Eragon&#39;s Informer

Дата: Воскресенье, 2011-10-30, 15:15 | Сообщение # 1

~ Memento mori ~

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Да, мы занимаемся переводом 4-ой книги КП. Поэтому нам необходимы люди, готовые помочь в этом нелегком деле. Но тем не менее нужно быть готовым к отдаче.

Вот несколько правил, которые придется соблюдать, если вы решитесь:

1) На перевод 1-ой главы дается определенный срок - неделя (7 дней). Если по истечению срока глава не была выложена, то ее перевод отдается другому человеку.
2) Можно брать на себя перевод только 1-ой главы, 2-ую главу брать только после опубликации первой.
3) Если вы только подали заявку, перевод выданной вам главы высылается или мне, или выкладывается в этой теме.

4) Как выяснилось, этот пункт все же нужен. Мне нужен ваш перевод, а не чей-то который вы нашли на просторах интернета и решили выдать за свой. Мы переводим для себя в первую очередь и получаем от этого удовольствие, делясь им с другими. ИМХО. Администратор проекта. Селена.

И конечно, Быть готовым ко всему)))

Все заявки с готовностью помочь оставлять здесь или ко мне и Лане в личку слать)

ВЕСЬ ПЕРЕВОД ДЛЯ ЧТЕНИЯ БУДЕТ ДОСТУПЕН, КОГДА БУДЕТ ЗАКОНЧЕН.

Список наших ~~героев-~~переводчиков:
Селена
Лана
255525
X-Fire
Орик
warmed
irene
VesuG
[SOC]
kzkz
Тенга
qsq_alexey
svetca

Список наших ~~героев-~~редакторов:
Илирия
19239
Yakoff
Nala
NiNBeR
sharal

КНИГА для скачивания - PDF и DOC
еще зеркала: PDF и DOC

Список Глав

[spoiler1]Предисловие – перевод завершен – Орик, Actani, Alexms69, Setebos, OOKS, SonicTH, Оля; редакция завершена – Yakoff
1. В проломе – перевод завершен – Lana; редакция завершена – Илирия
2. Упавший молот – перевод завершен – Селена; редакция завершена – Илирия
3. Тени на горизонте - перевод завершен - irene; редакция завершена – Nala
4. Король котов - перевод завершен – Селена; редакция завершена - NiNBeR
5. Последствия – перевод завершен – 255525; редакция завершена – 19239
6. Воспоминания мертвых – перевод завершен – Орик; редакция завершена – Yakoff
7. Что значит быть мужчиной? - перевод завершен - warmed; редакция завершена – Nala
8. Цена власти - перевод завершен - Орик; редакция завершена - NiNBeR
9. Грубо в свет... – перевод завершен – VesuG; редакция завершена – Nala
10. Колыбельная – перевод завершен – X-Fire; редакция завершена – NiNBeR
11. Нет покоя для утомленных – перевод завершен – [SOC]; редакция завершена – onion
12. Танец с мечами – перевод завершен – [SOC]; редакция завершена – Katuxa88
13. No Honor, No Glory, Only Blisters in Unfortunate Places – перевод завершен – X-Fire; редакция завершена – Alexandragon, Селена
14. Пожирательница лун - перевод завершен - Орик; редакция завершена - sharal
15. Разговоры и каллиграфия – перевод завершен – Irene; редакция завершена – Alexandragon
16. Эроуз – перевод завершен – VesuG, Орик; редакция завершена – Katuxa88
17. Драс-Леона – перевод завершен – 255525; редакция завершена – 19239
18. Бросок костей – перевод завершен – [SOC]; редакция завершена – sharal
19. Мой друг, мой враг – перевод завершен – Irene; редакция завершена - NiNBeR
20. Горящая мука – перевод завершен – kzkz; редакция завершена – Феникс
21. Прах и пепел – перевод завершен – onion; редакция завершена – Irene
22. Между делом – перевод завершен – svetca; редакция завершена – sharal
23. Thardsvergûndnzmal – перевод завершен – 255525; редакция завершена – Lana
24. Путь познания – перевод завершен – Селена; редакция завершена – Илирия
25. Откровение – перевод завершен – Lana; редакция завершена – Селена
26. Открытие – перевод завершен – 255525; редакция завершена – Irene
27. Решения – перевод завершен – Селена; редакция завершена – Феникс
28. Под грудой камней – перевод завершен – 255525; редакция завершена – Селена
29. Накормить бога – перевод завершен – Onion; редакция завершена – Novel
30. Неверные на свободе – перевод завершен – Селена; редакция завершена – Илирия
31. Колокольный звон – перевод завершен – 255525; редакция завершена – 19239
32. Black-Shrike-Thorn-Cave – перевод завершен – Alexandragon; редакция завершена – Alexandragon
33. Молот и шлем – перевод завершен – 255525; редакция завершена – Илирия
34. И пали стены... – перевод завершен – 255525; редакция завершена – Селена
35. На берегах озера Леона – перевод завершен – Орик; редакция завершена – Irene
36. Слово (обещание) Всадника – перевод завершен – Lana; редакция завершена – Селена
37. Тайное совещание королей – перевод завершен – Lana; редакция завершена – Novel
38. Бесконечный лабиринт – перевод завершен – 255525; редакция завершена – Irene
39. Отрывки, видимые частично и смутно – перевод завершен Селена; редакция завершена – Илирия
40. Вопросы, оставшиеся без ответов - перевод завершен Lana; редакция завершена – Селена
41. Отъезд – перевод завершен – Тенга, Орик; редакция завершена – Тенга, Селена
42. Пытка неизвестностью – перевод завершен – Irene; редакция завершена – Novel
43. Зал Предсказателя - перевод завершен – Lana; редакция завершена – Irene
44. На крыльях дракона – перевод завершен – 255525; редакция завершена – Селена
45. Звук голоса его, прикосновение рук его... – перевод завершен – Селена; редакция завершена – Илирия
46. Уроки непослушания – перевод завершен – Irene; редакция завершена – sharal
47. Венец из снега и льда – перевод завершен – Селена; редакция завершена – Феникс
48. Плоторойка – перевод завершен – kzkz; редакция завершена – Novel
49. Среди руин – перевод завершен – [SOС]; редакция завершена – Селена
50. Сналгли на двоих - перевод завершен – Lana; редакция завершена – Irene
51. Скала Кутхиан – перевод завершен – Селена; редакция завершена – Илирия
52. Весь мир – иллюзия – перевод завершен – kzkz; редакция завершена – sharal
53. Вопрос характера – перевод завершен – Селена; редакция завершена – Илирия
54. Хранилище душ – перевод завершен – onion; редакция завершена – Lana
55. Пробел, часть первая – перевод завершен – kzkz; редакция завершена – Селена
56. Пробел, часть вторая - перевод завершен - Lana; редакция завершена – Селена
57. Возвращение – перевод завершен Селена; редакция завершена – Илирия
58. Город печали – перевод завершен – kzkz; редакция завершена – Селена
59. Военный совет – перевод завершен – onion; редакция завершена – Irene
60. Вопрос чести - перевод завершен Селена; редакция завершена – Илирия
61. Огонь в ночи – перевод завершен – qsq_alexey; редакция завершена – Селена
62. Над стеной и в пасть – перевод завершен – Селена; редакция завершена – Onion
63. Штурм окончен – перевод завершен – Феникс; редакция завершена – Irene
64. То, что не убивает... – перевод завершен – Селена; редакция завершена – Irene
65. Сердце сражения – перевод завершен – Орик; редакция завершена – Селена
66. Имя всех имен - перевод завершен – Lana; редакция завершена – Селена
67. Мускулы против металла – перевод завершен – Селена
68. Дар знания - перевод завершен - Lana; редакция завершена – Селена
69. Агония – перевод завершен – Irene, редакция завершена – Lana
70. Море крапивы – перевод завершен – Селена
71. Наследник Империи - перевод завершен – Орик; редакция завершена – Irene
72. Подходящая эпитафия - перевод завершен – kzkz; редакция – Селена
73. ФИГУРЫ НА ДОСКЕ - перевод завершен – Lana
74. Фирнэн – перевод завершен – Селена
75. Человек совести - перевод завершен – kzkz
76. Кровавая плата - перевод завершен – Селена
77. Обещания, старые и новые – перевод завершен – irene; редакция завершена – Селена
78. Отбытие - перевод завершен - Lana; редакция завершена – Селена

Pronunciation Guide and Glossary
Acknowledgments - перевод завершен – Орик
[/spoiler1]

ПС. Узнаю, что кто-то приделал ноги переводам без нашего согласия - выкину из магов-эльфов в крестьяне

Все могут видеть как ты внешне выглядишь, но очень мало тех, кто знает, что у тебя внутри...

Улыбайтесь! это многих раздражает...
Никогда не переставай улыбаться, даже когда тебе грустно, кто-то может влюбиться в твою улыбку.

Amor non est medicabilis herbis.
Ego sum rex Romanus et supra grammaticos.
Imperitia pro culpa habetur.

~ и не спорьте вы с админом – он командует парадом, а еще тремя вещами: бубном, тапками и ядом (с)

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Дата: Четверг, 2011-11-10, 17:00 | Сообщение # 2

~ Memento mori ~

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Перевод начался) Ждем помощников)

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Inis

Дата: Четверг, 2011-11-10, 20:30 | Сообщение # 3

Крестьянин

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Selena, может это вам поможет, вот первые 4 главы http://files.mail.ru/VLOPT1

qwerty

Дата: Пятница, 2011-11-11, 01:25 | Сообщение # 4

~ Memento mori ~

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Inis, спасибо, но мы не используем чужие переводы.
VesuG, держи, в лс не влазиет) ~~потом выше закреплю англ текст с номерами глав~~
[spoiler1]32. BLACK-SHRIKE-THORN-CAVE
The cool, moist, morning-air-off-water whistled past Saphira’s head as she dove toward the

rat-nest-city half lit by the rising sun. The low rays of light made the smelly-wood-eggshell-buildings stand

out in high relief, their western sides black with shadow.

The wolf-elf-in-Eragon’s-shape who was riding on her back shouted something at her, but the hungry

wind tore at his words, and she could not make out his meaning. He began to ask her questions with his

song-filled-mind, but she did not wait to let him finish. Instead, she told him of Eragon’s plight and asked
him to alert Nasuada that now was the time for action.

How the shadow-of-Eragon that Blödhgarm wore was supposed to fool anyone, Saphira could not
understand. He did not smell like her partner-of-heart-and-mind, nor did his thoughts feel like Eragon’s.
Still, the two-legs seemed impressed by the apparition, and it was two-legs they were trying to fool.

On the left side of the rat-nest-city, the glittering shape of Thorn lay stretched out along the battlements
above the southern gate. He lifted his crimson head, and she could tell that he had spotted her hurtling
toward the break-bone-ground, as she had expected. Her feelings toward Thorn were too complicated

to sum up in a few brief impressions. Every time she thought of him, she became confused and uncertain,

something she was unaccustomed to.

Nevertheless, she was not about to let the upstart whelp best her in battle.

As the dark chimneys and sharp-edged roofs grew larger, she spread her wings a bit more, feeling the

increased strain in her chest, shoulders, and wing muscles as she began to slow their descent. When she

was only a few hundred feet above the closely packed swell of buildings, she swooped upward and

allowed her wings to snap out to their full extent. The effort required to stop her fall was immense; for a

moment, it felt as if the wind might tear her wings free of their sockets.

She shifted her tail to maintain balance, then wheeled over the city until she located the

black-shrike-thorn-cave where the blood-mad-priests worshipped. Tucking in her wings again, she

dropped the last number of feet and, with a thunderous crash, landed on the middle of the cathedral’s

roof.

She dug her claws into the tiles of the roof to stop herself from sliding off into the street below. Then she

threw back her head and roared as loudly as she could, challenging the world and everything in it.

There was a bell clanging in the tower of the building next to the black-shrike-thorn-cave. She found the

noise irritating, so she twisted her neck and loosed a jet of blue and yellow flame at it. The tower did not

catch fire, as it was stone, but the rope and beams supporting the bell ignited, and a few seconds later,

the bell fell crashing into the interior of the tower.

That pleased her, as did the two-legs-round-ears who ran screaming from the area. She was a dragon,

after all. It was only right that they should fear her.

One of the two-legs paused by the edge of the square in front of the black-shrike-thorn-cave, and she

heard him shout a spell at her, his voice like the squeaking of a frightened mouse. Whatever the spell was,

Eragon’s wards shielded her from it—at least she assumed they did, for she noticed no difference in how

she felt or in the appearance of the world around her.

The wolf-elf-in-Eragon’s-shape killed the magician for her. She could feel how Blödhgarm grasped hold

of the spellcaster’s mind and wrestled the two-legs-round-ears’ thoughts into submission, whereupon

Blödhgarm uttered a single word in the ancient-elf-magic-language, and the two-legs-round-ears fell to

the ground, blood seeping from his open mouth.

Then the wolf-elf tapped her on the shoulder and said, “Ready yourself, Brightscales. Here they come.”

She saw Thorn rising above the edge of the rooftops, Eragon-half-brother-Murtagh a small, dark figure

on his back. In the light of the morning sun, Thorn shone and sparkled almost as brilliantly as she herself

did. Her scales were cleaner than his, though, as she had taken special care when grooming earlier. She

could not imagine going into battle looking anything but her best. Her enemies should not only fear her,

but admire her.

She knew it was vanity on her part, but she did not care. No other race could match the grandeur of the

dragons. Also, she was the last female of her kind, and she wanted those who saw her to marvel at her

appearance and to remember her well, so if dragons were to vanish forevermore, two-legs would

continue to speak of them with the proper respect, awe, and wonder.

As Thorn climbed a thousand or more feet above the rat-nest-city, Saphira spared a quick glance

around to make sure that partner-of-her-heart-and-mind-Eragon was nowhere near the

black-shrike-thorn-cave. She did not want to hurt him by accident in the fight that was about to take

place. He was a fierce hunter, but he was small and easily squished.

She was still working to unravel the dark-echoing-painful-memories Eragon had shared with her, but she

understood enough of them to know that events had once again proved what she had long believed: that

whenever she and her partner-of-heart-and-mind were apart, he ended up in trouble of one form or

another. Eragon, she knew, would disagree, but his latest misadventure had done nothing to convince her

otherwise, and she felt a perverse satisfaction in having been right.

Once Thorn reached an appropriate height, he twisted round and dove toward her, flames shooting from

his open maw.

The fire she did not fear—Eragon’s wards would shield her from it—but Thorn’s massive weight and

strength would allow him to quickly exhaust any spells designed to shield her from physical danger. To

protect herself, she ducked and pressed her body flat against the cathedral, even as she twisted her neck

and snapped at Thorn’s pale underbelly.

A swirling wall of flames engulfed her, rumbling and roaring like a giant waterfall. The flames were so

bright, she instinctively closed her inner eyelids, the same as she would when underwater, and then the

light was no longer blinding.

