Eldest: Book Two (The Inheritance cycle 2)

Roran stood upon the poop deck of the Red Boar, his arms crossed over his chest and his feet planted wide apart to steady himself on the rolling barge. The salty wind ruffled his hair and tugged at his thick beard and tickled the hairs on his bare forearms.

Beside him, Clovis manned the tiller. The weathered sailor pointed toward the coastline at a seagull-covered rock silhouetted on the crest of a rolling hill that extended into the ocean. “Teirm be right on the far side of that peak.”

Roran squinted into the afternoon sun, which reflected off the ocean in a blindingly bright band. “We’ll stop here for now, then.”

“You don’t want to go on into the city yet?”

“Not all of us at once. Call over Torson and Flint and have them run the barges up on that shore. It looks like a good place to camp.”

Clovis grimaced. “Arrgh. I was hoping t’ get a hot meal tonight.” Roran understood; the fresh food from Narda had long since been eaten, leaving them with naught but salt pork, salted herring, salted cabbage, sea biscuits the villagers had made from their purchased flour, pickled vegetables, and the occasional fresh meat when the villagers slaughtered one of their few remaining animals or managed to catch game when they landed.

Clovis’s rough voice echoed over the water as he shouted to the skippers of the other two barges. When they drew near, he ordered them to pull ashore, much to their vociferous displeasure. They and the other sailors had counted on reaching Teirm that day and lavishing their pay on the city’s delights.

After the barges were beached, Roran walked among the villagers and helped them by pitching tents here and there, unloading equipment, fetching water from a nearby stream, and otherwise lending his assistance until everyone was settled. He paused to give Morn and Tara a word of encouragement, for they appeared despondent, and received a guarded response in turn. The tavern owner and his wife had been aloof to him ever since they left Palancar Valley. On the whole, the villagers were in better condition than when they arrived at Narda due to the rest they had garnered on the barges, but constant worry and exposure to the harsh elements had prevented them from recuperating as well as Roran hoped.

“Stronghammer, will you sup at our tent tonight?” asked Thane, coming up to Roran.

Roran declined with as much grace as he could and turned to find himself confronted by Felda, whose husband, Byrd, had been murdered by Sloan. She bobbed a quick curtsy, then said, “May I speak with you, Roran Garrowsson?”

He smiled at her. “Always, Felda. You know that.”

“Thank you.” With a furtive expression, she fingered the tassels that edged her shawl and glanced toward her tent. “I would ask a favor of you. It’s about Mandel—” Roran nodded; he had chosen her eldest son to accompany him into Narda on that fateful trip when he killed the two guards. Mandel had performed admirably then, as well as in the weeks since while he crewed the Edeline and learned what he could about piloting the barges. “He’s become quite friendly with the sailors on our barge and he’s started playing dice with those lawless men. Not for money—we have none—but for small things. Things we need.”

“Have you asked him to stop?”

Felda twisted the tassels. “I fear that, since his father died, he no longer respects me as he once did. He has grown wild and willful.”

We have all grown wild, thought Roran. “And what would you have me do about it?” he asked gently.

“You have ever dealt generously with Mandel. He admires you. If you talk with him, he will listen.”

Roran considered the request, then said, “Very well, I will do what I can.” Felda sagged with relief. “Tell me, though, what has he lost at dice?”

“Food mostly.” Felda hesitated and then added, “But I know he once risked my grandmother’s bracelet for a rabbit those men snared.”

Roran frowned. “Put your heart at ease, Felda. I will tend to the matter as soon as I can.”

“Thank you.” Felda curtsied again, then slipped away between the makeshift tents, leaving Roran to mull over what she had said.

Roran absently scratched his beard as he walked. The problem with Mandel and the sailors was a problem that cut both ways; Roran had noticed that during the trip from Narda, one of Torson’s men, Frewin, had become close to Odele—a young friend of Katrina. They could cause trouble when we leave Clovis.

Taking care not to attract undue attention, Roran went through the camp and gathered the villagers he trusted the most and had them accompany him to Horst’s tent, where he said, “The five we agreed upon will leave now, before it gets much later. Horst will take my place while I’m gone. Remember that your most important task is to ensure Clovis doesn’t leave with the barges or damage them in any way. They may be our only means to reach Surda.”

