“Won’t it be cold and damp without a roof?” asked Eragon.
“Nay.” Orik shook his head. “Farthen Dûr protects us from the elements. Neither rain nor snow intrude here. Besides, the hold’s walls are lined with marble caves for dragons. They provide all the shelter necessary. All you need fear are the icicles; when they fall they’ve been known to cleave a horse in two.”
I will be fine,assured Saphira.A marble cave is safer than any of the other places we’ve stayed.
Perhaps. . Do you think Murtagh will be all right?
Ajihad strikes me as an honorable man. Unless Murtagh tries to escape, I doubt he will be harmed.
Eragon crossed his arms, unwilling to talk further. He was dazed by the change in circumstances from the day before. Their mad race from Gil’ead was finally over, but his body expected to continue running and riding. “Where are our horses?”
“In the stables by the gate. We can visit them before leaving Tronjheim.”
They exited Tronjheim through the same gate they had entered. The gold griffins gleamed with colored highlights garnered from scores of lanterns. The sun had moved during Eragon’s talk with Ajihad — light no longer entered Farthen Dûr through the crater opening. Without those moted rays, the inside of the hollow mountain was velvety black. The only illumination came from Tronjheim, which sparkled brilliantly in the gloom. The city-mountain’s radiance was enough to brighten the ground hundreds of feet away.
Orik pointed at Tronjheim’s white pinnacle. “Fresh meat and pure mountain water await you up there,” he told Saphira. “You may stay in any of the caves. Once you make your choice, bedding will be laid down in it and then no one will disturb you.”
“I thought we were going to go together. I don’t want to be separated,” protested Eragon.
Orik turned to him. “Rider Eragon, I will do everything to accommodate you, but it would be best if Saphira waits in the dragonhold while you eat. The tunnels to the banquet halls aren’t large enough for her to accompany us.”
“Why can’t you just bring me food in the hold?”
“Because,” said Orik with a guarded expression, “the food is prepared down here, and it is a long way to the top. If you wish, a servant could be sent up to the hold with a meal for you. It will take some time, but you could eat with Saphira then.”
He actually means it,Eragon thought, astonished that they would do so much for him. But the way Orik said it made him wonder if the dwarf was testing him somehow.
I’m weary,said Saphira.And this dragonhold sounds to my liking. Go, have your meal, then come to me. It will be soothing to rest together without fear of wild animals or soldiers. We have suffered the hardships of the trail too long.
Eragon looked at her thoughtfully, then said to Orik, “I’ll eat down here.” The dwarf smiled, seeming satisfied. Eragon unstrapped Saphira’s saddle so she could lie down without discomfort.Would you take Zar’roc with you?
Yes,she said, gathering up the sword and saddle with her claws.But keep your bow. We must trust these people, though not to the point of foolishness.
I know,he said, disquieted.
With an explosive leap Saphira swept off the ground and into the still air. The steady whoosh of her wings was the only sound in the darkness. As she disappeared over the rim of Tronjheim’s peak, Orik let out a long breath. “Ah boy, you have been blessed indeed. I find a sudden longing in my heart for open skies and soaring cliffs and the thrill of hunting like a hawk. Still, my feet are better on the ground — preferably under it.”
He clapped his hands loudly. “I neglect my duties as host. I know you’ve not dined since that pitiful dinner the Twins saw fit to give you, so come, let’s find the cooks and beg meat and bread from them!”
Eragon followed the dwarf back into Tronjheim and through a labyrinth of corridors until they came to a long room filled with rows of stone tables only high enough for dwarves. Fires blazed in soapstone ovens behind a long counter.
Orik spoke words in an unfamiliar language to a stout ruddy-faced dwarf, who promptly handed them stone platters piled with steaming mushrooms and fish. Then Orik took Eragon up several flights of stairs and into a small alcove carved out of Tronjheim’s outer wall, where they sat cross-legged. Eragon wordlessly reached for his food.
When their platters were empty, Orik sighed with contentment and pulled out a long-stemmed pipe. He lit it, saying, “A worthy repast, though it needed a good draught of mead to wash it down properly.”
Eragon surveyed the ground below. “Do you farm in Farthen Dûr?”
“No, there’s only enough sunlight for moss, mushrooms, and mold. Tronjheim cannot survive without supplies from the surrounding valleys, which is one reason why many of us choose to live elsewhere in the Beor Mountains.”
“Then there are other dwarf cities?”