The flames soon cleared, and as Thorn rushed past overhead, the tip of his thick, rib-bruising tail traced

a line across the membrane of her right wing. The scratch bled, but not profusely, and she did not think it

would cause her much difficulty while flying, painful though it was.

Thorn dove at her again and again, trying to bait her into taking to the air. She refused to budge,

however, and after a few more passes, he tired of harrying her and landed on the other end of the

black-shrike-thorn-cave, his huge wings outstretched for balance.

The entire building shook as Thorn dropped to all fours, and many of the gem-glass-picture-windows in

the walls below shattered and fell tinkling to the ground. Thorn was bigger than her now, as a result of the

egg-breaker-Galbatorix’s meddling, but she was not intimidated. She had more experience than Thorn,

and besides, she had trained with Glaedr, who had been larger than both she and Thorn combined. Also,

Thorn dared not kill her … nor did she think he wanted to.

The red dragon snarled and stepped forward, the tips of his claws scraping against the tiles on the roof.

She snarled in return and retreated several feet, until she could feel her tail pressing against the base of the

spires that rose up like a wall at the front of the black-shrike-thorn-cave.

The tip of Thorn’s tail twitched, and she knew he was about to pounce.

She drew in her breath and bathed him in a torrent of flickering flames. Her task now was to keep Thorn

and Murtagh from realizing that it was not Eragon who was sitting on her. To that end, she could either

stay far enough away from Thorn that Murtagh would be unable to read the thoughts of the

wolf-elf-in-Eragon’s-shape, or she could attack often and ferociously enough that Murtagh would not

have the opportunity—which would be difficult, as Murtagh was used to fighting from Thorn’s back even

while Thorn turned and twisted through the air. Still, they were close to the ground, and that would help

her, for she preferred to attack. Always to attack.

“Is that the best you can do?” Murtagh shouted with a magically enhanced voice from within the

ever-shifting cocoon of fire.

Even as the last of the flames died in her mouth, Saphira leaped toward Thorn. She struck him full in the

chest, and their necks intertwined, heads slapping against one another as they each tried to fix their teeth

around the other’s throat. The force of the impact pushed Thorn backward off the

black-shrike-thorn-cave, and he flailed his wings, buffeting Saphira as both he and she fell toward the

ground.

They landed with a crash that split paving stones and jarred the nearby houses. Something cracked in

Thorn’s left wing-shoulder, and his back arched unnaturally as Murtagh’s wards kept the dragon from

crushing him flat.

Saphira could hear Murtagh cursing from underneath Thorn, and she decided that it would be best to

move away before the angry two-legs-round-ears started casting spells.

She jumped up, kicking Thorn in the belly as she did so, and alit on the peak of the house behind the red

dragon. The building was too weak to support her, so she took flight again and, just for good measure,

set the row of buildings on fire.

Let them deal with that, she thought, satisfied, as the flames gnawed hungrily at the wooden structures.

Returning to the black-shrike-thorn-cave, she slipped her claws under the tiles and began to tear open

the roof, ripping it apart the same as she had ripped apart the roof of the castle in Durza-Gil’ead. Only

now she was bigger. Now she was stronger. And the blocks of stone seemed to weigh no more than

pebbles did to Eragon. The blood-mad-priests who worshipped within had hurt the

partner-of-her-heart-and-mind, had hurt dragon-blood-elf-Arya, young-face-old-mind-Angela, and the

werecat Solembum—he of the many names—and they had killed Wyrden. For that, Saphira was

determined to destroy the black-shrike-thorn-cave in revenge.

Within seconds, she opened a gaping hole in the ceiling of the building. She filled the interior with a burst

of flame, then hooked her claws into the ends of the brass pipes of the wind organ and pulled them free

of the rear wall of the cathedral. They fell clanging and crashing onto the pews below.

Thorn roared, and then he sprang up from the street into the air above the black-shrike-thorn-cave and

hung there, flapping heavily to maintain his position. He appeared as a featureless black silhouette against

the wall of flames rising from the houses behind him, save for his translucent wings, which glowed orange

and crimson.

He lunged toward her, reaching out with his serrated claws.

Saphira waited until the last possible moment; then she leaped to the side, off the

black-shrike-thorn-cave, and Thorn rammed headfirst into the base of the cathedral’s central spire. The

tall-hole-ridden-stone-spike shuddered under the impact, and the very top of it—an ornate golden

rod—toppled over and plunged more than four hundred feet to the square below.

Roaring with frustration, Thorn struggled to right himself. His hindquarters slid into the opening Saphira

had torn in the roof, and he scrabbled against the tiles as he tried to claw his way back out.

While he did, Saphira flew to the front of the black-shrike-thorn-cave and positioned herself on the

opposite side of the spire Thorn had collided with.

She gathered her strength, then batted the spire with her right forepaw.

Statues and carved decorations shattered underneath her foot; clouds of dust clogged her nostrils; and

bits of stone and mortar rained down upon the square. The spire held, though, so she struck it again.

Thorn’s bellowing took on a frantic note as he realized what she was doing, and he strove even harder

to pull himself free.

On Saphira’s third blow, the tall-stone-spike cracked at the base and, with agonizing slowness,

collapsed backward, falling toward the roof. Thorn only had time to utter a furious snarl, and then the

tower of rubble landed on top of him, knocking him down into the shell of the ruined building and burying

him under piles of rubble.

The sound of the spire smashing to pieces echoed across the whole of the rat-nest-city, like a clap of

rolling thunder.

Saphira snarled in response, this time with a sense of savage victory. Thorn would dig himself out soon

enough, but until then, he was at her mercy.

Tilting her wings, she circled the black-shrike-thorn-cave. As she passed along the sides of the building,

she swung at the fluted buttresses that supported the walls, demolishing them one at a time. The blocks of

stone tumbled to the ground, creating an unpleasant din.

When she had removed all the buttressess, the unsupported walls began to sway and bulge outward.

Thorn’s efforts to extricate himself only worsened the situation, and after a few seconds, the walls gave

way. The entire structure collapsed with an avalanche-like rumble, and a huge plume of dust billowed

upward.

Saphira crowed with triumph; then she landed on her hind legs next to the mound of debris and

proceeded to paint the blocks of stone with the hottest stream of fire she could summon forth. Flames

were easy to deflect with magic, but deflecting actual heat required greater effort and energy. By forcing

Murtagh to expend even more of his strength to keep Thorn and himself from being cooked alive, as well

as whatever energy he was using to avoid being squished, she hoped to deplete his reserves enough that

Eragon and the two-legs-pointed-ears might have a chance of defeating him.

While she breathed fire, the wolf-elf on her back chanted spells, though what they were for she did not

know, nor did she particularly care. She trusted the two-legs. Whatever he was doing, she was sure it

would help.

Saphira skittered backward as the blocks in the center of the mound exploded outward and, with a roar,

Thorn lurched free of the rubble. His wings were crumpled like those of a stepped-on butterfly, and he

was bleeding from several gashes along his legs and back.

He glared at her and snarled, his ruby eyes dark with battle rage. For the first time, she had truly angered

him, and she could see that he was eager to tear at her flesh and taste her blood.

Good, she thought. Maybe he was not quite such a beaten-frightened-cur as she had assumed.

Murtagh reached into a pouch on his belt and removed a small round object. From experience, Saphira

knew that it was enchanted and he would use it to heal Thorn’s injuries.

Without waiting, she took flight, trying to gain as much altitude as possible before Thorn was able to set

off in pursuit. She glanced down after a few wing beats and saw him rising toward her at a furious speed,

a large-red-sharp-claw-sparrowhawk.

She twisted in the air and was just about to dive at him when, in the depths of her mind, she heard

Eragon shout:

Saphira!

Alarmed, she continued to twist until she was aimed at the southern arch-gate of the city, where she had

sensed Eragon’s presence. She pulled in her wings as close as she dared and dropped in a steep angle

toward the arch.

Thorn lunged at her as she plummeted past, and she knew without looking that he was following close

behind.

And so the two of them raced toward the thin wall of the rat-nest-city, and the cool

morning-air-off-water howled like a wounded wolf in Saphira’s ears.[/spoiler1]

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Орик

Дата: Пятница, 2011-11-11, 09:47 | Сообщение # 5

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Здравствуйте. Я бы хотел помогать вам переводить книгу. Вы не против?

Дата: Пятница, 2011-11-11, 10:50 | Сообщение # 6

~ Memento mori ~

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Орик, не против) ты уже что-то перевел или тебе выдать номер главы?

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Орик

Дата: Пятница, 2011-11-11, 12:09 | Сообщение # 7

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Selena, я начинал переводить краткое изложение трёх последних книг. Если оно вам нужно, то я могу его допереводить. Если нет, то лучше выдать главу.

Дата: Пятница, 2011-11-11, 12:13 | Сообщение # 8

~ Memento mori ~

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Орик, нам нужно будет все) поэтому переводи) и еще дам тебе маленькую главу, как все закончишь, выложишь здесь)
вот держи)
[spoiler1]6. MEMORIES OF THE DEAD
albatorix is mad and therefore unpredictable, but he also has gaps in his reasoning that an

ordinary person would not. If you can find those, Eragon, then perhaps you and Saphira can

defeat him.”

Brom lowered his pipe, his face grave. “I hope you do. My greatest desire, Eragon, is that you

and Saphira will live long and fruitful lives, free from fear of Galbatorix and the Empire. I wish

that I could protect you from all of the dangers that threaten you, but alas, that is not within my

ability. All I can do is give you my advice and teach you what I cannowwhile I am still here.… My

son. Whatever happens to you, know that I love you, and so did your mother. May the stars watch

over you, Eragon Bromsson.”

Eragon opened his eyes as the memory faded. Above him, the ceiling of the tent sagged inward, as loose

as an empty waterskin, after the battering it had received during the now-departed storm. A drop of

water fell from the belly of a fold, struck his right thigh, and soaked through his leggings, chilling the skin

beneath. He knew he would have to go tighten up the tent’s support ropes, but he was reluctant to move

from the cot.

And Brom never said anything to you about Murtagh? He never told you that Murtagh and I

were half brothers?

Saphira, who was curled up outside the tent, said,Asking again won’t change my answer .

Why wouldn’t he, though? Why didn’t he? He must have known about Murtagh. He couldn’tnot

have .

Saphira’s response was slow to come.Brom’s reasons were ever hisown, but if I had to guess, I

imagine he thought it more important to tell you how he cared for you, and to give you what

advice he could, than to spend his time talking about Murtagh .

He could have warned me, though! Just a few words would have sufficed.

I cannot say for certain what drove him, Eragon. You have to accept that there are some

questions you will never be able to answer about Brom. Trust in his love for you, and do not allow

such concerns to disturb you.

Eragon stared down his chest at his thumbs. He placed them side by side, to better compare them. His

left thumb had more wrinkles on its second joint than did his right, while his right had a small, ragged scar

that he could not remember getting, although it must have happened since the Agaetí Blödhren, the

Blood-oath Celebration.

Thank you, he said to Saphira. Through her, he had watched and listened to Brom’s message three

times since the fall of Feinster, and each time he had noticed some detail of Brom’s speech or movement

that had previously escaped him. The experience comforted and satisfied him, for it fulfilled a desire that

had plagued him his entire life: to know the name of his father and to know that his father cared for him.

Saphira acknowledged his thanks with a warm glow of affection.

Though Eragon had eaten and then rested for perhaps an hour, his weariness had not entirely abated.

Nor had he expected it to. He knew from experience that it could take weeks to fully recover from the

debilitating effects of a long, drawn-out battle. As the Varden approached Urû’baen, he and everyone

else in Nasuada’s army would have less and less time to recover before each new confrontation. The war

would wear them down until they were bloody, battered, and barely able to fight, at which point they

would still have to face Galbatorix, who would have been waiting for them in ease and comfort.

He tried not to think about it too much.

Another drop of water struck his leg, cold and hard. Irritated, he swung his legs off the edge of the cot

and sat upright, then went over to the bare patch of dirt in one corner and knelt next to it.

“Deloi sharjalví!” he said, as well as several other phrases in the ancient language that were necessary to

disarm the traps he had set the previous day.

The dirt began to seethe like water coming to a boil, and rising out of the churning fountain of rocks,

insects, and worms, there emerged an ironbound chest a foot and a half in length. Reaching out, Eragon

took hold of the chest and released his spell. The ground grew calm once more.

He set the chest on the now-solid dirt. “Ládrin,” he whispered, and waved his hand past the lock with

no keyhole that secured the hasp. It popped open with aclick .

A faint golden glow filled the tent as he lifted the lid of the chest.

Nestled securely within the velvet-lined interior lay Glaedr’s Eldunarí, the dragon’s heart of hearts. The

large, jewel-like stone glittered darkly, like a dying ember. Eragon cupped the Eldunarí between his

hands, the irregular, sharp-edged facets warm against his palms, and stared into its pulsing depths. A

galaxy of tiny stars swirled within the center of the stone, although their movement had slowed and there

seemed to be far fewer than when Eragon had first beheld the stone in Ellesméra, when Glaedr had

discharged it from his body and into Eragon and Saphira’s care.

As always, the sight fascinated Eragon; he could have sat watching the ever-changing pattern for days.

We should try again, said Saphira, and he agreed.

Together they reached out with their minds toward the distant lights, toward the sea of stars that

represented Glaedr’s consciousness. Through cold and darkness they sailed, then heat and despair and

indifference so vast and so great, it sapped their will to do anything other than to stop and weep.

Glaedr … Elda, they cried over and over, but there was no answer, no shifting of the indifference.

At last they withdrew, unable to withstand the crushing weight of Glaedr’s misery any longer.

As he returned to himself, Eragon became aware of someone knocking on the front pole of his tent, and

then he heard Arya say, “Eragon? May I enter?”

He sniffed and blinked to clear his eyes. “Of course.”

The dim gray light from the cloudy sky fell upon him as Arya pushed aside the entrance flap. He felt a

sudden pang as his eyes met hers—green, slanted, and unreadable—and an ache of longing filled him.

“Has there been any change?” she asked, and came to kneel by him. Instead of armor, she was wearing

the same black leather shirt, trousers, and thin-soled boots as when he had rescued her in Gil’ead. Her

hair was damp from washing and hung down her back in long, heavy ropes. The scent of crushed pine

needles attended her, as it so often did, and it occurred to Eragon to wonder whether she used a spell to

create the aroma or if that was how she smelled naturally. He would have liked to ask her, but he did not

dare.

In answer to her question, he shook his head.

“May I?” She indicated Glaedr’s heart of hearts.

He moved out of the way. “Please.”

Arya placed her hands on either side of the Eldunarí and then closed her eyes. While she sat, he took the

opportunity to study her with an openness and intensity that would have been offensive otherwise. In

every aspect, she seemed the epitome of beauty, even though he knew that another might say her nose

was too long, or her face too angled, or her ears too pointed, or her arms too muscled.

