Section Two

Eragon rose to his feet as Brom darted around the fire. They faced each other for a moment, then Brom raised his sword and attacked. Eragon saw him charging and reached out to parry, but before he could react, a blow had already landed on his ribs. He cried out in pain and staggered back several steps.

Without thinking, Eragon lunged forward and thrust with his sword. But Brom slipped lightly aside. Eragon feinted a swing, sweeping his wooden sword fiercely at Brom's head, then turned his wrist midway and suddenly struck at his body. Their swords clashed—Brom had blocked the blow in a flash—and the thudding sound echoed through the camp. "Quick and adaptable, good!" Brom bellowed, his eyes gleaming as he swung his arm. Eragon's vision blurred, then an explosion of pain burst across his head. He collapsed like an empty sack and fell unconscious to the ground.

An icy chill spread over his face. Eragon jolted awake and sat up furiously, his head still ringing and the blood on his face already dry. Brom stood over him with a pot of melted snowwater in his hands. "How could you do that?" Eragon shouted indignantly as he got to his feet, still dizzy and unsteady.

Brom's long brows lifted. "Oh? A real enemy would never go easy on you, and neither will I. Should I indulge your... incompetence and make things easier for you? I don't think so." He picked up the wooden sword Eragon had thrown down and held it out to him. "Now, defend yourself!"

Eragon stared blankly at the sword and shook his head hard. "Forget it. I've had enough." He turned to leave, only to take a vicious blow across the back. It sent him stumbling, and he spun around with a howl.

"Never turn your back on your enemy!" Brom shouted sternly. He tossed the wooden sword to Eragon and immediately attacked. Eragon retreated step by step around the fire, completely pinned down by Brom's fierce assault. "Draw your arms back, bend your knees!" Brom yelled. He kept offering instructions, stopping to demonstrate the proper movements. "Again, slower!" They practiced with exaggeratedly slow motions, then resumed their fierce sparring. Eragon improved rapidly, but no matter how hard he tried, he could never withstand more than a few of Brom's moves.

When they finally stopped, Eragon collapsed onto his blanket with a thud, groaning under his breath. There was not a spot on his body that did not hurt—Brom had shown no mercy with his sword. Saphira made a long, coughing sound, pulling back her lips to expose her gleaming teeth.

What are you doing? Eragon asked irritably.

Nothing, she replied. It's just terribly amusing to watch a fledgling like you get beaten by an old man. She made that sound again, and Eragon finally realized she was laughing. His face burned. To preserve what little dignity he had left, he rolled over and went to sleep.

He felt even worse the next day. His arms were blotched with bruises, and his entire body ached so badly he could barely walk. Brom was ladling out porridge when he glanced over the bowls and grinned. "How do you feel?" Eragon gave a vague reply and wolfed down his breakfast.

Once they set out on the road, they moved swiftly, hoping to reach Therinsford before noon. After they had traveled a league, the road widened, and signs of habitation appeared faintly in the distance. "You'd better tell Saphira to fly ahead and wait for us on the far side of Therinsford," Brom said. "She must be careful there, or she'll attract attention."

"Why don't you tell her yourself?" Eragon challenged.

"It is considered rude to communicate with someone else's dragon."

"You didn't seem concerned about that in Carvahall."

A smile touched Brom's lips. "I merely did what had to be done."

Eragon gave him a defiant look, then passed Brom's words on to Saphira. She warned him to be careful, for the king's henchmen might be anywhere.

The ruts in the road deepened, and Eragon found more footprints. The surrounding farmland showed that Therinsford lay ahead. The village was larger than Carvahall, but it had no order whatsoever; its houses had been thrown together in a jumble.

"What a mess," Eragon said. He did not see Dempton's mill. Baldor and Albriech should have found Roran by now. He did not want to face his cousin in person.

"If nothing else, it's ugly," Brom agreed.

The Anora River lay between them and the village, crossed by a sturdy low bridge. As they approached it, a bloated man sprang from behind a tree and blocked their path. His shirt was too short to cover the filthy belly bulging over his waistband, and behind his cracked lips, every tooth looked like a weathered, shattered tombstone. "You can't stay here. This is my bridge. If you want to cross, you pay."

"How much?" Brom asked meekly. He took out a money pouch, and the bridge owner's face immediately lit up.

