of her neck and her muscular foreleg. The light that shone through the folds of her wing, as well as that cast off in winking highlights from her scales, painted his skin a weird, purplish hue and covered the pages of the book with a smattering of glowing shapes that made it difficult to read the thin, angular runes. But he did not mind; the pleasure of sitting with Saphira more than made up for the inconvenience.
They sat together for an hour or two, until Saphira had digested her meal and Eragon was tired of deciphering the convoluted sentences of Heslant the Monk. Then, bored, they wandered through the camp, inspecting the defenses and occasionally exchanging words with the sentinels stationed along the perimeter.
Near the eastern edge of the camp, where the bulk of the dwarves were situated, they came across a dwarf who was squatting next to a bucket of water, his sleeves rolled up past his elbows, molding a fist-sized ball of dirt with his hands. By his feet was a puddle of mud and a stick that had been used to stir it.
The sight was so incongruous, several moments elapsed before Eragon realized that the dwarf was Orik.
“Derûndânn, Eragon … Saphira,” said Orik without looking up.
“Derûndânn,” said Eragon, repeating the traditional dwarvish greeting, and squatted on the other side of the puddle. He watched as Orik continued to refine the contours of the ball, smoothing and shaping it with the outer curve of his right thumb. Every so often, Orik reached down, grabbed a handful of dry dirt, and sprinkled it over the yellowish orb of earth, then gently brushed off the excess.
“I never thought to see the king of the dwarves crouched on the ground, playing in the mud like a child,” Eragon said.
Orik huffed, blowing out his mustache. “And I never thought to have a dragon and a Rider staring at me while I made an Erôthknurl.”
“And what is an Erôthknurl?”
“A thardsvergûndnzmal.”
“A thardsver—?” Eragon gave up halfway through the word, unable to remember the whole of it, much less pronounce it. “And that is …?”
“Something that appears to be other than what it actually is.” Orik raised the ball of dirt. “Like this. This is a stone fashioned from earth. Or, rather, so it shall seem when I am done.”
“A stone from earth.… Is it magic?”
“No, it is mine own skill. Nothing more.”
When Orik failed to explain further, Eragon asked, “How is it done?”
“If you are patient, you will see.” Then, after a while, Orik relented and said, “First, you must find some dirt.”
“A hard task, that.”
From under his bushy eyebrows, Orik gave him a look. “Some types of dirt are better than others. Sand, for example, will not work. The dirt must have particles of varying size, so that it will stick together properly. Also, it should have some clay in it, as this does. But most important, if I do this”—and he patted his hand against a bare strip of ground among the clumps of trampled grass—“there must be lots of dust in the dirt. See?” He held up his hand, showing Eragon the layer of fine powder that clung to his palm.