With a sharp intake of breath, Arya jerked her hands away from the heart of hearts, as if it had burned

her. Then she bowed her head, and Eragon saw her chin quiver ever so faintly. “He is the most unhappy

creature I have ever met.… I would we could help him. I do not think he will be able to find his way out

of the darkness on his own.”

“Do you think …” Eragon hesitated, not wanting to give voice to his suspicion, then continued: “Do you

think he will go mad?”

“He may have already. If not, then he dances on the very cusp of insanity.”

Sorrow came over Eragon as they both gazed at the golden stone.

When at last he was able to bring himself to speak again, he asked, “Where is the Dauthdaert?”

“Hidden within my tent even as you have hidden Glaedr’s Eldunarí. I can bring it here, if you want, or I

can continue to safeguard it until you need it.”

“Keep it. I can’t carry it around with me, or Galbatorix may learn of its existence. Besides, it would be

foolish to store so many treasures in one place.”

She nodded.

The ache inside of Eragon intensified. “Arya, I—” He stopped as Saphira saw one of the blacksmith

Horst’s sons—Albriech, he thought, although it was difficult to tell him from his brother, Baldor, because

of the distortions in Saphira’s vision—running toward the tent. The interruption relieved Eragon, as he

had not known what he was going to say.

“Someone’s coming,” he announced, and closed the lid of the chest.

Loud, wet footsteps sounded in the mud outside. Then Albriech, for it was Albriech, shouted, “Eragon!

Eragon!”

“What!”

“Mother’s birth pains have just begun! Father sent me to tell you and to ask if you will wait with him, in
case anything goes wrong and your skill with magic is needed. Please, if you can—”

Whatever else he said was lost to Eragon as he rushed to lock and bury the chest. Then he cast his
cloak over his shoulders and was fumbling with the clasp when Arya touched him on the arm and said,
“May I accompany you? I have some experience with this. If your people will let me, I can make the
birth easier for her.”

Eragon did not even pause to consider his decision. He motioned toward the entrance of the tent. “After
you.”
[/spoiler1]

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Дата: Пятница, 2011-11-11, 16:05 | Сообщение # 9

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ух ты, нас уже много!

timotheus

Дата: Пятница, 2011-11-11, 23:25 | Сообщение # 10

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Здравствуйте, дайте, пожалуйста главу для перевода=)

per aspera ad astra

Дата: Суббота, 2011-11-12, 02:21 | Сообщение # 11

~ Memento mori ~

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timotheus, 2 глава, текст ниже)
[spoiler1]2. HAMMERFALL
"Go!” shouted Eragon as the wall of the keep tumbled down with a thunderous crash, burying Roran and

five other men beneath a mound of stone twenty feet high and flooding the courtyard with a dark cloud of

dust.

Eragon’s shout was so loud, his voice broke, and slick, copper-tasting blood coated the back of his

throat. He inhaled and doubled over, coughing.

“Vaetna,” he gasped, and waved his hand. With a sound like rustling silk, the thick gray dust parted,

leaving the center of the courtyard clear. Concerned as he was for Roran, Eragon barely noticed the

strength the spell took from him.

“No, no, no, no,” Eragon muttered.He can’t be dead. He can’t, he can’t, he can’t .… As if repetition

might make it true, Eragon continued to think the phrase. But with every repetition, it became less a

statement of fact or hope and more a prayer to the world at large.

Before him, Arya and the other warriors of the Varden stood coughing and rubbing their eyes with the

palms of their hands. Many were hunched over, as if expecting a blow; others gaped at the front of the

damaged keep. The rubble from the building spilled into the middle of the courtyard, obscuring the

mosaic. Two and a half rooms on the second story of the keep, and one on the third—the room where

the magician had expired so violently—stood exposed to the elements. The chambers and their

furnishings seemed dirty and rather shabby in the full light of the sun. Within, a half-dozen soldiers armed

with crossbows were scrambling back from the drop they now found themselves standing by. With much

pushing and shoving, they hurried through the doors at the far ends of the rooms and vanished into the

depths of the keep.

Eragon tried to guess the weight of a block in the pile of rubble; it must have been many hundreds of

pounds. If he, Saphira, and the elves all worked together, he was sure that they could shift the stones

with magic, but the effort would leave them weak and vulnerable. Moreover, it would take an

impractically long time. For a moment, Eragon thought of Glaedr—the golden dragon was more than

strong enough to lift the whole pile at once—but haste was of the essence, and Glaedr’s Eldunarí would

take too long to retrieve. In any case, Eragon knew that he might not even be able to convince Glaedr to

talk with him, much less to help rescue Roran and the other men.

Then Eragon pictured Roran as he had appeared just before the deluge of stones and dust had hidden

him from view, standing underneath the eaves of the doorway to the keep, and with a start, he realized

what to do.

“Saphira, help them!” Eragon shouted as he cast aside his shield and bounded forward.

Behind him, he heard Arya say something in the ancient language—a short phrase that might have been

“Hide this!” Then she had caught up to him, running with her sword in hand, ready to fight.

When he reached the base of the rubble, Eragon leaped as high as he could. He alit with a single foot

upon the slanting face of a block and then jumped again, bounding from point to point like a mountain

goat scaling the side of a gorge. He hated to risk disturbing the blocks, but climbing the pile was the

fastest way to reach his destination.

With one last lunge, Eragon cleared the edge of the second story, then raced across the room. He

shoved the door in front of him with such force that he broke the latch and hinges and sent the door flying

into the wall of the corridor beyond, splitting the heavy oak planks.

Eragon sprinted down the corridor. His footsteps and his breathing sounded strangely muted to him, as if

his ears were filled with water.

He slowed as he drew near an open doorway. Through it, he saw a study with five armed men pointing

at a map and arguing. None of them noticed Eragon.

He kept running.

He sped around a corner and collided with a soldier walking in the opposite direction. Eragon’s vision

flashed red and yellow as his forehead struck the rim of the man’s shield. He clung to the soldier, and the

two of them staggered back and forth across the corridor like a pair of drunk dancers.

The soldier uttered an oath as he struggled to regain his balance. “What’s wrong with you, you

thrice-blasted—” he said, and then he saw Eragon’s face, and his eyes widened. “You!”

Eragon balled his right hand and punched the man in the belly, directly underneath his rib cage. The blow

lifted the man off his feet and smashed him into the ceiling. “Me,” Eragon agreed as the man dropped to

the floor, lifeless.

Eragon continued down the corridor. His already rapid pulse seemed to have doubled since he entered

the keep; he felt as if his heart were about to burst out of his chest.

Where is it?he thought, frantic as he glanced through yet another doorway and saw nothing but an

empty room.

At last, at the end of a dingy side passage, he caught sight of a winding staircase. He took the stairs five

at a time, heedless of his own safety as he descended toward the first story, pausing only to push a

startled archer out of his way.

The stairs ended, and he emerged into a high-vaulted chamber reminiscent of the cathedral in

Dras-Leona. He spun around, gathering quick impressions: shields and arms and red pennants hung on

the walls; narrow windows close under the ceiling; torches mounted in wrought-iron brackets; empty

fireplaces; long, dark trestle tables stacked along both sides of the hall; and a dais at the head of the

room, where a robed and bearded man stood before a high-backed chair. Eragon was in the main hall of

the castle. To his right, between him and the doors that led to the entrance of the keep, was a contingent

of fifty or more soldiers. The gold thread in their tunics glittered as they stirred with surprise.

“Kill him!” the robed man ordered, sounding more frightened than lordly. “Whosoever kills him shall

have a third of my treasure! So I promise!”

A terrible frustration welled up inside Eragon at being delayed once again. He tore his sword from its

scabbard, lifted it over his head, and shouted:

“Brisingr!”

With a rush of air, a cocoon of wraithlike blue flames sprang into existence around the blade, running up

toward the tip. The heat from the fire warmed Eragon’s hand, arm, and the side of his face.

Then Eragon lowered his gaze to the soldiers. “Move,” he growled.

The soldiers hesitated a moment more, then turned and fled.

Eragon charged forward, ignoring the panicked laggards within reach of his burning sword. One man

tripped and fell before him; Eragon jumped completely over the soldier, not even touching the tassel on

his helm.

The wind from Eragon’s passage tore at the flames on the blade, stretching them out behind the sword

like the mane of a galloping horse.

Hunching his shoulders, Eragon bulled past the double doors that guarded the entrance to the main hall.

He dashed through a long, wide chamber edged with rooms full of soldiers—as well as gears, pulleys,

and other mechanisms used for raising and lowering the gates of the keep—and then ran full tilt into the

portcullis that blocked the way to where Roran had been standing when the keep wall collapsed.

The iron grating bent as Eragon slammed into it, but not enough to break the metal.

He staggered back a step.

He again channeled energy stored within the diamonds of his belt—the belt of Beloth the Wise—and

into Brisingr, emptying the gemstones of their precious store as he stoked the sword’s fire to an almost

unbearable intensity. A wordless shout escaped him as he drew back his arm and struck at the portcullis.

Orange and yellow sparks sprayed him, pitting his gloves and tunic and stinging his exposed flesh. A drop

of molten iron fell sizzling onto the tip of his boot. With a twitch of his ankle, he shook it off.

Three cuts he made, and a man-sized section of the portcullis fell inward. The severed ends of the

grating glowed white-hot, lighting the area with their soft radiance.

Eragon allowed the flames rising from Brisingr to die out as he proceeded through the opening he had

created.

First to the left, then to the right, and then to the left again he ran as the passage alternated directions, the

convoluted path designed to slow the advance of troops if they managed to gain access to the keep.

When he rounded the last corner, Eragon saw his destination: the debris-choked vestibule. Even with his

elflike vision, he could make out only the largest shapes in the darkness, for the falling stones had

extinguished the torches on the walls. He heard an odd huffing and scuffling, as if some sort of clumsy

beast were rooting through the rubble.

“Naina,” said Eragon.
A directionless blue light illuminated the space. And there before him, covered in dirt, blood, ash, and
sweat, with his teeth bared in a fearsome snarl, appeared Roran, grappling with a soldier over the
corpses of two others.
The soldier winced at the sudden brightness, and Roran took advantage of the man’s distraction to twist and push him to his knees, whereupon he grabbed the soldier’s dagger from his belt and drove it up
under the corner of his jaw.

The soldier kicked twice and then was still.
Panting for breath, Roran rose from the body, blood dripping from his fingers. He looked over at Eragon
with a curiously glazed expression. “About time you—” he said, and then his eyes rolled back into his head as he fainted.

[/spoiler1]

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irene

Дата: Воскресенье, 2011-11-13, 00:02 | Сообщение # 12

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здравствуйте, я бы тоже хотела поучаствовать, выдайте главу, пожалуйста )

ain't no sunshine when you're gone

Xevios

Дата: Воскресенье, 2011-11-13, 00:23 | Сообщение # 13

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Жду свою главу) Я приехал, готов начать работу.

Xevi from hot desert

Дата: Воскресенье, 2011-11-13, 11:53 | Сообщение # 14

Верный друг

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irene, 3. Shadows on the Horizon
Спасибо за участие biggrin

[spoiler1]SHADOWS ON THE HORIZON

In order to catch Roran before he struck the floor, Eragon had to drop Brisingr, which he was reluctant to do. Nevertheless, he opened his hand, and the sword clattered against the stones even as Roran's weight settled into his arms.

"Is he badly hurt?" Arya asked.

Eragon flinched, surprised to find her and Blödhgarm standing next to him. "I don't think so." He patted Roran's cheeks several times, smearing the dust on his skin. In the flat, ice-blue glare of Eragon's spell, Roran appeared gaunt, his eyes surrounded by bruised shadows, and his lips a purplish color, as if stained with the juice from berries. "Come on, wake up."

After a few seconds, Roran's eyelids twitched; then he opened them and looked at Eragon, obviously confused. Relief washed over Eragon, so strong he could taste it. "You blacked out for a moment," he explained.

"Ah."

He's alive!Eragon said to Saphira, risking a brief moment of contact.

Her pleasure was obvious.Good. I will stay here and help the elves move the stones away from the building. If you need me, shout, and I'll find a way to reach you .

Roran's mail tinkled as Eragon helped him onto his feet. "What of the others?" Eragon asked, and gestured toward the mound of rubble.

Roran shook his head.

"Are you sure?"

"No one could have survived under there. I only escaped because  because I was partially sheltered by the eaves."

"And you? You're all right?" Eragon asked.

"What?" Roran frowned, seeming distracted, as if the thought had not even occurred to him. "I'm fine. Wrist might be broken. It's not bad."

Eragon cast a meaningful glance at Blödhgarm. The elf's features tightened with a faint display of displeasure, but he went over to Roran and, in a smooth voice, said, "If I may." He extended a hand toward Roran's injured arm.

While Blödhgarm labored over Roran, Eragon picked up Brisingr, then stood guard with Arya at the entrance in case any soldiers were so foolhardy as to launch an attack.

"There, all done," Blödhgarm said. He moved away from Roran, who rolled his wrist in a circle, testing the joint.

Satisfied, Roran thanked Blödhgarm, then lowered his hand and cast about the rubble-strewn floor until he found his hammer. He readjusted the position of his armor and looked out the entrance. "I've about had my fill of this Lord Bradburn," he said in a deceptively calm tone. "He has held his seat overlong, I think, and ought to be relieved of his responsibilities. Wouldn't you agree, Arya?"

"I would," she said.

"Well then, let's find the soft-bellied old fool; I would give him a few gentle taps from my hammer in memory of everyone we have lost today."

"He was in the main hall a few minutes ago," Eragon said, "but I doubt he stayed to await our return."

Roran nodded. "Then we'll have to hunt him down." And with that, he strode forward.

Eragon extinguished his illuminating spell and hurried after his cousin, holding Brisingr at the ready. Arya and Blödhgarm stayed as close beside him as the convoluted passageway would allow.

The chamber that the passageway led to was abandoned, as was the main hall of the castle, where the only evidence of the dozens of soldiers and officials who had populated it was a helmet that lay on the floor, rocking back and forth in ever-decreasing arcs.

Eragon and Roran ran past the marble dais, Eragon restricting his speed so as not to leave Roran behind. They kicked down a door just to the left of the platform and rushed up the stairs beyond.

At each story, they paused so that Blödhgarm could search with his mind for any trace of Lord Bradburn and his retinue, but he found none.

As they reached the third level, Eragon heard a stampede of footsteps and saw a thicket of jabbing spears fill the curved archway in front of Roran. The spears cut Roran on the cheek and on his right thigh, coating his knee with blood. He bellowed like a wounded bear and rammed into the spears with his shield, trying to push his way up the last few steps and out of the stairwell. Men shouted frantically.