"Five crowns." He grinned broadly. The outrageous price made Eragon want to lash out, but Brom stopped him with a subtle look and silently handed over the coins. The man put them into a pouch hanging from his waistband. "Much obliged!" His voice dripped with mockery as he stepped aside.

Brom started across, then suddenly stumbled and nearly fell. He only kept his footing by grabbing the bridge owner's arm. "Watch where you're going!" the vulgar man barked, jerking away from him.

"My apologies," Brom said, then crossed the bridge with Eragon.

"Why didn't you bargain? That man was practically skinning you alive!" Eragon burst out as soon as they were out of earshot. "He might not even own the bridge. We could have ignored him and kept walking."

"Perhaps," Brom agreed.

"Then why did you give him the money?!"

"Because you cannot argue with every fool in the world. The easier way is to let them have their way, then make sure they suffer a little loss when they aren't paying attention." Brom opened his palm. A small pile of glittering coins lay within it.

"You cut open his money pouch!" Eragon cried in disbelief.

Brom winked and put the coins away. "And the harvest was remarkably plentiful! He really should not have been foolish enough to put all his eggs in one basket." At that moment, an enraged howl rose from across the river. "I'd say our friend has discovered his loss. If you see any guards, tell me at once." A child came racing down the street. Brom caught him by the shoulder and asked, "Do you know where horses are sold?" The child looked at them solemnly and pointed toward a large livestock stable at the edge of the village. "Thank you," Brom said, tossing him a small coin.

The stable's double doors stood wide open, revealing two long rows of stalls. Saddles, harnesses, and other equipment covered the opposite wall. A powerfully built man stood inside, grooming a snow-white stallion. He raised a hand and waved them in.

As the two approached, Brom exclaimed, "What a fine horse!"

"Indeed it is. His name is Snowfire, and I'm Haberth." Haberth extended a rough, powerful hand and shook Brom's and Eragon's with force. Then came a polite pause, allowing the visitors to introduce themselves. When neither did, Haberth asked, "What can I do for you two?"

Brom nodded. "We need two horses, fully outfitted. They must be swift and strong—we have a long journey ahead."

Haberth considered it. "There aren't many beasts like that, and they don't come cheap." The stallion grew slightly restless, and he soothed it with a few gentle pats.

"Price is no concern. I want the best," Brom said. Haberth nodded without speaking. He tied the stallion to a post, took saddles and other gear from the wall, and swiftly prepared two identical sets. Then he walked down the stalls and returned leading two horses. One was a light chestnut gelding, the other a piebald. The chestnut tugged and pulled at its reins all the way.

"He's a little wild, but he'll be fine if you've got a strong hand," Haberth said, handing Brom the chestnut's reins.

Brom held out his palm for the horse to smell, and it meekly let him stroke its neck.

"We'll take him," he said. Then he looked at the piebald. "But I'm not so sure about the other one."

"It's quite fast."

"Hmm... How much is Snowfire worth?"

Haberth looked at the stallion fondly. "I don't want to sell him. He's the finest horse I've ever raised—I want to breed him and pass on his bloodline."

"If you were to sell him, how much would we have to pay?" Brom asked.

Eragon tried to imitate Brom and stroke the chestnut horse, but it shied away. He instinctively tried to soothe it in his mind, only to suddenly sense the horse's consciousness. He froze. Their contact was nowhere near as clear or powerful as it was with Saphira, but they could still communicate to some extent. Tentatively, he conveyed that he meant no harm. The horse relaxed and looked at him with large, watery brown eyes.

Haberth counted the total on his fingers. "Two hundred crowns. No bargaining." He smiled smugly, clearly certain that no one would pay such a high price. Without a word, Brom opened his pouch and counted out the money.

"Is this enough?" he asked.

Haberth looked from Snowfire to the pile of coins, then back again. For a long while, he said nothing. Finally, he sighed deeply. "He's yours, though I truly hate to part with him."

"I'll treasure him as dearly as a jewel, and treat him as though he were descended from Gildintor, the finest horse of legend," Brom said.

"Your words ease my heart," Haberth said, bowing slightly. He helped them saddle the horses. As they were leaving, he said, "Then farewell. For Snowfire's sake, I wish you good fortune."

"Don't worry. I'll take good care of him," Brom promised as he walked away. "Here." He handed Snowfire's reins to Eragon. "Wait for me at the far end of the village."

