Scattered among the Urgals—among and on them—were several dozen werecats in their animal forms. Many of the cats sat upright before the fire, utterly still, not even moving their tails, their tufted ears pricked forward attentively. Others lay sprawled on the ground, or on the Urgals’ laps, or in their arms. To Eragon’s astonishment, he even spotted one werecat—a slim white female—resting curled atop the broad head of a Kull, her right foreleg draped over the edge of his skull and her paw pressed possessively against the middle of his brow. Tiny though the werecats were compared to the Urgals, they looked equally savage, and Eragon had no doubt whom he would rather face in battle; Urgals he understood, whereas werecats were … unpredictable.
On the other side of the fire, in front of the tent, was the herbalist Angela. She was sitting cross-legged on a folded blanket, spinning a pile of carded wool into fine thread using a drop spindle, which she held out before her as if to entrance those who were watching. Both werecats and Urgals stared at her intently, their eyes never leaving her as she said:
“—but he was too slow, and the raging, red-eyed rabbit ripped out Hord’s throat, killing him instantly. Then the hare fled into the forest, and out of recorded history. However”—and here Angela leaned forward and lowered her voice—“if you travel through those parts, as I have … sometimes, even to this day, you will come across a freshly killed deer or Feldûnost that looks as if it has been nibbled at, like a turnip. And all around it, you’ll see the prints of an unusually large rabbit. Every now and then, a warrior from Kvôth will go missing, only to be found lying dead with his throat torn out … always with his throat torn out.”
She resumed her former position. “Terrin was horribly upset by the loss of his friend, of course, and he wanted to chase after the hare, but the dwarves still needed his help. So he returned to the stronghold, and for three more days and three more nights the defenders held the walls, until their supplies were low and every warrior was covered in wounds.
“At last, on the morning of the fourth day, when all seemed hopeless, the clouds parted, and far in the distance, Terrin was amazed to see Mimring flying toward the stronghold at the head of a huge thunder of dragons. The sight of the dragons frightened the attackers so much, they threw down their weapons and fled into the wilderness.” Angela’s mouth quirked. “This, as you can imagine, made the dwarves of Kvôth rather happy, and there was much rejoicing.
“And when Mimring landed, Terrin saw, much to his surprise, that his scales had become as clear as diamonds, which, it is said, happened because Mimring flew so close to the sun—for in order to fetch the other dragons in time, he had had to fly over the peaks of the Beor Mountains, higher than any dragon has ever flown before or since. From then on, Terrin was known as the hero of the Siege of Kvôth, and his dragon was known as Mimring the Brilliant, on account of his scales, and they lived happily ever after. Although, if truth be told, Terrin always remained rather afraid of rabbits, even into his old age. And that is what really happened at Kvôth.”
As she fell silent, the werecats began to purr, and the Urgals uttered several low grunts of approval.
“You tell a good story, Uluthrek,” Garzhvog said, his voice sounding like the rumble of falling rock.
“Thank you.”
“But not as I have heard it told,” Eragon commented as he stepped into the light.
Angela’s expression brightened. “Well, you can hardly expect the dwarves to admit they were at the mercy of a rabbit. Have you been lurking in the shadows this whole time?”
“Only for a minute,” he confessed.
“Then you missed the best part of the story, and I’m not about to repeat myself tonight. My throat is too dry now for talking at length.”
Eragon felt the vibration through the soles of his boots as the Kull and the other Urgals got to their feet, much to the displeasure of the werecats resting on them, several of whom uttered yowls of protest as they dropped to the ground.
As he gazed at the collection of grotesque horned faces gathered around the fire, Eragon had to suppress the urge to grasp the hilt of his sword. Even after having fought, traveled, and hunted alongside the Urgals, and even after having sifted through the thoughts of several of them, being in their presence still gave him pause. He knew in his mind that they were allies, but his bones and his muscles could not forget the visceral terror that had gripped him during the numerous occasions when he had confronted their kind in battle.
Garzhvog removed something from the leather pouch he wore on his belt. Extending his thick arm over the fire, he handed it to Angela, who set down her spinning to accept the object with cupped hands. It was a rough orb of sea-green crystal, which twinkled like crusted snow. She slipped it inside the sleeve of her garment, then picked up her drop spindle.
Garzhvog said, “You must come to our camp sometime, Uluthrek, and we will tell you many stories of our own. We have a chanter with us. He is good; when you listen to him recite the tale of Nar Tulkhqa’s victory at Stavarosk, your blood grows hot and you feel like bellowing at the moon and locking horns with even the strongest of your foes.”
“That would depend on whether you have horns to lock,” said Angela. “I would be honored to sit story with you. Perhaps tomorrow evening?”
The giant Kull agreed; then Eragon asked, “Where is Stavarosk? I’ve not heard of it before.”
The Urgals shifted uneasily, and Garzhvog lowered his head and snorted like a bull. “What trickery is this, Firesword?” he demanded. “Do you seek to challenge me by insulting us so?” He opened and closed his hands with unmistakable menace.
Wary, Eragon said, “I meant no harm, Nar Garzhvog. It was an honest question; I’ve never heard the name of Stavarosk before.”
A murmur of surprise spread among the Urgals. “How can this be?” said Garzhvog. “Do not all humans know of Stavarosk? Is it not sung of in every hall from the northern wastes to the Beor Mountains as our greatest triumph? Surely, if nowhere else, the Varden must speak of it.”
Angela sighed and, without looking up from her spinning, said, “You’d best tell them.”
In the back of his mind, Eragon felt Saphira watching their exchange, and he knew that she was readying herself to fly from their tent to his side if a fight became unavoidable.
Choosing his words with care, he said: “No one has mentioned it to me, but then I have not been with the Varden for very long, and—”
“Drajl!” swore Garzhvog. “The lack-horned betrayer does not even have the courage to admit his own defeat. He is a coward and liar!”
“Who? Galbatorix?” Eragon asked cautiously.
A number of the werecats hissed at the mention of the king.
Garzhvog nodded. “Aye. When he came to power, he sought to destroy our race forever. He sent a vast army into the Spine. His soldiers crushed our villages, burned our bones, and left the earth black and bitter behind them. We fought—at first with joy, then with despair, but still we fought. It was the only thing we could do. There was nowhere for us to run, nowhere to hide. Who would protect the Urgralgra when even the Riders had been brought to their knees?
“We were lucky, though. We had a great war chief to lead us, Nar Tulkhqa. He had once been captured by humans, and he had spent many years fighting them, so he knew how you think. Because of that, he was able to rally many of our tribes under his banner. Then he lured Galbatorix’s army into a narrow passage deep within the mountains, and our rams fell upon them from either side. It was a slaughter, Firesword. The ground was wet with blood, and the piles of bodies stood higher than my head. Even to this day, if you go to Stavarosk, you will feel the bones cracking under your feet, and you will find coins and swords and pieces of armor under every patch of moss.”