Behind Roran, Eragon switched Brisingr to his left hand, then reached around his cousin, grabbed one of the spears by the haft, and yanked it out of the grip of whoever was holding it. He flipped the spear around and threw it into the center of the men packed in the archway. Someone screamed, and a gap appeared in the wall of bodies. Eragon repeated the process, and his throws soon reduced the number of soldiers enough that, step by step, Roran was able to force the mass of men back.

As soon as Roran won clear of the stairs, the twelve remaining soldiers scattered across a wide landing fringed with balustrades, each man seeking room to swing his weapon without obstruction. Roran bellowed again and leaped after the nearest soldier. He parried the man's sword, then stepped past his guard and struck the man on his helm, which rang like an iron pot.

Eragon sprinted across the landing and tackled a pair of soldiers who were standing close together. He knocked them to the ground, then dispatched each of them with a single thrust of Brisingr. An ax hurtled toward him, whirling end over end. He ducked and pushed a man over a balustrade before engaging two others who were trying to disembowel him with billed pikes.

Then Arya and Blödhgarm were moving among the men, silent and deadly, the elves' inherent grace making the violence appear more like an artfully staged performance than the sordid struggle most fights were.

In a rush of clanging metal, broken bones, and severed limbs, the four of them killed the rest of the soldiers. As always, the combat exhilarated Eragon; it felt to him like being shocked with a bucket of cold water, and it left him with a sense of clarity unequaled by any other activity.

Roran bent over and rested his hands on his knees, gasping for air as if he had just finished a race.

"Shall I?" asked Eragon, gesturing at the cuts on Roran's face and thigh.

Roran tested his weight on the wounded leg a few times. "I can wait. Let's find Bradburn first."

Eragon took the lead as they filed back into the stairwell and resumed their climb. At last, after another five minutes of searching, they found Lord Bradburn barricaded within the highest room of the keep's westernmost tower. With a series of spells, Eragon, Arya, and Blödhgarm disassembled the doors and the tower of furniture piled behind them. As they and Roran entered the chambers, the high-ranking retainers and castle guards who had gathered in front of Lord Bradburn blanched, and many began to shake. To Eragon's relief, he only had to kill three of the guards before the rest of the group placed their weapons and shields on the floor in surrender.

Then Arya marched over to Lord Bradburn, who had remained silent throughout, and said, "Now, will you order your forces to stand down? Only a few remain, but you can still save their lives."

"I would not even if I could," said Bradburn in a voice of such hate and sneering derision, Eragon almost struck him. "You'll have no concessions from me, elf. I'll not give up my men to filthy, unnatural creatures such as you. Death would be preferable. And do not think you can beguile me with honeyed words. I know of your alliance with the Urgals, and I would sooner trust a snake than a person who breaks bread with those monsters."

Arya nodded and placed her hand over Bradburn's face. She closed her eyes, and for a time, both she and Bradburn were motionless. Eragon reached out with his mind, and he felt the battle of wills that was raging between them as Arya worked her way past Bradburn's defenses and into his consciousness. It took a minute, but at last she gained control of the man's mind, whereupon she set about calling up and examining his memories until she discovered the nature of his wards.

Then she spoke in the ancient language and cast a complex spell designed to circumvent those wards and to put Bradburn to sleep. When she finished, Bradburn's eyes closed and, with a sigh, he collapsed into her arms.

"She killed him!" shouted one of the guards, and cries of fear and outrage spread among the men.

As Eragon attempted to convince them otherwise, he heard one of the Varden's trumpets being winded far off in the distance. Soon another trumpet sounded, this one much closer, then another, and then he caught snatches of what he would have sworn were faint, scattered cheers rising from the courtyard below.

Puzzled, he exchanged glances with Arya; then they turned in a circle, looking out each of the windows set within the walls of the chamber.

To the west and south lay Belatona. It was a large, prosperous city, one of the largest in the Empire. Close to the castle, the buildings were imposing structures made of stone, with pitched roofs and oriel windows, while farther away they were constructed of wood and plaster. Several of the half-timbered buildings had caught fire during the fighting. The smoke filled the air with a layer of brown haze that stung eyes and throats.

To the southwest, a mile beyond the city, was the Varden's camp: long rows of gray woolen tents ringed by stake-lined trenches, a few brightly colored pavilions sporting flags and pennants, and stretched out on the bare ground, hundreds of wounded men. The healers' tents were already filled to capacity.

To the north, past the docks and warehouses, was Leona Lake, a vast expanse of water dotted with the occasional whitecap.

Above, the wall of black clouds that was advancing from the west loomed high over the city, threatening to envelop it within the folds of rain that fell skirtlike from its underside. Blue light flickered here and there in the depths of the storm, and thunder rumbled like an angry beast.

But nowhere did Eragon see an explanation for the commotion that had attracted his attention.

He and Arya hurried over to the window directly above the courtyard. Saphira and the men and elves working with her had just finished clearing away the stones in front of the keep. Eragon whistled, and when Saphira looked up, he waved. Her long jaws parted in a toothy grin, and she blew a streamer of smoke toward him.

"Ho! What news?" Eragon shouted.

One of the Varden standing on the castle walls raised an arm and pointed eastward. "Shadeslayer! Look! The werecats are coming! The werecats are coming!"

A cold tingle crawled down Eragon's spine. He followed the line of the man's arm eastward, and this time he saw a host of small, shadowy figures emerging from a fold in the land several miles away, on the other side of the Jiet River. Some of the figures went on four legs and some on two, but they were too far away for him to be sure if they were werecats.

"Could it be?" asked Arya, sounding amazed.

"I don't know. Whatever they are, we'll find out soon enough."
[/spoiler1]

Дата: Воскресенье, 2011-11-13, 11:55 | Сообщение # 15

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Xevios, 4. King Cat
Спасибо biggrin

[spoiler1]KINGCAT

Eragon stood on the dais in the main hall of the keep, directly to the right of Lord Bradburn's throne, his left hand on the pommel of Brisingr, which was sheathed. On the other side of the throne stood Jörmundur—senior commander of the Varden—holding his helmet in the crook of his arm. The hair at his temples was streaked with gray; the rest was brown, and all of it was pulled back into a long braid. His lean face bore the studiously blank expression of a person who had extensive experience waiting on others. Eragon noticed a thin line of red running along the underside of Jörmundur's right bracer, but Jörmundur showed no sign of pain.

Between them sat their leader, Nasuada, resplendent in a dress of green and yellow, which she had donned just moments before, exchanging the raiment of war for garb more suited to the practice of statecraft. She too had been marked during the fighting, as was evidenced by the linen bandage wrapped around her left hand.

In a low voice that only Eragon and Jörmundur could hear, Nasuada said, "If we can but gain their support "

"What will they want in return, though?" asked Jörmundur. "Our coffers are near empty, and our future uncertain."

Her lips barely moving, she said, "Perhaps they wish nothing more of us than a chance to strike back at Galbatorix." She paused. "But if not, we shall have to find means other than gold to persuade them to join our ranks."

"You could offer them barrels of cream," said Eragon, which elicited a chortle from Jörmundur and a soft laugh from Nasuada.

Their murmured conversation came to an end as three trumpets sounded outside the main hall. Then a flaxen-haired page dressed in a tunic stitched with the Varden's standard—a white dragon holding a rose above a sword pointing downward on a purple field—marched through the open doorway at the far end of the hall, struck the floor with his ceremonial staff, and, in a thin, warbling voice, announced, "His Most Exalted Royal Highness, Grimrr Halfpaw, King of the Werecats, Lord of the Lonely Places, Ruler of the Night Reaches, and He Who Walks Alone."

A strange title, that: He Who Walks Alone, Eragon observed to Saphira.

But well deserved, I would guess, she replied, and he could sense her amusement, even though he could not see her where she lay coiled in the castle keep.

The page stepped aside, and through the doorway strode Grimrr Halfpaw in the shape of a human, trailed by four other werecats, who padded close behind him on large, shaggy paws. The four resembled Solembum, the one other werecat Eragon had seen in the guise of an animal: heavy-shouldered and long-limbed, with short, dark ruffs upon their necks and withers; tasseled ears; and black-tipped tails, which they waved gracefully from side to side.

Grimrr Halfpaw, however, looked unlike any person or creature Eragon had ever seen. At roughly four feet tall, he was the same height as a dwarf, but no one could have mistaken him for a dwarf, or even for a human. He had a small pointed chin, wide cheekbones, and, underneath upswept brows, slanted green eyes fringed with winglike eyelashes. His ragged black hair hung low over his forehead, while on the sides and back it fell to his shoulders, where it lay smooth and lustrous, much like the manes of his companions. His age was impossible for Eragon to guess.

The only clothes Grimrr wore were a rough leather vest and a rabbit-skin loincloth. The skulls of a dozen or so animals—birds, mice, and other small game—were tied to the front of the vest, and they rattled against one another as he moved. A sheathed dagger protruded at an angle from under the belt of his loincloth. Numerous scars, thin and white, marked his nut-brown skin, like scratches on a well-used table. And, as his name indicated, he was missing two fingers on his left hand; they looked to have been bitten off.

Despite the delicacy of his features, there was no doubt that Grimrr was male, given the hard, sinewy muscles of his arms and chest, the narrowness of his hips, and the coiled power of his stride as he sauntered down the length of the hall toward Nasuada.

None of the werecats seemed to notice the people lined up on either side of their path watching them until Grimrr came level with the herbalist Angela, who stood next to Roran, knitting a striped tube sock with six needles.

Grimrr's eyes narrowed as he beheld the herbalist, and his hair rippled and spiked, as did that of his four guards. His lips drew back to reveal a pair of curved white fangs, and to Eragon's astonishment, he uttered a short, loud hiss.

Angela looked up from the sock, her expression languid and insolent."Cheep cheep," she said.

For a moment, Eragon thought the werecat was going to attack her. A dark flush mottled Grimrr's neck and face, his nostrils flared, and he snarled silently at her. The other werecats settled into low crouches, ready to pounce, their ears pressed flat against their heads.

Throughout the hall, Eragon heard the slither of blades being partially drawn from their scabbards.

Grimrr hissed once more, then turned away from the herbalist and continued walking. As the last werecat in line passed Angela, he lifted a paw and took a surreptitious swipe at the strand of yarn that drooped from Angela's needles, just like a playful house cat might.

Saphira's bewilderment was equal to Eragon's own.Cheep cheep? she asked.

He shrugged, forgetting that she could not see him.Who knows why Angela does or says anything?

At last Grimrr arrived before Nasuada. He inclined his head ever so slightly, displaying with his bearing the supreme confidence, even arrogance, that was the sole province of cats, dragons, and certain highborn women.

"Lady Nasuada," he said. His voice was surprisingly deep, more akin to the low, coughing roar of a wildcat than the high-pitched tones of the boy he resembled.

Nasuada inclined her head in turn. "King Halfpaw. You are most welcome to the Varden, you and all your race. I must apologize for the absence of our ally, King Orrin of Surda; he could not be here to greet you, as he wished, for he and his horsemen are even now busy defending our westward flank from a contingent of Galbatorix's troops."

"Of course, Lady Nasuada," said Grimrr. His sharp teeth flashed as he spoke. "You must never turn your back on your enemies."

"Even so  And to what do we owe the unexpected pleasure of this visit, Your Highness? Werecats have always been noted for their secrecy and their solitude, and for remaining apart from the conflicts of the age, especially since the fall of the Riders. One might even say that your kind has become more myth than fact over the past century. Why, then, do you now choose to reveal yourselves?"

Grimrr lifted his right arm and pointed at Eragon with a crooked finger topped by a clawlike nail.

"Because of him," growled the werecat. "One does not attack another hunter until he has shown his weakness, and Galbatorix has shown his: he will not kill Eragon Shadeslayer or Saphira Bjartskular. Long have we waited for this opportunity, and seize it we will. Galbatorix will learn to fear and hate us, and at the last, he will realize the extent of his mistake and know that we were the ones responsible for his undoing. And how sweet that revenge will taste, as sweet as the marrow of a tender young boar.

"Time has come, human, for every race, even werecats, to stand together and prove to Galbatorix that he has not broken our will to fight. We would join your army, Lady Nasuada, as free allies, and help you achieve this."

What Nasuada was thinking, Eragon could not tell, but he and Saphira were impressed by the werecat's speech.

After a brief pause, Nasuada said, "Your words fall most pleasantly upon my ears, Your Highness. But before I can accept your offer, there are answers I must have of you, if you are willing."

With an air of unshakable indifference, Grimrr waved a hand. "I am."

"Your race has beenso secretive andso elusive, I must confess, I had not heard tell of Your Highness until this very day. As a point of fact, I did not even know that your racehad a ruler."

"I am not a king like your kings," said Grimrr. "Werecats prefer to walk alone, but even we must choose a leader when to war we go."

"I see. Do you speak for your whole race, then, or only for those who travel with you?"

Grimrr's chest swelled, and his expression became, if possible, even more self-satisfied. "I speak for all of my kind, Lady Nasuada," he purred. "Every able-bodied werecat in Alagaësia, save those who are nursing, has come here to fight. There are few of us, but none can equal our ferocity in battle. And I can also command the one-shapes, although I cannot speak for them, for they are as dumb as other animals. Still, they will do what we ask of them."

"One-shapes?" Nasuada inquired.

"Those you know as cats. Those who cannot change their skins, as we do."

"And you command their loyalty?"

"Aye. They admire us  as is only natural."

If what he says is true, Eragon commented to Saphira,the werecats could prove to be incredibly valuable .

Then Nasuada said, "And what is it you desire of us in exchange for your assistance, King Halfpaw?" She glanced at Eragon and smiled, then added, "We can offer you as much cream as you want, but beyond that, our resources are limited. If your warriors expect to be paid for their troubles, I fear they will be sorely disappointed."

"Cream is for kittens, and gold holds no interest for us," said Grimrr. As he spoke, he lifted his right hand and inspected his nails with a heavy-lidded gaze. "Our terms are thus: Each of us will be given a dagger to fight with, if we do not already have one. Each of us shall have two suits of armor made to fit, one for when on two legs we stand, and one for when on four. We need no other equipment than that—no tents, no blankets, no plates, no spoons. Each of us will be promised a single duck, grouse, chicken, or similar bird per day, and every second day, a bowl of freshly chopped liver. Even if we do not choose to eat it, the food will be set aside for us. Also, should you win this war, then whoever becomes your next king or queen—and all who claim that title thereafter—will keep a padded cushion next to their throne, in a place of honor, for one of us to sit on, if we so wish."

"You bargain like a dwarven lawgiver," said Nasuada in a dry tone. She leaned over to Jörmundur, and Eragon heard her whisper, "Do we have enough liver to feed them all?"

"I think so," Jörmundur replied in an equally hushed voice. "But it depends on the size of the bowl."

Nasuada straightened in her seat. "Two sets of armor is one too many, King Halfpaw. Your warriors will have to decide whether they want to fight as cats or as humans and then abide by the decision. I cannot afford to outfit them for both."

If Grimrr had had a tail, Eragon was sure it would have twitched back and forth. As it was, the werecat merely shifted his position. "Very well, Lady Nasuada."

