Narí noticed what he was doing. “May I see that ring?”

Eragon passed it to the elf, who turned his back. For a few moments, Eragon and Orik maneuvered the canoe alone as Narí picked at the entwined bands. Then, with a pleased exclamation, Narí raised his hand, and the completed ring flashed on his middle finger. “A delightful riddle,” said Narí. He slipped off the ring and shook it, so that it was in its original state when he returned it to Eragon.

“How did you solve it?” demanded Eragon, dismayed and envious that Narí had been able to master the puzzle so easily. “Wait . . . Don’t tell me. I want to figure it out on my own.”

“Of course,” said Narí, smiling.

WOUNDS OF THEPAST

For three and a half days, the citizens of Carvahall discussed the latest attack, the tragedy of young Elmund’s death, and what could possibly be done to escape their thrice-blasted situation. The debate raged with bitter fury through every room of every home. In the space of a word, friends turned against friends, husbands against wives, children against parents, only to reconcile moments later in their frantic attempt to discover a means of survival.

Some said that since Carvahall was doomed anyway, they might as well kill the Ra’zac and remaining soldiers so as to at least have their vengeance. Others said that if Carvahall really was doomed, then the only logical course was to surrender and trust themselves to the king’s mercy, even if it did mean torture and death for Roran and enslavement for everyone else. And still others sided with neither opinion, but rather descended into a sullen black anger directed at everyone who had brought about this calamity. Many did their best to hide their panic in the depths of a tankard.

The Ra’zac themselves had apparently realized that with eleven soldiers dead they no longer had a large enough force to attack Carvahall, and thus had retreated farther down the road, where they were content to post sentinels across Palancar Valley and wait. “Wait for flea-bitten troops from Ceunon or Gil’ead, if you ask me,” Loring said at one meeting. Roran listened to that and more, kept his own council, and silently judged the various schemes. They all seemed dangerously risky.

Roran still had not told Sloan that he and Katrina were engaged. He knew it was foolish to wait, but he feared how the butcher would react when he learned that Roran and Katrina had flouted tradition and, in doing so, undermined Sloan’s authority. Besides, there was plenty of work to divert Roran’s attention; he convinced himself that strengthening the fortifications around Carvahall was his most important task at the moment.

Getting people to help was easier than Roran anticipated. After the last fight, the villagers were more apt to listen and to obey him—that is, those who did not blame him for causing their predicament. He was mystified by his new authority, until he realized that it was the result of the awe, respect, and perhaps even fear his kills had elicited. They called him Stronghammer. Roran Stronghammer.

The name pleased him.

As night engulfed the valley, Roran leaned against a corner of Horst’s dining room, his eyes closed. Conversation flowed from the men and women seated around the candlelit table. Kiselt was in the middle of explaining the state of Carvahall’s supplies. “We won’t starve,” he concluded, “but if we can’t tend to our fields and our flocks soon, we might as well cut our own throats before next winter. It would be a kinder fate.”

Horst scowled. “Dog tripe!”

“Dog tripe or not,” said Gertrude, “I doubt we’ll have a chance to find out. We outnumbered the soldiers ten to one when they arrived. They lost eleven men; we lost twelve, and I’m caring for another nine wounded. What happens, Horst, when they outnumberus ten to one?”

“We will give the bards a reason to remember our names,” retorted the smith. Gertrude shook her head sadly.

Loring banged a fist on the table. “And I say it’s our turn to strike, before weare outnumbered. All we need are a few men, shields, and spears, and we can wipe out theirinfestation. It could be done tonight!”

Roran shifted restlessly. He had heard all this before, and like before, Loring’s proposal ignited an argument that consumed the group. After an hour, the debate still showed no sign of being resolved, nor had any new ideas been presented, except for Thane’s suggestion that Gedric should go tan his own hide, which nearly resulted in a fistfight.

Finally, when the conversation lulled, Roran limped to the table as quickly as his injured calf would allow. “I have something to say.” For him it was the equivalent of stepping on a long thorn and then yanking it out without stopping to consider the pain; it had to be done, and the faster the better.

All eyes—hard, soft, angry, kind, indifferent, and curious—turned to him, and Roran took a deep breath. “Indecision will kill us just as surely as a sword or an arrow.” Orval rolled his eyes, but the rest still listened. “I don’t know if we should attack or flee—”

“Where?” snorted Kiselt.

“—but I do know one thing: our children, our mothers, and our infirm must be protected from danger. The Ra’zac have barred us from Cawley and the other farms down the valley. So what? We know this land better than any in Alagaësia, and there is a place . . . there is a place where our loved ones will be safe: the Spine.”

Roran winced as a barrage of outraged voices assaulted him. Sloan was the loudest, shouting, “I’ll be hanged before I set foot in those cursed mountains!”