"Why?" Eragon asked, but Brom had already gone. Annoyed, Eragon led the horse out of the village and waited by the roadside. To the south, the outline of Utgard Peak could be vaguely seen, crouching at the end of the valley like a colossal boulder. It thrust into the heavens, its summit appearing and vanishing amid a sea of clouds, towering over the surrounding lesser peaks. Its grim, perilous presence made Eragon's scalp prickle.

Brom soon arrived and gestured for Eragon to follow. Only after Therinsford had vanished behind the trees did he speak. "The Ra'zac must have taken this road. They clearly stopped here and found horses, just as we did. I also found someone who saw them. Still shaken, he described what they looked like and said they galloped away from Therinsford like demons fleeing a saint."

"That doesn't leave much of an impression."

"It certainly doesn't."

Eragon patted the horse. "At the stable, I accidentally sensed this horse's mind. I didn't know I could do that."

Brom frowned. "For someone your age, that ability is extraordinary. Most Riders require years of training before they can communicate with creatures other than their own dragon." He studied Snowfire thoughtfully. "Take everything from your pack and put it into the saddlebags, then close the flaps." Eragon did as instructed, and Brom mounted Snowfire.

Eragon looked uncertainly at the chestnut horse. It was far smaller than Saphira, and he could not help worrying whether it could bear his weight. With a sigh, he awkwardly climbed aboard. Eragon had never used a saddle before, nor had he ever ridden far. "Will this torment my legs like Saphira did?"

"How do you feel now?"

"Not too bad. But I think if we go fast, my wounds will tear open."

"We'll take it slowly," Brom replied. He taught him several essentials of riding, then the two set out at a gentle pace. Soon, the scenery beyond the village changed. Cultivated fields gave way to wasteland, with blackberries and weeds growing beside the road and great tangles of wild roses forever snaring at their clothes. Huge boulders jutted from the earth at an angle—gray-white eyes witnessing their arrival. The place possessed a deeply unfriendly air, hostile and resistant toward intruders.

Watching over them, growing larger with every step they took as though drawing nearer, was Utgard Peak. Its sheer, solitary slopes were carved with deep, snow-filled gullies. The dark mountain swallowed every ray of light cast upon it as a sponge drank water, making the entire surrounding land seem dim and bleak by comparison. Between Utgard Peak and the chain of mountains east of Palancar Valley lay a deep cleft—the only passable route out of the valley. The road beneath their feet led directly toward it.

Hooves clattered over gravel as the road soon narrowed into a winding trail circling the foot of Utgard Peak. Eragon looked up at the mountain looming above him and was astonished to see a tower standing atop it. The structure had long fallen into disrepair, crumbling and ruined, yet it still possessed an echo of its old might, guarding the valley like a sentinel. "What is that?" he asked, pointing.

Without lifting his head, Brom answered in a voice full of sorrow and bitterness. "A Riders' outpost—one that had existed since the beginning of their rise. This was where Vrael hid in his final hour, and where, after betrayal and conspiracy exposed his whereabouts, he fell to Galbatorix's ambush. After Vrael's fall, this place fell into ruin as well. Edoc'sil—meaning 'Unconquerable'—was the fortress's original name, for the mountain is so steep that none can cross it unless they have wings. After Vrael died, people called it Utgard. But it has another name: Ristvak'baen—the Place of Sorrow. It was called that by the last Rider before the king killed him."

A feeling of reverence rose in Eragon. The fortress was a lingering gleam of the Riders' former glory, no longer brilliant after the washing of time. The mere thought of the Riders' ancient history shook him. Within him, an age-old heroism born from the depths of history suddenly came alive.

They traveled around Utgard Peak for several hours before entering the cleft. Utgard Peak rose like an immense wall to their right. Eragon stood in his stirrups, eager to see what lay beyond Palancar Valley, but it remained beyond the reach of his eyes. They followed the Anora River along a trail winding between hillsides and ravines, climbing higher until, with the sinking sun behind them, they looked over the forest below and gazed into the far distance.

Eragon held his breath. Mountains rose before him, but at their feet stretched a vast plain, reaching all the way to the horizon where earth met sky. Everything was yellow and withered, as though the vegetation itself had died away. Fierce winds swept through the sky, as boundless as the land below, sending wisps of cloud flying away in an instant.

Only then did he understand why Brom had insisted on buying horses. To cross that wilderness on foot would take weeks, perhaps months. Saphira circled high among the clouds, so high that she could have been mistaken for a bird.