"There is one more thing. Galbatorix has spies and killers hidden everywhere. Therefore, as a condition of joining the Varden, you must consent to allow one of our spellcasters to examine your memories, so we may assure ourselves that Galbatorix has no claim on you."

Grimrr sniffed. "You would be foolish not to. If anyone is brave enough to read our thoughts, let them. But not her"—and he twisted to point at Angela. "Never her."

Nasuada hesitated, and Eragon could see that she wanted to ask why but restrained herself. "So be it. I will send for magicians at once, that we may settle this matter without delay. Depending on what they find—and it will be nothing untoward, I'm sure—I am honored to form an alliance between you and the Varden, King Halfpaw."

At her words, all of the humans in the hall broke out cheering and began to clap, including Angela. Even the elves appeared pleased.

The werecats, however, did not react, except to tilt their ears backward in annoyance at the noise.

[/spoiler1]

warmed

Дата: Понедельник, 2011-11-14, 22:07 | Сообщение # 16

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Привет всем! Дайте пожалуйста главу для перевода.

qegweh

Дата: Понедельник, 2011-11-14, 23:15 | Сообщение # 17

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warmed, What Is a Man? - 7 глава

[spoiler1]WHAT IS A MAN?

The mud clung to Roran's boots each time he lifted his feet, slowing his progress and making his already-tired legs burn from the effort. It felt as if the very ground were trying to pull off his shoes. Thick as it was, the mud was also slippery. It gave way under his heels at the worst moments, just when his position was the most precarious. And it was deep, too. The constant passage of men, animals, and wagons had turned the top six inches of earth into a nigh on impassable morass. A few patches of crushed grass remained along the edges of the track—which ran straight through the Varden's camp—but Roran suspected they would soon vanish as men sought to avoid the center of the lane.

Roran made no attempt to evade the muck; he no longer cared if his clothes stayed clean. Besides, he was so exhausted, it was easier to keep plodding in the same direction than to worry about picking a path from one island of grass to the next.

As he stumbled forward, Roran thought of Belatona. Since Nasuada's audience with the werecats, he had been setting up a command post in the northwest quarter of the city and doing his best to establish control over the quadrant by assigning men to put out fires, build barricades in the streets, search houses for soldiers, and confiscate weapons. It was an immense task, and he despaired of accomplishing what was needed, fearing that the city might erupt into open battle again.I hope those idiots can make it through the night without getting killed .

His left side throbbed, causing him to bare his teeth and suck in his breath.

Blasted coward.

Someone had shot at him with a crossbow from the roof of a building. Only the sheerest of luck had saved him; one of his men, Mortenson, had stepped in front of him at the exact moment the attacker had fired. The bolt had punched through Mortenson from back to belly and had still retained enough force to give Roran a nasty bruise. Mortenson had died on the spot, and whoever had shot the crossbow had escaped.

Five minutes later, an explosion of some sort, possibly magical, had killed two more of his men when they entered a stable to investigate a noise.

From what Roran understood, such attacks were common throughout the city. No doubt, Galbatorix's agents were behind many of them, but the inhabitants of Belatona were also responsible—men and women who could not bear to stand by idly while an invading army seized control of their home, no matter how honorable the Varden's intentions might be. Roran could sympathize with the people who felt they had to defend their families, but at the same time, he cursed them for being so thick-skulled that they could not recognize the Varden were trying to help them, not hurt them.

He scratched at his beard while he waited for a dwarf to pull a heavily laden pony out of his way, then continued slogging forward.

As he drew near their tent, he saw Katrina standing over a tub of hot, soapy water, scrubbing a bloodstained bandage against a washboard. Her sleeves were rolled up past her elbows, her hair tied in a messy bun, and her cheeks flushed from her work, but she had never looked so beautiful to him. She was his comfort—his comfort and his refuge—and just seeing her helped ease the sense of numb dislocation that gripped him.

She noticed him and immediately abandoned her washing and ran toward him, drying her pink hands on the front of her dress. Roran braced himself as she threw herself at him, wrapping her arms around his chest. His side flared with pain, and he uttered a short grunt.

Katrina loosened her hold and leaned away, frowning. "Oh! Did I hurt you?"

"No  no. I'm just sore."

She did not question him but hugged him again, more gently, and looked up at him, her eyes glistening with tears. Holding her by the waist, he bent and kissed her, inexpressibly grateful for her presence.

Katrina slipped his left arm over her shoulders, and he allowed her to support part of his weight as they returned to their tent. With a sigh, Roran sat on the stump they used for a chair, which Katrina had placed next to the small fire she had built to heat the tub of water and over which a pot of stew was now simmering.

Katrina filled a bowl with stew and handed it to him. Then, from within the tent, she brought him a mug of ale and a plate with a half loaf of bread and a wedge of cheese. "Is there anything else you need?" she asked, her voice unusually hoarse.

Roran did not answer, but cupped her cheek and stroked it twice with his thumb. She smiled tremulously and laid a hand over his, then returned to washing and began to scrub with renewed vigor.

Roran stared at the food for a long time before he took a bite; he was still so tense, he doubted he could stomach it. After a few mouthfuls of bread, however, his appetite returned, and he began to consume the stew with eagerness.

When he was done, he placed the dishes on the ground and then sat warming his hands over the fire while he nursed the last few sips of beer.

"We heard the crash when the gates fell," said Katrina, wringing a bandage dry. "They didn't hold for very long."

"No. It helps to have a dragon on your side."

Roran gazed at her belly as she draped the bandage over the makeshift clothesline that ran from the peak of their tent across to a neighboring one. Whenever he thought of the child she was carrying, the child that the two of them had created, he felt an enormous sense of pride, but it was tinged with anxiety, for he did not know how he could hope to provide a safe home for their baby. Also, if the war was not over by the time Katrina gave birth, she intended to leave him and go to Surda, where she might raise their child in relative safety.

I can't lose her, not again.

Katrina immersed another bandage in the tub. "And the battle in the city?" she asked, churning the water. "How went it?"

"We had to fight for every foot. Even Eragon had a hard time of it."

"The wounded spoke of ballistae mounted on wheels."

"Aye." Roran wet his tongue with ale, then quickly described how the Varden had moved through Belatona and the setbacks they had encountered along the way. "We lost too many men today, but it could have been worse. Much worse. Jörmundur and Captain Martland planned the attack well."

"Their plan wouldn't have worked, though, if not for you and Eragon. You acquitted yourself most bravely."

Roran loosed a single bark of laughter: "Ha! And do you know why that is? I'll tell you. Not one man in ten is actually willing to attack the enemy. Eragon doesn't see it; he's always at the forefront of the battle, driving the soldiers before him, but I see it. Most of the men hang back and don't fight unless they are cornered. Or they wave their arms about and make a lot of noise but don't actually do anything."

Katrina looked appalled. "How can that be? Are they cowards?"

"I don't know. I think  I think that, perhaps, they just can't bring themselves to look a man in the face and kill him, although it seems easy enough for them to cut down soldiers whose backs are turned. So they wait for others to do what they cannot. They wait for people like me."

"Do you think Galbatorix's men are equally reluctant?"

Roran shrugged. "They might be. But then, they have no choice but to obey Galbatorix. If he orders them to fight, they fight."

"Nasuada could do the same. She could have her magicians cast spells to ensure that no one shirks their duty."

"What difference would there be between her and Galbatorix, then? In any case, the Varden wouldn't stand for it."

Katrina left her washing to come and kiss him on the forehead. "I'm glad you can do what you do," she whispered. She returned to the tub and began scrubbing another strip of soiled linen over the washboard. "I felt something earlier, from my ring. I thought maybe something had happened to you."

"I was in the middle of a battle. It wouldn't be surprising if you had felt a twinge every few minutes."

She paused with her arms in the water. "I never have before."

He drained the mug of ale, seeking to delay the inevitable. He had hoped to spare her the details of his misadventure in the castle, but it was plain that she would not rest until she knew the truth. Attempting to convince her otherwise would only lead her to imagine calamities far worse than what had actually occurred. Besides, it would be pointless for him to hold back when news of the event would soon be common throughout the Varden.

So he told her. He gave her a brief account and tried to make the collapse of the wall seem more like a minor inconvenience rather than something that had almost killed him. Still, he found it difficult to describe the experience, and he spoke haltingly, searching for the right words. When he finished, he fell silent, troubled by the remembrance.

"At least you weren't hurt," said Katrina.

He picked at a crack in the lip of the mug. "No."

The sound of sloshing water ceased, and he could feel her eyes heavy upon him.

"You've faced far greater danger before."

"Yes  I suppose."

Her voice softened. "What's wrong, then?" When he did not answer, she said, "There's nothing so terrible you can't tell me, Roran. You know that."

The edge of his right thumbnail tore as he picked at the mug again. He rubbed the sharp flap against his forefinger several times. "I thought I was going to die when the wall fell."

"Anyone might have."

"Yes, but the thing is, I didn'tmind ." Anguished, he looked at her. "Don't you understand?I gave up . When I realized I couldn't escape, I accepted it as meekly as a lamb led to slaughter, and I—" Unable to continue, he dropped the mug and hid his face in his hands. The swelling in his throat made it hard to breathe. Then he felt Katrina's fingers light upon his shoulders. "I gave up," he growled, furious and disgusted with himself. "I just stopped fighting. For you  For our child." He choked on the words.

"Shh, shh," she murmured.

"I've never given up before. Not once. Not even when the Ra'zac took you."

"I know you haven't."

"This fighting has to end. It can't go on like this. I can't  I—" He raised his head and was horrified to see that she too was on the verge of tears. Standing, he wrapped his arms around her and held her close. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. It won't happen again. Never again. I promise."

"I don't care aboutthat ," she said, her voice muffled against his shoulder.

Her reply stung him. "I know I was weak, but my word still ought to be worth something to you."

"That's not what I meant!" she exclaimed, and drew back to look at him accusingly. "You're a fool sometimes, Roran."

He smiled slightly. "I know."

She clasped her hands behind his neck. "I wouldn't think any less of you, regardless of what you felt when the wall came down. All that matters is that you're still alive. There wasn't anything you could do when the wall fell, was there?"

He shook his head.

"Then you have nothing to be ashamed of. If you could have stopped it, or if you could have escaped but you didn't, then you would have lost my respect. But you did everything you could, and when you could do no more, you made peace with your fate, and you didn't rail needlessly against it. That is wisdom, not weakness."

He bowed and kissed her on the brow. "Thank you."

"And as far as I am concerned, you are the bravest, strongest, kindest man in all of Alagaësia."

This time he kissed her on the mouth. Afterward, she laughed, a short, quick release of pent-up tension, and they stood swaying together, as if dancing to a melody only they could hear.

Then Katrina gave him a playful push and went to finish the washing, and he settled back on the stump, content for the first time since the battle, despite his numerous aches and pains.

Roran watched the men, horses, and the occasional dwarf or Urgal slog past their tent, noting their wounds and the condition of their weapons and armor. He tried to gauge the general mood of the Varden; the only conclusion he reached was that everyone but the Urgals needed a good sleep and a decent meal, and that everyone, including the Urgals—especially the Urgals—needed to be scoured from head to foot with a hog's-hair brush and buckets of soapy water.

He also watched Katrina, and he saw how, as she worked, her initial good cheer gradually faded and she became ever more irritable. She kept scrubbing and scrubbing at several stains, but with little success. A scowl darkened her face, and she began to make small noises of frustration.

At last, when she had slapped the wad of fabric against the washboard, splashing foamy water several feet into the air, and leaned on the tub, her lips pressed tightly together, Roran pushed himself off the stump and made his way to her side.

"Here, let me," he said.

"It wouldn't be fitting," she muttered.

"Nonsense. Go sit down, and I'll finish. Go on."

She shook her head. "No. You should be the one resting, not me. Besides, this isn't man's work."

He snorted with derision. "By whose decree? A man's work, or a woman's, is whatever needs to be done. Now go sit down; you'll feel better once you're off your feet."

"Roran, I'm fine."

"Don't be silly." He gently tried to push her away from the tub, but she refused to budge.

"It's not right," she protested. "What would people think?" She gestured at the men hurrying along the muddy lane next to their tent.

"They can think whatever they want. I married you, not them. If they believe I'm any less of a man for helping you, then they're fools."

"But—"

"But nothing. Move. Shoo. Get out of here."

"But—"

"I'm not going to argue. If you don't go sit, I'm going to carry you over there and tie you to that stump."

A bemused expression replaced her scowl. "Is that so?"

"Yes. Now go!" As she reluctantly ceded her position at the tub, he made a noise of exasperation. "Stubborn, aren't you?"

"Speak for yourself. You could teach a mule a thing or two."

"Not me. I'm not stubborn." Undoing his belt, he removed his mail shirt and hung it on the front pole of the tent, then peeled off his gloves and rolled up the sleeves of his tunic. The air was cool against his skin, and the bandages were colder still—they had grown chill while lying exposed on the washboard—but he did not mind, for the water was warm, and soon the cloth was as well. Frothy mounds of iridescent bubbles built up around his wrists as he pushed and pulled the material across the full length of the knobby board.

He glanced over and was pleased to see that Katrina was relaxing on the stump, at least as much as anyone could relax on such a rough seat.

"Do you want some chamomile tea?" she asked. "Gertrude gave me a handful of fresh sprigs this morning. I can make a pot for both of us."

"I'd like that."

A companionable silence developed between them as Roran proceeded to wash the rest of the laundry. The task lulled him into a pleasant mood; he enjoyed doing something with his hands other than swinging his hammer, and being close to Katrina gave him a deep sense of satisfaction.

He was in the middle of wringing out the last item, and his freshly poured tea was waiting for him next to Katrina, when someone shouted their names from across the busy way. It took Roran a moment to realize it was Baldor running toward them through the mud, weaving between men and horses. He wore a pitted leather apron and heavy, elbow-length gloves that were smeared with soot and were so worn that the fingers were as hard, smooth, and shiny as polished tortoise shells. A scrap of torn leather held back his dark, shaggy hair, and a frown creased his forehead. Baldor was smaller than his father, Horst, and his older brother, Albriech, but by any other comparison, he was large and well muscled, the result of having spent his childhood helping Horst in his forge. None of the three had fought that day—skilled smiths were normally too valuable to risk in battle—although Roran wished Nasuada had let them, for they were able warriors and Roran knew he could count on them even in the most dire circumstances.

Roran put down the washing and dried his hands, wondering what could be amiss. Rising from the stump, Katrina joined him by the tub.

When Baldor reached them, they had to wait several seconds for him to regain his breath. Then, in a rush, he said, "Come quickly. Mother just went into labor, and—"

"Where is she?" asked Katrina in a sharp tone.

"At our tent."

She nodded. "We'll be there as fast as we can."

With a grateful expression, Baldor turned and sprinted away.

