Murtagh lifted his shield and blocked the falchion.

His reaction was so unexpected, Eragon faltered, then barely had time to recoil and parry as Murtagh retaliated, swinging Zar’roc at him, the blade humming through the air with inordinate speed. The stroke jarred Eragon’s shoulder. Pressing the attack, Murtagh struck at Eragon’s wrist and then, when Eragon dashed aside Zar’roc, thrust underneath Eragon’s shield and stabbed through the fringe of his mail hauberk and his tunic and the waist of his breeches and into his left hip. The tip of Zar’roc embedded itself in bone.

The pain shocked Eragon like a splash of frigid water, but it also lent his thoughts a preternatural clarity and sent a burst of uncommon strength coursing through his limbs.

As Murtagh withdrew Zar’roc, Eragon yelled and lunged at Murtagh, who, with a flip of his wrist, trapped the falchion beneath Zar’roc. Murtagh bared his teeth in a sinister smile. Without pause, Eragon yanked the falchion free, feinted toward Murtagh’s right knee, then whipped the falchion in the opposite direction and sliced Murtagh across the cheek.

“You should have worn a helmet,” said Eragon.

They were so close to the ground then—only a few hundred feet—that Saphira had to release Thorn, and the two dragons separated before Eragon and Murtagh could exchange any more blows.

As Saphira and Thorn spiraled upward, racing each other toward a pearl-white cloud gathering over the tents of the Varden, Eragon lifted his hauberk and tunic and examined his hip. A fist-sized patch of skin was discolored where Zar’roc had crushed the mail against his flesh. In the middle of the patch was a thin red line, two inches long, where Zar’roc had pierced him. Blood oozed from the wound, soaking the top of his breeches.

Being hurt by Zar’roc—a sword that had never failed him in moments of danger and that he still regarded as rightfully his—unsettled him. To have his own weapon turned against him was wrong. It was a warping of the world, and his every instinct rebelled against it.

Saphira wobbled as she flew through an eddy of air, and Eragon winced, renewed pain lancing up his side. It was fortunate, he concluded, that they were not fighting on foot, for he did not think his hip would bear his weight.

Arya, he said, do you want to heal me, or shall I do it myself and let Murtagh stop me if he can?

We shall attend to it for you, Arya said. You may be able to catch Murtagh by surprise if he believes you are still wounded.

Oh, wait.

Why?

I have to give you permission. Otherwise, my wards will block the spell. The phrase did not leap into Eragon’s mind at first, but eventually he remembered the construction of the safeguard and, in the ancient language, whispered, “I agree to let Arya, daughter of Islanzadí, cast a spell on me.”

We shall have to talk about your wards when you are not so distracted. What if you were unconscious? How could we minister to you then?

It seemed like a good idea after the Burning Plains. Murtagh immobilized us both with magic. I don’t want him or anyone else to be able to cast spells on us without our consent.

Nor should they, but there are more elegant solutions than yours.

Eragon squirmed in the saddle as the elves’ magic took effect and his hip began to tingle and itch as if covered with flea bites. When the itching ceased, he slid a hand under his tunic and was delighted to feel nothing but smooth skin.

Right, he said, rolling his shoulders. Let us teach them to fear our names!

The pearl-white cloud looming large before them, Saphira twisted to the left and then, while Thorn was struggling to turn, plunged into the heart of the cloud. Everything went cold and damp and white, then Saphira shot out of the far side, exiting only a few feet above and behind Thorn.

Roaring with triumph, Saphira dropped upon Thorn and seized him by the flanks, sinking her claws deep into his thighs and along his spine. She snaked her head forward, caught Thorn’s left wing in her mouth, and clamped down with the snick of razor teeth cutting through meat.

Thorn writhed and screamed, a horrible sound Eragon had not suspected dragons were capable of producing.

I have him, said Saphira. I can tear off his wing, but I would rather not. Whatever you are going to do, do it before we fall too far.

His face pale beneath smeared gore, Murtagh pointed at Eragon with Zar’roc—the sword trembling in the air—and a mental ray of immense power invaded Eragon’s consciousness. The foreign presence groped after his thoughts, seeking to grab ahold and subdue them and subject them to Murtagh’s approval. As on the Burning Plains, Eragon noticed that Murtagh’s mind felt as if it contained multitudes, as if a confused chorus of voices was murmuring beneath the turmoil of Murtagh’s own thoughts.

Eragon wondered if Murtagh had a group of magicians assisting him, even as the elves were him.

Difficult as it was, Eragon emptied his mind of everything but an image of Zar’roc. He concentrated on the sword with all his might, smoothing the plane of his consciousness into the calm of meditation so Murtagh would find no purchase with which to establish a foothold in Eragon’s being. And when Thorn flailed underneath them and Murtagh’s attention wavered for an instant, Eragon launched a furious counterattack, clutching at Murtagh’s consciousness.

The two of them strove against each other in grim silence while they fell, wrestling back and forth in the confines of their minds. Sometimes Eragon seemed to gain the upper hand, sometimes Murtagh, but neither could defeat the other. Eragon glanced at the ground rushing up at them and realized that their contest would have to be decided by other means.