Hj Constellation

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“Not as many as we would like. And Tronjheim is the greatest of them.” Leaning on an elbow, Orik took a deep pull on his pipe. “You have only seen the lower levels, so it hasn’t been apparent, but most of Tronjheim is deserted. The farther up you go, the emptier it gets. Entire floors have remained untouched for centuries. Most dwarves prefer to dwell under Tronjheim and Farthen Dûr in the caverns and passageways that riddle the rock. Through the centuries we have tunneled extensively under the Beor Mountains. It is possible to walk from one end of the mountain range to the other without ever setting foot on the surface.”

“It seems like a waste to have all that unused space in Tronjheim,” commented Eragon.

Orik nodded. “Some have argued for abandoning this place because of its drain on our resources, but Tronjheim does perform one invaluable task.”

“What’s that?”

“In times of misfortune it can house our entire nation. There have been only three instances in our history when we have been forced to that extreme, but each time it has saved us from certain and utter destruction. That is why we always keep it garrisoned, ready for use.”

“I’ve never seen anything as magnificent,” admitted Eragon.

Orik smiled around his pipe. “I’m glad you find it so. It took generations to build Tronjheim—and our lives are much longer than those of men. Unfortunately, because of the cursed Empire, few outsiders are allowed to see its glory.”

“How many Varden are here?”

“Dwarves or humans?”

“Humans—I want to know how many have fled the Empire.”

Orik exhaled a long puff of smoke that coiled lazily around his head. “There are about four thousand of your kin here. But that’s a poor indicator of what you want to know. Only people who wish to fight come here. The rest of them are under King Orrin’s protection in Surda.”

So few?thought Eragon with a sinking feeling. The royal army alone numbered nearly sixteen thousand when it was fully marshaled, not counting the Urgals. “Why doesn’t Orrin fight the Empire himself?” he asked.

“If he were to show open hostility,” said Orik, “Galbatorix would crush him. As it is, Galbatorix withholds that destruction because he considers Surda a minor threat, which is a mistake. It’s through Orrin’s assistance that the Varden have most of their weapons and supplies. Without him, there would be no resisting the Empire.

Don’t despair over the number of humans in Tronjheim. There are many dwarves here—many more than you have seen—and all will fight when the time comes. Orrin has also promised us troops for when we battle Galbatorix. The elves pledged their help as well.”

Eragon absently touched Saphira’s mind and found her busy eating a bloody haunch with gusto. He noticed once more the hammer and stars engraved on Orik’s helm. “What does that mean? I saw it on the floor in Tronjheim.”

Orik lifted the iron-bound cap off his head and brushed a rough finger over the engraving. “It is the symbol of my clan. We are the Ingietum, metalworkers and master smiths. The hammer and stars are inlaid into Tronjheim’s floor because it was the personal crest of Korgan, our founder. One clan to rule, with twelve surrounding. King Hrothgar is Dûrgrimst Ingietum as well and has brought my house much glory, much honor.”

When they returned the platters to the cook, they passed a dwarf in the hall. He stopped before Eragon, bowed, and said respectfully, “Argetlam.”

The dwarf left Eragon fumbling for an answer, flushed with unease, yet also strangely pleased with the gesture. No one had bowed to him before. “What did he say?” he asked, leaning closer to Orik.

Orik shrugged, embarrassed. “It’s an elven word that was used to refer to the Riders. It means ‘silver hand.’ ” Eragon glanced at his gloved hand, thinking of the gedwëy ignasia that whitened his palm. “Do you wish to return to Saphira?”