As Katrina ducked inside their tent, Roran poured the contents of the tub over the fire, extinguishing it. The burning wood hissed and cracked under the deluge, and a cloud of steam jetted upward in place of smoke, filling the air with an unpleasant smell.

Dread and excitement quickened Roran's movements.I hope she doesn't die , he thought, remembering the talk he had heard among the women concerning her age and overlong pregnancy. Elain had always been kind to him and to Eragon, and he was fond of her.

"Are you ready?" asked Katrina as she emerged from the tent, knotting a blue scarf around her head and neck.

He grabbed his belt and hammer from where they hung. "Ready. Let's go."[/spoiler1]

Орик

Дата: Вторник, 2011-11-15, 08:16 | Сообщение # 18

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Дата: Вторник, 2011-11-15, 13:04 | Сообщение # 19

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Орик, THE PRICE OF POWER - 8
[spoiler1]THE PRICE OF POWER - 8

here now, Ma'am. You won't be needing these anymore. And good riddance, I say."

With a soft rustle, the last strip of linen slid off Nasuada's forearms as her handmaid, Farica, removed the wrappings. Nasuada had worn bandages such as those since the day she and the warlord Fadawar had tested their courage against one another in the Trial of the Long Knives.

Nasuada stood staring at a long, ragged tapestry dotted with holes while Farica attended to her. Then she steeled herself and slowly lowered her gaze. Since winning the Trial of the Long Knives, she had refused to look at her wounds; they had appeared so horrendous when fresh, she could not bear to see them again until they were nearly healed.

The scars were asymmetrical: six lay across the belly of her left forearm, three on her right. Each of the scars was three to four inches long and straight as could be, save the bottom one on the right, where her self-control had faltered and the knife had swerved, carving a jagged line nearly twice the length of the others. The skin around the scars was pink and puckered, while the scars themselves were only a little bit lighter than the rest of her body, for which she was grateful. She had feared that they might end up white and silvery, which would have made them far more noticeable. The scars rose above the surface of her arm about a quarter of an inch, forming hard ridges of flesh that looked exactly as if smooth steel rods had been inserted underneath her skin.

Nasuada regarded the marks with ambivalence. Her father had taught her about the customs of their people as she was growing up, but she had spent her whole life among the Varden and the dwarves. The only rituals of the wandering tribes that she observed, and then only irregularly, were associated with their religion. She had never aspired to master the Drum Dance, nor participate in the arduous Calling of Names, nor—and this most particularly—best anyone in the Trial of the Long Knives. And yet now here she was, still young and still beautiful, and already bearing these nine large scars upon her forearms. She could order one of the magicians of the Varden to remove them, of course, but then she would forfeit her victory in the Trial of the Long Knives, and the wandering tribes would renounce her as their liegelord.

While she regretted that her arms were no longer smooth and round and would no longer attract the admiring glances of men, she was also proud of the scars. They were a testament to her courage and a visible sign of her devotion to the Varden. Anyone who looked at her would know the quality of her character, and she decided that meant more to her than appearance.

"What do you think?" she asked, and held out her arms toward King Orrin, who stood framed in the open window of the study, looking down at the city.

Orrin turned and frowned, his eyes dark beneath his furrowed brow. He had traded his armor of earlier for a thick red tunic and a robe trimmed with white ermine. "I find it unpleasant to look at," he said, and returned his attention to the city. "Cover yourself; it is inappropriate for polite society."

Nasuada studied her arms for a moment longer. "No, I don't think I will." She tugged on the lace cuffs of her half sleeves to straighten them, then dismissed Farica. She crossed the sumptuous dwarf-woven rug in the center of the room to join Orrin in inspecting the battle-torn city, where she was pleased to see that all but two of the fires along the western wall had been extinguished. Then she shifted her gaze to the king.

In the short while since the Varden and the Surdans had launched their attack against the Empire, Nasuada had watched Orrin grow ever more serious, his original enthusiasm and eccentricities vanishing beneath a grim exterior. At first she had welcomed the change, for she had felt he was becoming more mature, but as the war dragged on, she began to miss his eager discussions of natural philosophy, as well as his other quirks. In retrospect, she realized these had often brightened her day, even if she had sometimes found them aggravating. Moreover, the change had made him more dangerous as a rival; in his current mood, she could quite easily imagine him attempting to displace her as leader of the Varden.

Could I be happy if I married him?she wondered. Orrin was not unpleasant to look at. His nose was high and thin, but his jaw was strong and his mouth was finely carved and expressive. Years of martial training had given him a pleasing build. That he was intelligent was without doubt, and for the most part his personality was agreeable. However, if he had not been the king of Surda, and if he had not posed such a great threat to her position and to the Varden's independence, she knew that she would never have considered a match with him.Would he make a good father?

Orrin put his hands on the narrow stone sill and leaned against it. Without looking at her, he said, "You have to break your pact with the Urgals."

His statement took her aback. "And why is that?"

"Because they are hurting us. Men who would otherwise join us now curse us for allying ourselves with monsters and refuse to lay down their weapons when we arrive at their homes. Galbatorix's resistance seems just and reasonable to them because of our concord with the Urgals. The common man does not understand why we joined with them. He does not know that Galbatorix used the Urgals himself, nor that Galbatorix tricked them into attacking Tronjheim under the command of a Shade. These are subtleties that you cannot explain to a frightened farmer. All he can comprehend is that the creatures he has feared and hated his whole life are marching toward his home, led by a huge, snarling dragon and a Rider who appears more elf than human."

"We need the Urgals' support," said Nasuada. "We have too few warriors as it is."

"We do not need them as badly as all that. You already know what I say is the truth; why else did you prevent the Urgals from participating in the attack on Belatona? Why else have you ordered them not to enter the city? Keeping them away from the battlefield isn't enough, Nasuada. Word of them still spreads throughout the land. The only thing you can do to improve the situation is to end this ill-fated scheme before it causes us more harm."

"I cannot."

Orrin spun toward her, anger distorting his face. "Men aredying because you chose to accept Garzhvog's help. My men, your men, those in the Empire  dead andburied . This alliance isn't worth their sacrifice, and for the life of me, I cannot fathom why you continue to defend it."

She could not hold his gaze; it reminded her too strongly of the guilt and recrimination that so often afflicted her when she was trying to fall asleep. Instead, she fixed her eyes on the smoke rising from a tower by the edge of the city. Speaking slowly, she said, "I defend it because I hope that preserving our union with the Urgals will save more lives than it will cost. If we should defeat Galbatorix—"

Orrin uttered an exclamation of disbelief.
"It is by no means certain," she said, "I know. But we must plan for the possibility. If we should defeat him, then it will fall to us to help our race recover from this conflict and build a strong new country out of the ashes of the Empire. And part of that process will be ensuring that, after a hundred years of strife, we finally have peace. I will not overthrow Galbatorix only to have the Urgals attack us when we are at our weakest."

"They might anyway. They always have before."

"Well, what else can we do?" she said, annoyed. "We have to try to tame them. The closer we bind them to our cause, the less likely they will be to turn on us."

"I'll tell you what to do," he growled. "Banish them. Break your pact with Nar Garzhvog and send him and his rams away. If we win this war, then we can negotiate a new treaty with them, and we will be in a position to dictate whatever terms we want. Or better yet, send Eragon and Saphira into the Spine with a battalion of men to wipe them out once and for all, as the Riders should have done centuries ago."

Nasuada looked at him with disbelief. "If I ended our pact with the Urgals, they would likely be so angry, they would attack us forthwith, and we cannot fight both them and the Empire at the same time. To invite that upon ourselves would be the height of folly. If, in their wisdom, the elves, the dragons, and the Riders all decided to tolerate the existence of the Urgals—even though they could have destroyed them easily enough—then we ought to follow their example. They knew it would be wrong to kill all the Urgals, and so should you."

"Their wisdom—Bah! As if theirwisdom has done them any good! Fine, leave some of the Urgals alive, but kill enough of them that they won't dare leave their haunts for a hundred years or more!"

The obvious pain in his voice and in the strained lines of his face puzzled Nasuada. She examined him with greater intensity, trying to determine the reason for his vehemence. After a few moments, an explanation presented itself that, upon reflection, seemed self-evident.

"Whom did you lose?" she asked.

Orrin balled up a fist and slowly, haltingly, brought it down upon the windowsill, as if he wanted to pound it with all his strength but did not dare. He thumped the sill twice more, then said, "A friend I grew up with in Borromeo Castle. I don't think you ever met him. He was one of the lieutenants in my cavalry."

"How did he die?"

"As you might expect. We had just arrived at the stables by the west gate and were securing them for our own use when one of the grooms ran out of a stall and stabbed him right through with a pitchfork. When we cornered the groom, he kept screaming stuff and nonsense about the Urgals and how he would never surrender. It wouldn't have done the fool any good even if he had. I struck him down with my own hand."

"I'm sorry," said Nasuada.

The gems in Orrin's crown glittered as he nodded in acknowledgment.

"As painful as it is, you cannot allow your grief to dictate your decisions. It isn't easy, I know—well I know it!—but you must be stronger than yourself, for the good of your people."

"Be stronger than myself," he said in a sour, mocking voice.

"Yes. More is asked of us than of most people; therefore we must strive to be better than most if we are to prove ourselves worthy of that responsibility. The Urgals killed my father, remember, but that did not prevent me from forging an alliance that could help the Varden. I won't let anything stop me from doing what is best for them and for our army as a whole, no matter how painful it might be." She lifted her arms, showing him the scars again.

"That is your answer, then? You will not break off with the Urgals?"

"No."

Orrin accepted the news with an equanimity that unsettled her. Then he gripped the sill with both hands and returned to his study of the city. Adorning his fingers were four large rings, one of which bore the royal seal of Surda carved into the face of an amethyst: an antlered stag with sprigs of mistletoe wound between his feet standing over a harp and opposite an image of a tall, fortified tower.

"At least," said Nasuada, "we didn't encounter any soldiers who were enchanted not to feel pain."

"The laughing dead, you mean," Orrin muttered, using the term that she knew had become widespread throughout the Varden. "Aye, and not Murtagh nor Thorn either, which troubles me."

For a time, neither of them spoke. Then she said, "How went your experiment last night? Was it a success?"

"I was too tired to assay it. I went to sleep instead."

"Ah."

After a few more moments, they both, by tacit agreement, went to the desk pushed against one wall. Mountains of sheets, tablets, and scrolls covered the desk. Nasuada surveyed the daunting landscape and sighed. Only half an hour earlier, the desk had been empty, swept clean by her aides.

She concentrated upon the all-too-familiar topmost report, an estimate of the number of prisoners the Varden had taken during the siege of Belatona, with the names of persons of importance noted in red ink. She and Orrin had been discussing the figures when Farica had arrived to remove her bandages.

"I can't think of a way out of this tangle," she admitted.

"We could recruit guards from among the men here. Then we wouldn't have to leave quite so many of our own warriors behind."

She picked up the report. "Maybe, but the men we need would be difficult to find, and our spellcasters are already dangerously overworked."

"Has Du Vrangr Gata discovered a way to break an oath given in the ancient language?" When she answered in the negative, he asked, "Have they made any headway at all?"

"None that is practical. I even asked the elves, but they have had no more luck in all their long years than we have these past few days."

"If we don't solve this, and soon, it could cost us the war," said Orrin. "This one issue, right here."

She rubbed her temples. "I know." Before leaving the protection of the dwarves in Farthen Dûr and Tronjheim, she had tried to anticipate every challenge the Varden might face once they embarked on the offensive. The one they now confronted, however, had caught her completely by surprise.

The problem had first manifested itself in the aftermath of the Battle of the Burning Plains, when it had become apparent that all of the officers in Galbatorix's army, and most of the ordinary soldiers as well, had been forced to swear their loyalty to Galbatorix and the Empire in the ancient language. She and Orrin had quickly realized they could never trust those men, not so long as Galbatorix and the Empire still existed, and perhaps not even if they were destroyed. As a result, they could not allow the men who wanted to defect to join the Varden, for fear of how their oaths might compel them to behave.

Nasuada had not been overly concerned by the situation at the time. Prisoners were a reality of war, and she had already made provisions with King Orrin to have their captives marched back to Surda, where they would be put to work building roads, breaking rocks, digging canals, and doing other hard labor.

It was not until the Varden seized the city of Feinster that she grasped the full size of the problem. Galbatorix's agents had extracted oaths of loyalty not only from the soldiers in Feinster but also from the nobles, from many of the officials who served them, and from a seemingly random collection of ordinary people throughout the city—a fair number of whom she suspected the Varden had failed to identify. Those they knew of, however, had to be kept under lock and key, lest they try to subvert the Varden. Finding people they could trust, then, and who wanted to work with the Varden had proved far more difficult than Nasuada had ever expected.

Because of all the people who needed to be contained, she had had no choice but to leave twice the number of warriors in Feinster that she had intended. And, with so many imprisoned, the city was effectively crippled, forcing her to divert much-needed supplies from the main body of the Varden to keep the city from starving. They could not maintain the situation for long, and it would only worsen now that they were also in possession of Belatona.

"A pity the dwarves haven't arrived yet," said Orrin. "We could use their help."

Nasuada agreed. There were only a few hundred dwarves with the Varden at the moment; the rest had returned to Farthen Dûr for the burial of their fallen king, Hrothgar, and to wait for their clan chiefs to choose Hrothgar's successor, a fact that she had cursed countless times since. She had tried to convince the dwarves to appoint a regent for the duration of the war, but they were as stubborn as stone and had insisted upon carrying out their age-old ceremonies, though doing so meant abandoning the Varden in the middle of their campaign. In any event, the dwarves had finally selected their new king—Hrothgar's nephew, Orik—and had set out from the distant Beor Mountains to rejoin the Varden. Even at that moment, they were marching across the vast plains just north of Surda, somewhere between Lake Tüdosten and the Jiet River.

Nasuada wondered if they would be fit to fight when they arrived. As a rule, dwarves were hardier than humans, but they had spent most of the past two months on foot, and that could wear down the endurance of even the strongest creatures.They must be tired of seeing the same landscape over and over again , she thought.

"We have so many prisoners already. And once we take Dras-Leona " She shook her head.
Appearing suddenly animated, Orrin said, "What if we bypass Dras-Leona entirely?" He shuffled through the slew of papers on the desk until he located a large, dwarf-drawn map of Alagaësia, which he draped over the scarps of administerial records. The tottering mounds underneath gave the land an unusual topography: peaks in the west of Du Weldenvarden; a bowl-like depression where the Beor Mountains lay; canyons and ravines throughout the Hadarac Desert; and rolling waves along the northernmost part of the Spine, born of the rows of scrolls below. "Look." With his middle finger, he traced a line from Belatona to the capital of the Empire, Urû'baen. "If we march straight there, we won't come anywhere near Dras-Leona. It would be difficult to traverse the whole stretch all at once, but we could do it."