"We'll descend tomorrow," Brom said. "It will take most of the day, so we can make camp now."

"How wide is this plain?" Eragon asked, still awed by the magnificent sight.

"Anywhere from two or three days to more than half a month, depending on our direction. Aside from a few nomadic tribes nearby, this plain is as deserted as the Hadarac Desert to the east, so we won't encounter many villages. But the southern part of the plain is relatively wetter and more heavily populated."

They left the trail and dismounted beside the Anora River to make camp. As they removed the saddles, Brom pointed at the chestnut horse. "You should give him a name."

Eragon had been thinking about that ever since choosing the horse. "Well, I can't think of a name as grand as Snowfire, but there's one that might do." He stroked the horse's flank. "I'll call you Cadoc. It was my grandfather's name. Wear it well." Brom nodded approvingly, but Eragon felt a little foolish.

Saphira landed, and he asked, What does this wilderness look like from above?

Dreadfully dull. Other than rabbits and bushes, there's nothing at all.

After dinner, Brom stood and called, "Catch!" Eragon was unprepared. He fumbled to catch the wooden sword and nearly got hit in the head by it. Another wooden sword pointed at him from before his eyes, and he could not help groaning.

"Not again," he complained. Brom only smiled and crooked a hand for him to come over. With great reluctance, Eragon got to his feet. The wooden swords whistled through the air as the two fought in the wind. Before long, Eragon took a blow to the arm and staggered back repeatedly.

This training was shorter than the first, but it was enough to leave Eragon with fresh injuries. When the sparring ended, he angrily threw down his wooden sword and strode to the fire to tend his wounds.

The next morning, Eragon tried desperately not to remember the disaster that had befallen his home. It was all too painful to look back upon. He focused every thought on how he would find and kill the Ra'zac. I'll finish them with my crossbow, he decided, imagining what it would look like when bolts protruded from those black-cloaked bodies.

Even standing was difficult. The slightest movement made his muscles cramp with pain. One of his fingers was swollen and hot to the touch. As they packed to leave, Eragon mounted Cadoc and said sourly, "At this rate, you'll tear me apart piece by piece."

"If I weren't certain you could endure it, I would not be so harsh."

"For once, I wouldn't mind being underestimated," Eragon muttered.

Saphira came toward them, and Cadoc was so terrified that he reared onto his hind legs. Saphira looked at the horse with something like disgust. There's nowhere to hide on the plain, so I needn't bother staying out of sight. From now on, I'll fly above you.

She spread her wings and flew away, and they began descending the mountain. The path was steep and often vanished altogether, forcing them to feel their way forward. In many places, they could not ride, and had to lead the horses with one hand while gripping branches tightly with the other so they would not lose their footing and tumble down the slope. The stones beneath them were loose, so every step had to be taken with care. Though the weather was cold, the difficulty of the journey made them both short-tempered and easily angered.

At the foot of the mountain, they stopped to rest. The Anora River bent sharply and rushed northward on their left. Fierce winds swept across the plains, lashing them without mercy. The ground was dry, and the wind raised vast clouds of dust that stung their eyes.

The broad, empty plain made Eragon uneasy. There was not even a hillock or mound in sight, only level ground stretching without end. He had always lived surrounded by mountains. Now, with nothing around him, he felt exposed and unsafe, like a mouse laid bare beneath an eagle's sharp gaze.

Where the trail reached the wilderness, it split into three paths. One went north toward Ceunon, the largest city in the north; the middle road ran straight ahead into the plain; and the last stretched southward. They carefully searched all three roads for traces of the Ra'zac, then concluded that the creatures had taken the middle path and continued straight on.

"It appears they're heading for Yazuac," Brom said, sounding somewhat puzzled.

"What kind of place is that?"

"Due east. If all goes well, we can reach it in four days. It is a small village on the Ninor River." He pointed to the Anora River flowing north. "This is our only source of water. We must fill our waterskins before entering the wilderness. There are no other ponds or rivers along the way."

A hunter's excitement rose in Eragon. In a few days—perhaps less than a week—he could avenge Garrow with his crossbow. And then... he did not want to think about what would happen afterward.

They filled their waterskins, watered the horses, and drank their fill from the river themselves. Saphira came over and took several great gulps as well. Then, refreshed, they headed east and began their journey across the wilderness.