“Not as many as we would like. And Tronjheim is the greatest of them.” Leaning on an elbow, Orik took a deep pull on his pipe. “You have only seen the lower levels, so it hasn’t been apparent, but most of Tronjheim is deserted. The farther up you go, the emptier it gets. Entire floors have remained untouched for centuries. Most dwarves prefer to dwell under Tronjheim and Farthen Dûr in the caverns and passageways that riddle the rock. Through the centuries we have tunneled extensively under the Beor Mountains. It is possible to walk from one end of the mountain range to the other without ever setting foot on the surface.”
“It seems like a waste to have all that unused space in Tronjheim,” commented Eragon.
Orik nodded. “Some have argued for abandoning this place because of its drain on our resources, but Tronjheim does perform one invaluable task.”
“What’s that?”
“In times of misfortune it can house our entire nation. There have been only three instances in our history when we have been forced to that extreme, but each time it has saved us from certain and utter destruction. That is why we always keep it garrisoned, ready for use.”
“I’ve never seen anything as magnificent,” admitted Eragon.
Orik smiled around his pipe. “I’m glad you find it so. It took generations to build Tronjheim — and our lives are much longer than those of men. Unfortunately, because of the cursed Empire, few outsiders are allowed to see its glory.”
“How many Varden are here?”
“Dwarves or humans?”
“Humans — I want to know how many have fled the Empire.”
Orik exhaled a long puff of smoke that coiled lazily around his head. “There are about four thousand of your kin here. But that’s a poor indicator of what you want to know. Only people who wish to fight come here. The rest of them are under King Orrin’s protection in Surda.”
So few?thought Eragon with a sinking feeling. The royal army alone numbered nearly sixteen thousand when it was fully marshaled, not counting the Urgals. “Why doesn’t Orrin fight the Empire himself?” he asked.
“If he were to show open hostility,” said Orik, “Galbatorix would crush him. As it is, Galbatorix withholds that destruction because he considers Surda a minor threat, which is a mistake. It’s through Orrin’s assistance that the Varden have most of their weapons and supplies. Without him, there would be no resisting the Empire.
“Don’t despair over the number of humans in Tronjheim. There are many dwarves here — many more than you have seen — and all will fight when the time comes. Orrin has also promised us troops for when we battle Galbatorix. The elves pledged their help as well.”
Eragon absently touched Saphira’s mind and found her busy eating a bloody haunch with gusto. He noticed once more the hammer and stars engraved on Orik’s helm. “What does that mean? I saw it on the floor in Tronjheim.”
Orik lifted the iron-bound cap off his head and brushed a rough finger over the engraving. “It is the symbol of my clan. We are the Ingietum, metalworkers and master smiths. The hammer and stars are inlaid into Tronjheim’s floor because it was the personal crest of Korgan, our founder. One clan to rule, with twelve surrounding. King Hrothgar is Dûrgrimst Ingietum as well and has brought my house much glory, much honor.”
When they returned the platters to the cook, they passed a dwarf in the hall. He stopped before Eragon, bowed, and said respectfully, “Argetlam.”
The dwarf left Eragon fumbling for an answer, flushed with unease, yet also strangely pleased with the gesture. No one had bowed to him before. “What did he say?” he asked, leaning closer to Orik.
Orik shrugged, embarrassed. “It’s an elven word that was used to refer to the Riders. It means ‘silver hand.’ ” Eragon glanced at his gloved hand, thinking of the gedwëy ignasia that whitened his palm. “Do you wish to return to Saphira?”
“Is there somewhere I could bathe first? I haven’t been able to wash off the grime of the road for a long time. Also, my shirt is bloodstained and torn, and it stinks. I’d like to replace it, but I don’t have any money to buy a new one. Is there a way I could work for one?”
“Do you seek to insult Hrothgar’s hospitality, Eragon?” demanded Orik. “As long as you are in Tronjheim, you won’t have to buy a thing. You’ll pay for it in other ways — Ajihad and Hrothgar will see to that. Come. I’ll show you where to wash, then fetch you a shirt.”
He took Eragon down a long staircase until they were well below Tronjheim. The corridors were tunnels now — which cramped Eragon because they were only five feet high — and all the lanterns were red. “So the light doesn’t blind you when you leave or enter a dark cavern,” explained Orik.
They entered a bare room with a small door on the far side. Orik pointed. “The pools are through there, along with brushes and soap. Leave your clothes here. I’ll have new ones waiting when you get out.”