![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() Nor could Saphira help, only share his pain as it rebounded across their mental link.Įragon ran a hand over his face and looked up at the stars showing through Farthen Dûr’s distant top, which were smudged with sooty smoke from the pyre. Arya and Angela said that he was perfectly sound. The healers gave him various potions to drink. On each occasion he had been racked by terrible pains that seemed to explode from his spine. Since waking to find his wound healed by Angela, Eragon had tried three times to assist in the recovery effort. No burial or honored resting place for them. In the distance, a mountainous fire glowed sullenly by Farthen Dûr’s wall where the Urgals were being burned. The sheer number of bodies had stymied their attempts to bury the dead. It was three days since the Varden and dwarves had fought the Urgals for possession of Tronjheim, the mile-high, conical city nestled in the center of Farthen Dûr, but the battlefield was still strewn with carnage. Behind him Saphira delicately skirted the corpse, her glittering blue scales the only color in the gloom that filled the hollow mountain. So thought Eragon as he stepped over a twisted and hacked Urgal, listening to the keening of women who removed loved ones from the blood-muddied ground of Farthen Dûr. ![]()
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