brisingr | Page 9

eaten. They are great hunters to do
that... Perhaps I shall attempt it someday.
But not, Eragon felt compelled to add, with people.
Try it with sheep instead. People, sheep: what
difference is there to a dragon? Then she laughed
deep in her long throat—a rolling rumble that
reminded him of thunder.
Leaning forward to take his weight off Saphira’s
sharp-edged scales, Eragon picked up the hawthorn
staff that lay by his side. He rolled it between his
palms, admiring the play of light over the polished
tangle of roots at the top and the much-scratched
metal ferrule and spike at the base.
Roran had thrust the staff into his arms before they
left the Varden on the Burning Plains, saying, “Here.
Fisk made this for me after the Ra’zac bit my
shoulder. I know you lost your sword, and I thought
you might have need of it... If you want to get another blade, that’s fine too, but I’ve found there are very few
fights you can’t win with a few whacks from a good,
strong stick.” Remembering the staff Brom had
always carried, Eragon had decided to forgo a new
sword in favor of the length of knotted hawthorn.
After losing Zar’roc, he felt no desire to take up
another, lesser sword. That night, he had fortified
both the knotted hawthorn and the handle to Roran’s
hammer with several spells that would prevent either
piece from breaking, except under the most extreme
stress. Unbidden, a series of memories overwhelmed
Eragon: A sullen orange and crimson sky swirled
around him as Saphira dove in pursuit of the red

25 | P a g e Brisingr – Christopher Paolini
dragon and his Rider. Wind howled past his ears...
His fingers went numb from the jolt of sword striking
sword as he dueled that same Rider on the ground...
Tearing off his foe’s helm in the midst of combat to reveal his once friend and traveling companion,
Murtagh, whom he had thought dead... The sneer
upon Murtagh’s face as he took Zar’roc from Eragon,
claiming the red sword by right of inheritance as
Eragon’s elder brother... Eragon blinked, disoriented
as the noise and fury of battle faded and the pleasant
aroma of juniper wood replaced the stench of blood.
He ran his tongue over his upper teeth, trying to
eradicate the taste of bile that filled his mouth.
Murtagh.
The name alone generated a welter of confused emotions in Eragon. On one hand, he liked Murtagh.
Murtagh had saved Eragon and Saphira from the
Ra’zac after their first, ill-fated visit to Dras-Leona;
risked his life to help extricate Eragon from Gil’ead;
acquitted himself honorably in the Battle of Farthen
Dûr; and, despite the torments he no doubt endured
as a result, had chosen to interpret his orders from
Galbatorix in a way that allowed him to release
Eragon and Saphira after the Battle of the Burning
Plains instead of taking them captive. It was not
Murtagh’s fault that the Twins had abducted him;
that the red dragon, Thorn, had hatched for him; or
that Galbatorix had discovered their true names, with
which he extracted oaths of fealty in the ancient language from both Murtagh and Thorn.
None of that could be blamed on Murtagh. He was a
victim of fate, and had been since the day he was
born.
And yet ... Murtagh might serve Galbatorix against
his will, and he might abhor the atrocities the king

26 | P a g e Brisingr – Christopher Paolini
forced him to commit, but some part of him seemed
to revel in wielding his newfound power. During the
recent engagement between the Varden and the
Empire on the Burning Plains, Murtagh had singled
out the dwarf king, Hrothgar, and slain him, although
Galbatorix had not ordered Murtagh to do so. He had
let Eragon and Saphira go, yes, but only after
defeating them in a brutal contest of strength and
then listening to Eragon plead for their freedom.
And Murtagh had derived entirely too much pleasure
from the anguish he inflicted upon Eragon by
revealing they were both sons of Morzan—first and
last of the thirteen Dragon Riders, the Forsworn, who
had betrayed their compatriots to Galbatorix. Now,
four days after the battle, another explanation
presented itself to Eragon: Perhaps what Murtagh
enjoyed was watching another person shoulder the