“I hope so.”

“I’m sure of it.… If I don’t see you again, you should know: I’ve written a small account of your experiences and of the events that led to them—mainly my adventures with Brom in recovering Saphira’s egg.” Eragon gave him a look of surprise. “I may not get the opportunity to finish it, but I thought it would make a useful addition to Heslant’s work in Domia abr Wyrda.”

Eragon laughed. “I think that would be most fitting. However, if you and I are both alive and free after tomorrow, there are some things I should tell you which will make your account that much more complete and that much more interesting.”

“I’ll hold you to it.”

Eragon wandered through the camp for another hour or so, pausing by the fires where men, dwarves, and Urgals still sat awake. He spoke briefly with each of the warriors he met, inquired whether they were being fairly treated, commiserated about their sore feet and short rations, and sometimes exchanged a quip or two. He hoped that by showing himself among them, he could lift the warriors’ spirits and strengthen their resolve, and thus spread a sense of optimism throughout the army. The Urgals, he found, were in the best mood; they seemed delighted about the upcoming battle and the opportunities for glory that it would provide.

He had another purpose as well: to spread false information. Whenever someone asked him about attacking Urû’baen, he hinted that he and Saphira would be among the battalion to besiege the northwestern section of the city wall. He hoped that Galbatorix’s spies would repeat the lie to the king as soon as the alarms woke Galbatorix the following morn.

As he looked into the faces of those listening to him, Eragon could not help but wonder which, if any, were Galbatorix’s servants. The thought made him uncomfortable, and he found himself listening for footsteps behind him when he moved from one fire to the next.

At last, when he was satisfied that he had spoken to enough warriors to ensure that the information would reach Galbatorix, he left the fires behind and made his way to a tent that was set slightly away from the others by the southern edge of the camp.

He knocked on the center pole: once, twice, three times. There was no response, so he knocked again, this time louder and longer.

A moment later, he heard a sleepy groan and the rustle of shifting blankets. He waited patiently until a small hand pulled aside the entrance flap and the witch-child, Elva, emerged. She wore a dark robe much too large for her, and by the faint light of a torch some yards away, he could see a frown upon her sharp little face.

“What do you want, Eragon?” she demanded.

“Can’t you tell?”

Her frown deepened. “No, I can’t, only that you want something badly enough to wake me in the middle of the night, which even an idiot could see. What is it? I get little enough rest as is, so this had best be important.”

“It is.”

He spoke without interruption for several minutes, describing his plan, then said, “Without you, it won’t work. You’re the point upon which it all turns.”

She gave an ugly laugh. “Such irony, the mighty warrior relying upon a child to kill the one he cannot.”

“Will you help?”

The girl looked down and scuffed her bare foot against the ground.

“If you do, all this”—he motioned toward the camp and the city beyond—“may end far sooner, and then you will not have to endure quite so much—”

“I’ll help.” She stamped her foot and glared at him. “You don’t have to bribe me. I was going to help anyway. I’m not about to let Galbatorix destroy the Varden just because I don’t like you. You’re not that important, Eragon. Besides, I made a promise to Nasuada, and I intend to keep it.” She cocked her head. “There’s something you’re not telling me. Something you’re afraid Galbatorix will find out before we attack. Something about—”

The sound of clanking chains interrupted her.

For a moment, Eragon was confused. Then he realized the sound was coming from the city.

He put his hand on his sword. “Ready yourself,” he said to Elva. “We may have to leave at once.”

Without argument, the girl turned around and disappeared inside the tent.

Reaching out with his mind, Eragon contacted Saphira. Do you hear it?

Yes.

If we have to, we’ll meet you by the road.

The clanking continued for a short while, then there was a hollow boom, followed by silence.

Eragon listened as intently as he could but heard nothing more. He was just about to cast a spell to increase the sensitivity of his ears when there was a dull thud, accompanied by a series of sharp clacks.

Then another …

And another …

A shiver of horror ran down Eragon’s spine. The sound was unmistakably that of a dragon walking on stone. But what a dragon, to hear its steps from over a mile away!

Shruikan, he thought, and his gut clenched with dread.

Throughout the camp, alarm horns blared, and men, dwarves, and Urgals lit torches as the army scrambled to wakefulness.

Eragon spared Elva a sideways glance as she hurried out of the tent, followed by Greta, the old woman who was her caretaker. The girl had donned a short red tunic, over which she wore a mail hauberk just her size.

The footsteps in Urû’baen ceased. The dragon’s shadowy bulk blotted out most of the lanterns and watchlights in the city. How big is he? Eragon wondered, dismayed. Bigger than Glaedr, that was certain. As big as Belgabad? Eragon could not tell. Not yet.