Eragon smiled and said, “Hello, Orik.” He opened his eyes to see Orik clambering up the low knuckle of rock where he and Saphira sat. The dwarf, who was fully armored, carried his Urgal-horn bow in his left hand.

Hunkering beside Eragon, Orik wiped his brow and shook his head. “How’d you know it was me? I was shielding myself.”

Every consciousness feels different,explained Saphira.Just like no two voices sound exactly the same.

“Ah.”

Eragon asked, “What brings you here?”

Orik shrugged. “It struck me you might appreciate a spot of company in this grim night. Especially since Arya’s otherwise engaged and you don’t have Murtagh with you for this battle.”

And I wish I did,thought Eragon. Murtagh had been the only human who matched Eragon’s skill with a sword, at least before the Agaetí Blödhren. Sparring with him had been one of Eragon’s few pleasures during their time together.I would have enjoyed fighting with you again, old friend.

Remembering how Murtagh was killed—dragged underground by Urgals in Farthen Dûr—forced Eragon to confront a sobering truth: No matter how great a warrior you were, as often as not, pure chance dictated who lived and who died in war.

Orik must have sensed his mood, for he clapped Eragon on the shoulder and said, “You’ll be fine. Just imagine how the soldiers out there feel, knowing they have to faceyou before long!”

Gratitude made Eragon smile again. “I’m glad you came.”

The tip of Orik’s nose reddened, and he glanced down, rolling his bow between gnarled hands. “Ah, well,” he grumbled, “Hrothgar wouldn’t much like it if I let something happen to you. Besides, we’re foster brothers now, eh?”

Through Eragon, Saphira asked,What about the other dwarves? Aren’t they under your command?

A twinkle sprang into Orik’s eyes. “Why, yes, so they are. And they’ll be joining us before long. Seeing as Eragon’s a member of Dûrgrimst Ingeitum, it’s only right we fight the Empire together. That way, the two of you won’t be so vulnerable; you can concentrate on finding Galbatorix’s magicians instead of defending yourselves from constant attacks.”

“A good idea. Thank you.” Orik grunted an acknowledgment. Then Eragon asked, “What do you think about Nasuada and the Urgals?”

“She made the right choice.”

“You agree with her!”

“I do. I don’t like it any more than you, but I do.”

Silence enveloped them after that. Eragon sat against Saphira and stared out at the Empire, trying to prevent his growing anxiety from overwhelming him. Minutes dragged by. To him, the interminable waiting before a battle was as stressful as the actual fighting. He oiled Saphira’s saddle, polished rust off his hauberk, and then resumed familiarizing himself with the minds of Du Vrangr Gata, anything to pass the time.

Over an hour later, he paused as he sensed two beings approaching from across the no-man’s-land.Angela? Solembum? Puzzled and alarmed, he woke Orik—who had dozed off—and told him what he had discovered.

The dwarf frowned and drew his war ax from his belt. “I’ve only met the herbalist a few times, but she didn’t seem like the sort who would betray us. She’s been welcome among the Varden for decades.”

“We should still find out what she was doing,” said Eragon.

Together they picked their way through the camp to intercept the duo as they approached the fortifications. Angela soon trotted into the light, Solembum at her heels. The witch was muffled in a dark, full-length cloak that allowed her to blend into the mottled landscape. Displaying a surprising amount of alacrity, strength, and flexibility, she clambered over the many rows of breastwork the dwarves had engineered, swinging from pole to pole, leaping over trenches, and finally running helter-skelter down the steep face of the last rampart to stop, panting, by Saphira.

Throwing back the hood of her cloak, Angela flashed them a bright smile. “A welcoming committee! How thoughtful of you.” As she spoke, the werecat shivered along his length, fur rippling. Then his outline blurred as if seen through cloudy water, resolving once more into the nude figure of a shaggy-haired boy. Angela dipped her hand into a leather purse at her belt and passed a child’s tunic and breeches back to Solembum, along with the small black dagger he fought with.

“What were you doing out there?” asked Orik, peering at them with a suspicious gaze.

“Oh, this and that.”

“I think you better tell us,” said Eragon.

Her face hardened. “Is that so? Don’t you trust Solembum and me?” The werecat bared his pointed teeth.

“Not really,” admitted Eragon, but with a small smile.

“That’s good,” said Angela. She patted him on the cheek. “You’ll live longer. If you must know, then, I was doing my best to help defeat the Empire, onlymy methods don’t involve yelling and running around with a sword.”

“And what exactly are your methods?” growled Orik.

Angela paused to roll up her cloak into a tight bundle, which she stored in her purse. “I’d rather not say; I want it to be a surprise. You won’t have to wait long to find out. It’ll start in a few hours.”

Orik tugged on his beard. “What will start? If you can’t give us a straight answer, we’ll have to take you to Nasuada. Maybe she can wring some sense out of you.”

“It’s no use dragging me off to Nasuada,” said Angela. “She gave me permission to cross lines.”