Nasuada did not need to ponder his suggestion; she had already considered the possibility. "The risk would be too great. Galbatorix could still attack us with the soldiers he has stationed in Dras-Leona—which is no small number, if our spies are to be trusted—and then we'd end up fending off attacks from two directions at once. I know of no quicker way to lose a battle, or a war. No, we must capture Dras-Leona."

Orrin conceded the point with a slight dip of his head. "We need our men back from Aroughs, then. We need every warrior if we are to continue."

"I know. I intend to make sure that the siege is brought to an end before the week is out."

"Not by sending Eragon there, I hope."

"No, I have a different plan."

"Good. And in the meantime? What shall we do with these prisoners?"

"What we have done before: guards, fences, and padlocks. Maybe we can also bind the prisoners with spells to restrict their movement, so that we don't have to keep watch over them so closely. Other than that, I see no solution, except to slaughter the whole lot of them, and I would rather—" She tried to imagine what she would not do in order to defeat Galbatorix. "I would rather not resort to such  drasticmeasures."

"Aye." Orrin stooped over the map, hunching his shoulders like a vulture as he glared at the squiggles of faded ink that marked the triangle of Belatona, Dras-Leona, and Urû'baen.

And so he remained until Nasuada said, "Is there anything else we must attend to? Jörmundur is waiting for his orders, and the Council of Elders has requested an audience with me."

"I worry."

"What about?"

Orrin swept a hand over the map. "That this venture was ill conceived from the start. That our forces, and those of our allies, are dangerously scattered, and that if Galbatorix should take it in his head to join in the fight himself, he could destroy us as easily as Saphira could a herd of goats. Our entire strategy depends upon contriving a meeting between Galbatorix, Eragon, Saphira, and as many spellcasters as we can muster. Only a small portion of those spellcasters are currently among our ranks, and we won't be able to gather the rest into a single place until we arrive at Urû'baen and meet with Queen Islanzadí and her army. Until that happens, we remain woefully vulnerable to attack. We are risking much on the
assumption that Galbatorix's arrogance will hold him in check until our trap has sprung shut around him."

Nasuada shared his concerns. However, it was more important to shore up Orrin's confidence than to commiserate with him, for if his resolve weakened, it would interfere with his duties and undermine the morale of his men. "We are not entirely defenseless," she said. "Not anymore. We have the Dauthdaert now, and with it, I think we might actually be able to kill Galbatorix and Shruikan, should they emerge from within the confines of Urû'baen."

"Perhaps."

"Besides, it does no good to worry. We cannot hasten the dwarves here, nor speed our own progress toward Urû'baen, nor turn tail and flee. So I would not let our situation trouble you excessively. All we can do is strive to accept our fate with grace, whatever it might be. The alternative is to allow the thought of Galbatorix's possible actions to unsettle our minds, andthat I won't do. I refuse to give him such power over me."
[/spoiler1]

farion

Дата: Вторник, 2011-11-15, 18:56 | Сообщение # 20

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Всем привет
дайте ссылку на полный текст книги на английском языке или скиньте в личку
заранее благадарю

Дата: Среда, 2011-11-16, 17:23 | Сообщение # 21

~ Memento mori ~

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farion, в шапке темы читай)

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warmed

Дата: Среда, 2011-11-16, 18:05 | Сообщение # 22

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Выдайте новую главу для перевода, пожалуйста.

qegweh

Дата: Среда, 2011-11-16, 19:38 | Сообщение # 23

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warmed, 11. No Rest for the Weary

VesuG

Дата: Среда, 2011-11-16, 21:53 | Сообщение # 24

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9 занята мной уже

____________________
----------------------------

VesuG

Дата: Среда, 2011-11-16, 21:55 | Сообщение # 25

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Селена мне ее выдала сегодня. Просто еще не пометила в топике

____________________
----------------------------

Vanyha

Дата: Среда, 2011-11-16, 22:53 | Сообщение # 26

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Респект всем переводчикам и редакторам!!

Vanyha

Дата: Среда, 2011-11-16, 23:50 | Сообщение # 27

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Quote (VesuG)

Селена мне ее выдала сегодня. Просто еще не пометила в топике

Quote (VesuG)

9 занята мной уже

warmed, извини за ошибку я исправило все. переведешь 11?

Дата: Четверг, 2011-11-17, 01:31 | Сообщение # 28

~ Memento mori ~

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VesuG, не в том топике пометила)
так и все переводчики, кто маги - топайте в другую тему, там самые последние новости biggrin

и там нужна ваша помощь и мысли biggrin

а эту оставьте новеньким

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kzkz

Дата: Четверг, 2011-11-17, 11:34 | Сообщение # 29

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Привет, я тоже хочу переводить. Я перевела 5 главу. Куда мне ее выложить, что бы вы смогли оценить мой перевод.

Верю только в хорошее!!!

Дата: Четверг, 2011-11-17, 13:10 | Сообщение # 30

~ Memento mori ~

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kzkz, данная глава была уже переведена другим переводчиком, для вас можем по ней оценить способности и зачислить в команду... так что выклдывайте сюда)

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Дата: Пятница, 2011-11-18, 21:05 | Сообщение # 31

Верный друг

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kzkz, молодец. если хочешь, выдадим главу для перевода=)

Gil-Galad

Дата: Суббота, 2011-11-19, 21:19 | Сообщение # 32

Крестьянин

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Всем привет! У меня есть один вопрос. Когда будет примерно переведена книга?

A Elbereth Giltoniel
silivren penna miriel
o menel aglar elenath!
No-chaered palan-diriel
o galadhremmin ennorath,
Fanuilos le linnathon
nef aear, si nef aearon.

irene

Дата: Воскресенье, 2011-11-20, 17:23 | Сообщение # 33

Крестьянин

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привет!
если понравился мой перевод (3 глава), я готова к дальнейшим свершениям smile

ain't no sunshine when you're gone

Дата: Воскресенье, 2011-11-20, 18:00 | Сообщение # 34

~ Memento mori ~

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irene, 15. Rumors and Writing + ЛС читай biggrin

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Дата: Воскресенье, 2011-11-20, 18:05 | Сообщение # 35

~ Memento mori ~

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Gil-Galad, не знаем, мы не ставим себе сроков точных - мы все люди biggrin

может быть к концу января...

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Gil-Galad

Дата: Воскресенье, 2011-11-20, 18:27 | Сообщение # 36

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Ясно, ну что придется только ждать biggrin

A Elbereth Giltoniel
silivren penna miriel
o menel aglar elenath!
No-chaered palan-diriel
o galadhremmin ennorath,
Fanuilos le linnathon
nef aear, si nef aearon.

Дата: Понедельник, 2011-11-21, 01:23 | Сообщение # 37

~ Memento mori ~

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VesuG, держи biggrin

[spoiler1]16. A ROUGHS
It was midmorning when Roran and his men arrived at the cluster of tents next to the road. The camp

appeared gray and indistinct through the haze of exhaustion that clouded Roran’s vision. A mile to the

south lay the city of Aroughs, but he was able to make out only the most general features: glacier-white

walls, yawning entryways containing barred gates, and many thickly built square stone towers.

He clung to the front of the saddle as they trotted into the camp, their horses near to collapsing. A

scraggly-looking youngster ran up to him and grabbed the bridle of his mare, pulling on it until the animal

stumbled to a stop.

Roran stared down at the boy, not sure what had just happened, and after a long moment croaked,

“Bring me Brigman.”

Without a word, the boy took off between the tents, kicking up dust with his bare heels.

It seemed to Roran that he sat waiting for over an hour. The mare’s uncontrollable panting matched the

rushing of blood in his ears. When he looked at the ground, it appeared as if it were still moving, receding

tunnel-like toward a point infinitely far away. Somewhere, spurs clinked. A dozen or so warriors

gathered nearby, leaning on spears and shields, their faces open displays of curiosity.

From across the camp, a broad-shouldered man in a blue tunic limped toward Roran, using a broken

spear as a staff. He had a large, full beard, though his upper lip was shaved and it glittered with

perspiration—whether from pain or heat Roran could not tell.

“You’re Stronghammer?” he said.

Roran grunted an affirmative. He released his cramped grip on the saddle, reached inside his tunic, and

handed Brigman the battered rectangle of parchment that contained his orders from Nasuada.

Brigman broke the wax seal with his thumbnail. He studied the parchment, then lowered it and gazed at

Roran with a flat expression.

“We’ve been expecting you,” he said. “One of Nasuada’s pet spellcasters contacted me four days ago

and said you had departed, but I didn’t think you would arrive so soon.”

“It wasn’t easy,” said Roran.

Brigman’s bare upper lip curled. “No, I’m sure it wasn’t … sir.” He handed the parchment back. “The

men are yours to command, Stronghammer. We were about to launch an attack on the western gate.

Perhaps you would care to lead the charge?” The question was as pointed as a dagger.

The world seemed to tilt around Roran, and he gripped the saddle tighter. He was too tired to bandy

words with anyone and do it well, and he knew it.

“Order them to stand down for the day,” he said.

“Have you lost your wits? How else do you expect us to capture the city? It took us all morning to

prepare the attack, and I’m not going to sit here twiddling my thumbs while you catch up on your sleep.

Nasuada expects us to end the siege within a few days, and by Angvard, I’ll see it done!”

In a voice pitched so low that only Brigman could hear, Roran growled, “You’ll tell the men to stand

down, or I’ll have you strung up by your ankles and whipped for breaking orders. I’m not about to

approve any sort of attack until I’ve had a chance to rest and look at the situation.”

“You’re a fool, you are. That would—”

“If you can’t hold your tongue and do your duty, I’ll thrash you myself—right here and now.”

Brigman’s nostrils flared. “In your state? You wouldn’t stand a chance.”

“You’re wrong,” said Roran. And he meant it. He was not sure how he might beat Brigman right then,

but he knew in the deepest fibers of his being that he could.

Brigman seemed to struggle with himself. “Fine,” he spat. “It wouldn’t be good for the men to see us

sprawling in the dirt anyway. We’ll stay where we are, if that’s what you want, but I won’t be held

accountable for the waste of time. Be it on your head, not mine.”

“As it always is,” said Roran, his throat tight with pain as he swung down from the mare. “Just as you’re

responsible for the mess you’ve made of this siege.”

Brigman’s brow darkened, and Roran saw the man’s dislike of him curdle and turn to hate. He wished

that he had chosen a more diplomatic response.

“Your tent is this way.”

It was still morning when Roran woke.

A soft light diffused through the tent, lifting his spirits. For a moment, he thought he had only fallen asleep

for a few minutes. Then he realized he felt too bright and alert for that to be the case.

He cursed quietly to himself, angry that he had allowed an entire day to slip through his fingers.

A thin blanket covered him, mostly unneeded in the balmy southern weather, especially since he was

wearing his boots and clothes underneath. He pulled it off, then tried to sit upright.

A choked groan escaped him as his entire body seemed to stretch and tear. He fell back and lay gasping

at the fabric above. The initial shock soon subsided, but it left behind a multitude of throbbing

aches—some worse than others.

It took him several minutes to gather his strength. With a massive effort, he rolled onto his side and

swung his legs over the edge of the cot. He stopped to catch his breath before attempting the seemingly

impossible task of standing.

Once he was on his feet, he smiled sourly. It was going to be an interesting day.

The others were already up and waiting for him when he made his way out of the tent. They looked

worn and haggard; their movements were as stiff as his own. After exchanging greetings, Roran motioned

toward the bandage on Delwin’s forearm, where a tavern keeper had cut him with a paring knife. “Has

the pain gone down?”

Delwin shrugged. “It’s not so bad. I can fight if need be.”

“Good.”

“What do you intend to do first?” Carn asked.

Roran eyed the rising sun, calculating how much time remained until noon. “Take a walk,” he said.

Starting from the center of the camp, Roran led his companions up and down each row of tents,

inspecting the condition of the troops as well as the state of their equipment. Occasionally, he stopped to

question a warrior before moving on. For the most part, the men were tired and disheartened, although

he noticed their mood seemed to improve when they caught sight of him.

Roran’s tour ended at the southern edge of the camp, as he had planned. There he and the others

stopped to gaze at the imposing edifice that was Aroughs.

The city had been built in two tiers. The first was low and spread out and contained the majority of

buildings, while the second, smaller tier occupied the top of a long, gentle rise, which was the tallest point

for miles around. A wall encircled both levels of the city. Five gates were visible within the outer wall: two

of them opened to roads that entered the city—one from the north and one from the east—and the other

three sat astride canals that flowed southward, into the city. On the other side of Aroughs lay the restless

sea, where the canals presumably emptied.

At least they don’t have a moat, he thought.

The north-facing gate was scratched and scarred from a battering ram, and the ground in front of it was

torn up with what Roran recognized as the tracks of battle. Three catapults, four ballistae of the sort he

had knowledge of from his time on theDragon Wing , and two ramshackle siege towers were arrayed

before the outer wall. A handful of men hunkered next to the machines of war, smoking pipes and playing

dice on patches of leather. The machines appeared pitifully inadequate compared with the monolithic

mass of the city.

The low, flat land surrounding Aroughs sloped downward toward the sea. Hundreds of farms dotted the

green plain, each marked by a wooden fence and at least one thatched hut. Sumptuous estates stood

here and there: sprawling stone manors protected by their own high walls and, Roran assumed, by their

own guards. No doubt they belonged to the nobles of Aroughs, and perhaps certain welloff merchants.

“What do you think?” he asked Carn.

The magician shook his head, his drooping eyes even more mournful than usual. “We might as well lay

siege to a mountain for all the good it’ll do.”

“Indeed,” observed Brigman, walking up to them.

Roran kept his own observations to himself; he did not want the others to know how discouraged he

was.Nasuada is mad if she believes we can capture Aroughs with only eight hundred men. If I had

eight thousand, and Eragon and Saphira to boot, then I might be sure of it. But not like this .…

Yet he knew he had to find a way, for Katrina’s sake, if nothing else.

Without looking at him, Roran said to Brigman, “Tell me about Aroughs.”

Brigman twisted his spear several times, grinding the butt of it into the ground, before he replied:

“Galbatorix had foresight; he saw to it that the city was fully stocked with food before we cut off the

roads between here and the rest of the Empire. Water, as you can see, they have no shortage of. Even if

we diverted the canals, they would still have several springs and wells inside the city. They could

conceivably hold out until winter, if not longer, although I’d wager they’d be right sick of eating turnips

before all was said and done. Also, Galbatorix garrisoned Aroughs with a fair number of soldiers—more

than twice what we have—in addition to their usual contingent.”

“How do you know this?”

“An informant. However, he had no experience with military strategy, and he provided us with an overly

confident assessment of Aroughs’s weaknesses.”

“Ah.”

“He also promised us that he would be able to let a small force of men into the city under the cover of

dark.”

“And?”

“We waited, but he never appeared, and we saw his head mounted over the parapet the following

morning. It’s still there, by the eastern gate.”

“So it is. Are there other gates besides these five?”