“That, and make sure we aren’t discovered,” commented Orval.

“Exactly. If none of us have returned by nightfall day after tomorrow, assume we were captured. Take the barges and set sail for Surda, but don’t stop in Kuasta to buy provisions; the Empire will probably be lying in wait there. You’ll have to find food elsewhere.”

While his companions readied themselves, Roran went to Clovis’s cabin on the Red Boar. “Just the five of you be going?” demanded Clovis after Roran explained their plan.

“That’s right.” Roran let his iron gaze bore into Clovis until the man fidgeted with unease. “And when I get back, I expect you, these barges, and every one of your men to still be here.”

“You dare impugn my honor after how I’ve kept our bargain?”

“I impugn nothing, only tell you what I expect. Too much is at stake. If you commit treachery now, you condemn our entire village to death.”

“That I know,” muttered Clovis, avoiding his eyes.

“My people will defend themselves during my absence. So long as breath remains in their lungs, they’ll not be taken, tricked, or abandoned. And if misfortune were to befall them, I’d avenge them even if I had to walk a thousand leagues and fight Galbatorix himself. Heed my words, Master Clovis, for I speak the truth.”

“We’re not so fond of the Empire as you seem to believe,” protested Clovis. “I wouldn’t do them a favor more than the next man.”

Roran smiled with grim amusement. “Men will do anything to protect their families and homes.”

As Roran lifted the door latch, Clovis asked, “And what will you do once you reach Surda?”

“We will—”

“Not we: you. What will you do? I’ve watched you, Roran. I’ve listened to you. An’ you seem a good enough sort, even if I don’t care for how you dealt with me. But I cannot fit it in my head, you dropping that hammer of yours and taking up the plow again, just because you’ve arrived in Surda.”

Roran gripped the latch until his knuckles turned white. “When I have delivered the village to Surda,” he said in a voice as empty as a blackened desert, “then I shall go hunting.”

“Ah. After that redheaded lass of yours? I heard some talk of that, but I didn’t put—”

The door slammed behind Roran as he left the cabin. He let his anger burn hot and fast for a moment—enjoying the freedom of the emotion—before he began to subdue his unruly passions. He marched to Felda’s tent, where Mandel was throwing a hunting knife at a stump.

Felda’s right; someone has to talk some sense into him. “You’re wasting your time,” said Roran.

Mandel whirled around with surprise. “Why do you say that?”

“In a real fight, you’re more likely to put out your own eye than injure your enemy. If you don’t know the exact distance between you and your target …” Roran shrugged. “You might as well throw rocks.”

He watched with detached interest as the younger man bristled with pride. “Gunnar told me about a man he knew in Cithrí who could hit a flying crow with his knife eight times out of ten.”

“And the other two times you get killed. It’s usually a bad idea to throw away your weapon in battle.” Roran waved a hand, forestalling Mandel’s objections. “Get your kit together and meet me on the hill past the stream in fifteen minutes. I’ve decided you should come with us to Teirm.”

“Yes, sir!” With an enthusiastic grin, Mandel dove into the tent and began packing.

As Roran left, he encountered Felda, her youngest daughter balanced on one hip. Felda glanced between him and Mandel’s activity in the tent, and her expression tightened. “Keep him safe, Stronghammer.” She set her daughter on the ground and then bustled about, helping to gather the items Mandel would need.

Roran was the first to arrive at the designated hill. He squatted on a white boulder and watched the sea while he readied himself for the task ahead. When Loring, Gertrude, Birgit, and Nolfavrell, Birgit’s son, arrived, Roran jumped off the boulder and said, “We have to wait for Mandel; he’ll be joining us.”

“What for?” demanded Loring.

Birgit frowned as well. “I thought we agreed no one else should accompany us. Especially not Mandel, since he was seen in Narda. It’s dangerous enough having you and Gertrude along, and Mandel only increases the odds that someone will recognize us.”

“I’ll risk it.” Roran met each of their eyes in turn. “He needs to come.” In the end, they listened to him, and, with Mandel, the six of them headed south, toward Teirm.