“Aye, three more. By the docks, there’s a water gate wide enough for all three streams to run out at

once, and next to it a dry gate for men and horses. Then there’s another dry gate over at that end”—he

pointed toward the western side of the city—“same as the others.”

“Can any of them be breached?”

“Not quickly. By the shore, we haven’t room to maneuver properly or withdraw out of range of the

soldiers’ stones and arrows. That leaves us with these gates, and the western one as well. The lay of the

land is much the same all around the city, except for the shore, so I chose to concentrate our attack on

the nearest gate.”

“What are they made of?”

“Iron and oak. They’ll stand for hundreds of years unless we knock them down.”

“Are they protected by any spells?”

“I wouldn’t know, seeing as how Nasuada didn’t see fit to send one of her magicians with us. Halstead

has—”

“Halstead?”

“Lord Halstead, ruler of Aroughs. You must have heard of him.”

“No.”

A brief pause followed, wherein Roran could sense Brigman’s contempt for him growing. Then the man

continued, “Halstead has a conjurer of his own: a mean, sallow-looking creature we’ve seen atop the

walls, muttering into his beard and trying to strike us down with his spells. He seems to be singularly

incompetent, because he hasn’t had much luck, save for two of the men I had on the battering ram,

whom he managed to set on fire.”

Roran exchanged glances with Carn—the magician appeared even more worried than before—but he

decided it would be better to discuss the matter in private.

“Would it be easier to break through the gates on the canals?” he asked.

“Where would you stand? Look at how they’re recessed within the wall, without so much as a step for

purchase. What’s more, there are slits and trapdoors in the roof of the entryway, so they can pour boiling

oil, drop boulders, or fire crossbows at anyone foolish enough to venture in there.”

“The gates can’t be solid all the way down, or they would block the water.”

“You’re right about that. Below the surface is a latticework of wood and metal with holes large enough

that they don’t impede the flow overly much.”

“I see. Are the gates kept lowered into the water most of the time, even when Aroughs isn’t under

siege?”

“At night for certain, but I believe they were left open during the daylight hours.”

“Mmh. And what of the walls?”

Brigman shifted his weight. “Granite, polished smooth, and fit so closely together, you can’t even slide a

knife blade between the blocks. Dwarf work, I’d guess, from before the fall of the Riders. I’d also guess

that the walls are filled with packed rubble, but I can’t say for sure, since we haven’t cracked the outer

sheathing yet. They extend at least twelve feet below ground and probably more, which means we can’t

tunnel under them or weaken them with sapping.”

Stepping forward, Brigman pointed at the manors to the north and west. “Most of the nobles have

retreated into Aroughs, but they left men behind to protect their property. They’ve given us some trouble,

attacking our scouts, stealing our horses, that sort of thing. We captured two of the estates early on”—he

indicated a pair of burnt-out husks a few miles away—“but holding them was more trouble than it was

worth, so we sacked them and put them to the torch. Unfortunately, we don’t have enough men to

secure the rest.”

Baldor spoke then. “Why do the canals feed into Aroughs? It doesn’t look as if they’re used for

watering crops.”

“You don’t need to water here, lad, any more than a northman needs to cart in snow during the winter.

Staying dry is more a problem than not.”

“Then what are they used for?” Roran inquired. “And where do they come from? You can’t expect me

to believe the water is drawn from the Jiet River, so many leagues away.”

“Hardly,” scoffed Brigman. “There are lakes in the marshes north of us. It’s brackish, unwholesome

water, but the people here are accustomed to it. A single channel carries it from the marshes to a point

about three miles away. There the channel divides into the three canals you see here, and they run over a

series of falls, which power the mills that grind flour for the city. The peasants cart their grain to the mills

at harvesttime, and then the sacks of flour are loaded onto barges and floated down to Aroughs. It’s also

a handy way of moving other goods, like timber and wine, from the manor houses to the city.”

Roran rubbed the back of his neck as he continued to examine Aroughs. What Brigman had told him

intrigued him, but he was not sure how it could help. “Is there anything else of significance in the

surrounding countryside?” he asked.

“Only a slate mine farther south along the coast.”

He grunted, still thinking. “I want to visit the mills,” he said. “But first I want to hear a full account of your

time here, and I want to know how well provisioned we are with everything from arrows to biscuits.”

“If you’ll follow me … Stronghammer.”

The next hour Roran spent in conference with Brigman and two of his lieutenants, listening and asking

questions as they recounted each of the assaults they had launched against the city walls, as well as

cataloging the stocks of supplies left to the warriors under his command.

At least we’re not short of weapons, Roran thought as he counted the number of dead. Yet even if

Nasuada had not set a time limit upon his mission, the men and horses did not have enough food to stay

camped before Aroughs for more than another week.

Many of the facts and figures that Brigman and his lackeys related came from writing on scrolls of

parchment. Roran strove to conceal the fact that he could not decipher the rows of angular black marks

by insisting that the men read everything to him, but it irritated him that he was at the mercy of others.

Nasuada was right , he realized.I have to learn to read, else I cannot tell if someone is lying to me

when they say that a piece of parchment says one thing or another.… Maybe Carn can teach me

on our return to the Varden .

The more Roran learned about Aroughs, the more he began to sympathize with Brigman’s plight;

capturing the city was a daunting task with no obvious solution. Despite his dislike for the man, Roran

thought that the captain had done as well as could be expected under the circumstances. He had failed,

Roran believed, not because he was an incompetent commander, but because he lacked the two qualities

that had granted Roran victory time and time again: daring and imagination.

Upon finishing his review, Roran and his five companions rode with Brigman to inspect Aroughs’s walls

and gates from a closer, but still safe, distance. Sitting in a saddle again was incredibly painful for Roran,

but he bore it without complaint.

As their steeds clattered onto the stone-paved road next to the camp and began to trot toward the city,

Roran noticed that, on occasion, the horses’ hooves produced a peculiar noise when they struck the

ground. He remembered hearing a similar sound, and being bothered by it, during their final day of

traveling.

Looking down, he saw that the flat stones that formed the surface of the road seemed to be set within

tarnished silver, the veins of which formed an irregular, cobweb-like pattern.

Roran called out to Brigman and asked him about it, whereupon Brigman shouted, “The dirt here makes

for poor mortar, so instead they use lead to hold the stones in place!”

Roran’s initial reaction was disbelief, but Brigman appeared serious. He found it astonishing that any

metal could be so common that people would squander it on building a road.

So they trotted down the lane of stone and lead toward the gleaming city beyond.

They studied Aroughs’s defenses with great attentiveness. But their increased proximity revealed nothing

new and only served to reinforce Roran’s impression that the city was nigh on impregnable.

He guided his horse over to Carn’s. The magician was staring at Aroughs with a glazed expression, his

lips moving silently, as if he were talking to himself. Roran waited until he stopped, then quietly asked,

“Are there any spells on the gates?”

“I think so,” Carn replied, equally subdued, “but I’m not sure how many or what their intended purpose

is. I’ll need more time to tease out the answers.”

“Why is it so difficult?”

“It’s not, really. Most spells are easy to detect, unless someone has made an effort to hide them, and

even then, the magic usually leaves certain telltale traces if you know what to look for. My concern is that

one or more of the spells might be traps set to prevent people from meddling with the gates’

enchantments. If that’s so, and I approach them directly, I’ll be sure to trigger them, and then who knows

what will happen? I might dissolve into a puddle before your very eyes, which is a fate I would rather

avoid, if I have my way.”

“Do you want to stay here while we continue on?”

Carn shook his head. “I don’t think it would be wise to leave you unguarded while we’re away from

camp. I’ll return after sundown and see what I can do then. Besides, it would help if I were closer to the

gates, and I don’t dare go any nearer now, when I’m in plain sight of the sentinels.”

“As you wish.”

When Roran was satisfied they had learned everything they could by looking at the city, he had Brigman

lead them to the nearest set of mills.

They were much as Brigman had described. The water in the canal flowed over three consecutive

twenty-foot falls. At the base of each fall was a waterwheel, edged with buckets. The water splashed into

the buckets, driving the machine round and round. The wheels were connected by thick axles to three

identical buildings that stood stacked one above the other along the terraced bank and which contained

the massive grindstones needed to produce the flour for Aroughs’s population. Though the wheels were

moving, Roran could tell they were disengaged from the complex arrangement of gears hidden inside the

buildings, for he did not hear the rumble of the grindstones turning in their places.

He dismounted by the lowest mill and walked up the path between the buildings, eyeing the sluice gates

that were above the falls and that controlled the amount of water released into them. The gates were

open, but a deep pool of water still lay beneath each of the three slowly spinning wheels.

He stopped halfway up the hill and planted his feet on the edge of the soft, grassy bank, crossed his

arms, and tucked his chin against his chest while he pondered how he could possibly capture Aroughs.

That there was a trick or a strategy that would allow him to crack open the city like a ripe gourd, he was

confident, but the solution eluded him.

He thought until he was tired of thinking, and then he gave himself over to the creaking of the turning

axles and the splashing of the falling water.

Soothing as those sounds were, a thorn of unease still rankled him, for the place reminded him of

Dempton’s mill in Therinsford, where he had gone to work the day the Ra’zac had burned down his

home and tortured his father, mortally wounding him.

Roran tried to ignore the memory, but it stayed with him, twisting in his gut.

If only I had waited another few hours to leave, I could have saved him. Then the more practical

part of Roran replied:Yes, and the Ra’zac would have killed me before I could have even raised a

hand. Without Eragon to protect me, I would have been as helpless as a newborn babe .

With a quiet step, Baldor joined him by the edge of the canal. “The others are wondering: have you

decided on a plan?” he asked.

“I have ideas, but no plan. What of you?”

Baldor crossed his arms as well. “We could wait for Nasuada to send Eragon and Saphira to our aid.”

“Bah.”

For a while, they watched the never-ending motion of the water below them. Then Baldor said, “What if

you just asked them to surrender? Maybe they’ll be so frightened when they hear your name, they’ll

throw open the gates, fall at your feet, and beg for mercy.”

Roran chuckled briefly. “I doubt word of me has reached all the way to Aroughs. Still …” He ran his

fingers through his beard. “It might be worth a try, to put them off balance if nothing else.”

“Even if we gain entrance to the city, can we hold it with so few men?”

“Maybe, maybe not.”

A pause grew between them; then Baldor said, “How far we have come.”

“Aye.”

Again, the only sound was that of the water and of the turning wheels. Finally, Baldor said, “The

snowmelt must not be as great here as it is at home. Otherwise, the wheels would be half underwater

come springtime.”

Roran shook his head. “It doesn’t matter how much snow or rain they get. The sluice gates can be used

to limit the amount of water that runs over the wheels, so they don’t turn too fast.”

“But once the water rises to the top of the gates?”

“Hopefully, the day’s grinding is finished by then, but in any case, you uncouple the gears, raise the

gates, and …” Roran trailed off as a series of images flashed through his mind, and his whole body

flushed with warmth, as if he had drunk an entire tankard of mead in a single gulp.

Could I?he thought wildly.Would it really work, or … It doesn’t matter; we have to try. What else

can we do?

He strode out to the center of the berm that held back the middlemost pond and grasped the spokes that

stuck out from the tall wooden screw used to raise and lower the sluice gate. The screw was stiff and

hard to move, even though he set his shoulder against it and pushed with all his weight.

“Help me,” he said to Baldor, who had remained on the bank, watching with puzzled interest.

Baldor carefully made his way to where Roran stood. Together they managed to close the sluice gate.

Then, refusing to answer any questions, Roran insisted that they do the same with both the uppermost

and the lowermost gates.

When all three were firmly shut, Roran walked back to Carn, Brigman, and the others and motioned for

them to climb off their horses and gather around him. He tapped the head of his hammer while he waited,

suddenly feeling unreasonably impatient.

“Well?” Brigman demanded once they were in place.

Roran looked each of them in the eyes, to make sure that he had their undivided attention, then he said,

“Right, this is what we’re going to do—” And he began to talk, quickly and intensely, for a full half hour,

explaining everything that had occurred to him in that one, revelatory instant. As he spoke, Mandel began

to grin, and though they remained more serious, Baldor, Delwin, and Hamund also appeared excited by

the audacious nature of the scheme he outlined.

Their response gratified Roran. He had done much to earn their trust, and he was pleased to know that

he could still count on their support. His only fear was that he might let them down; of all the fates he

could imagine, only losing Katrina seemed worse.

Carn, on the other hand, appeared somewhat doubtful. This Roran had expected, but the magician’s

doubt was slight compared with Brigman’s incredulity.

“You’re mad!” he exclaimed once Roran had finished. “It’ll never succeed.”

“You take that back!” said Mandel, and jumped forward, his fists clenched. “Why, Roran’s won more

battles than you’ve ever fought in, and he did it without all the warriors you’ve had to order around!”

Brigman snarled, his bare upper lip curling like a snake. “You little whelp! I’ll teach you a lesson in

respect you’ll never forget.”

Roran pushed Mandel back before the younger man could attack Brigman. “Oi!” growled Roran.

“Behave yourself.” With a surly look, Mandel ceased resisting, but he continued to glower at Brigman,

who sneered at him in return.

“It’s an outlandish plan, to be sure,” said Delwin, “but then, your outlandish plans have served us well in

the past.” The other men from Carvahall made sounds of agreement.

Carn nodded and said, “Maybe it will work and maybe it won’t. I don’t know. In any event, it’s certain

to catch our enemies by surprise, and I have to admit, I’m rather curious to see what will happen.

Nothing like this has ever been tried before.”

Roran smiled slightly. Addressing Brigman, he said, “To continue as before, nowthat would be mad.

We have only two and a half days to seize Aroughs. Ordinary methods won’t suffice, so we must hazard

theextra ordinary.”

“That may be,” muttered Brigman, “but this is a ridiculous venture that will kill many a good man, and for

no reason other than to demonstrate your supposed cleverness.”

His smile widening, Roran moved toward Brigman until only a few inches separated them. “You don’t

have to agree with me, Brigman; you only have to do what you’re told. Now, will you follow my orders

or not?”

The air between them grew warm from their breath and from the heat radiating off their skin. Brigman

gritted his teeth and twisted his spear even more vigorously than before, but then his gaze wavered and

he backed away. “Blast you,” he said. “I’ll be your dog for the while, Stronghammer, but there’ll be a

reckoning on this soon enough, just you watch, and then you’ll have to answer for your decisions.”

As long as we capture Aroughs, thought Roran,I don’t care . “Mount up!” he shouted. “We have

work to do, and little time to do it in! Hurry, hurry, hurry!”
[/spoiler1]

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Дата: Понедельник, 2011-11-21, 11:28 | Сообщение # 38

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Да, хочу, буду ждать. Перевожу я быстро, поэтому меня можно загрузить.

Добавлено (2011-11-21, 11:28)
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Если никто не занял 23 главу THARDSVERGÛNDNZMAL, я ее буду переводить.

Верю только в хорошее!!!