A Song of Scale and Shadow - Chapter - 2

Eragon had no clear plan for where to start. The Spine was vast and tangled, a labyrinth of ridges and gullies where a man could vanish without a trace. But he knew one thing with certainty: all creatures needed water. So he set his course along a narrow stream that wound down from the heights, its current clear and cold as it slipped between mossy stones. Tiny fish flitted in the shallows—nothing like the fat trout of the Anora River, but a welcome sign of life all the same.

He picked his way along the bank, climbing over half-fallen trees and ducking beneath low branches. By midmorning, he spotted movement up ahead. Two figures were crouched near the water’s edge, chipping at the rocks with short-handled hammers. He recognized them even before he drew close—Jode and Marten, father and son, who made their living collecting iron-rich stones to trade in Carvahall. The stream here was thick with dark sediment, staining their hands red as they sifted for the heavy fragments.

Marten looked up as Eragon approached, wiping sweat from his brow. “Out early, lad,” he called. “You’re far from Garrow’s fields.”

“I’m hunting,” Eragon said, keeping his voice light. He adjusted the strap of his pack, hoping they wouldn’t ask too many questions.

Jode squinted at him, his weathered face creasing with concern. “You best stay clear of the high ridges, boy. Nothing up there but rocks and ghosts.”

“I won’t be going that far,” Eragon lied easily. “Just near the foothills.”

Marten frowned. “Your uncle know you’re out this way?”

“He knows I’m hunting.” Eragon shifted his grip on the bow. “Just…don’t mention it to him, all right? He’ll only worry for no reason.”

Jode sighed, but finally nodded. “Aye, your business. Just keep your wits about you.”

“I will,” Eragon promised, offering a grateful smile. He left them crouched by their iron-flecked stones, their hammers tapping steadily against the rock. As he climbed the next rise and the stream disappeared behind a curtain of trees, he glanced back once, though they could no longer see him.

He couldn’t have known—no one could—that they would be the last familiar voices he heard for a long, long time.


By noon, Eragon’s legs ached from the steady climb, and sweat had plastered his hair to his forehead. He found a flat stone near the water’s edge—smooth and sun-warmed—and set his pack down with a sigh. The stream babbled quietly, a small, steady sound that made the wilderness feel less lonely. All morning he had seen signs of life: fresh rabbit tracks crisscrossing the muddy banks, glimpses of small ears vanishing into brambles. But he hadn’t loosed a single arrow. Today he was after something bigger, and he meant to keep his focus.

He cupped his hands, collecting a palmful of clear water, but didn’t drink. Instead, he filled his dented pot and set about gathering fallen branches from nearby undergrowth. Soon, he had coaxed a small fire to life in a hollow between the rocks. When the water began to bubble, he sat back, feeling the tension ease from his shoulders. He’d learned early that boiling stream water was worth the trouble. No telling what might be upstream—a dead animal, sour mud, or worse.

While the pot hissed, he unwrapped a square of flatbread Roran had pressed into his hands the night before. It was dense and dry but filled his stomach, and he chased it with the last of the rabbit meat, salty and tough from the days it had traveled in his pack. He chewed slowly, eyes fixed on the thin white plume of steam rising into the blue afternoon sky. When the water was ready, he let it cool and drank deep, savoring the warmth.

Rested but knowing the hardest part still lay ahead, Eragon packed up, doused the fire, and shouldered his bow. The path grew steeper with every step, the ground turning to loose shale that shifted underfoot. Each ridge he climbed felt taller than the last, and there was no trail to guide him—only the rough, unmarked bones of the Spine, daring him to press deeper into their hidden heart.


Before long, Eragon passed from the familiar edges of the valley into the true Spine—and it felt as though he had crossed some invisible threshold into another world entirely. The trees here were giants, towering far overhead, their trunks gnarled and furrowed with age beyond reckoning. Moss clung to everything, softening the rocks and fallen branches into green humps. The air smelled richer, thick with damp earth and the sharp tang of sap. And everywhere, there was sound: birds calling in hidden hollows, insects buzzing in low, steady droning, leaves whispering far above his head.

He moved slowly, picking his steps over roots as thick as his arm. When he reached a bend in the stream, he stopped short, every muscle locking into stillness. On the opposite bank, half in shadow, stood a creature he had only ever seen in scraps—strips of hide on a tanner’s rack, paw prints pressed in soft mud, a ragged pelt once traded in Carvahall. But never, until now, had he seen a living bear.

It was massive, bigger than the stories suggested, its fur glossy black and thick around its shoulders. When it lifted its head, Eragon felt the weight of its gaze like a stone on his chest. They stared at each other, two creatures equally surprised. His heart thudded painfully against his ribs, and he forced himself not to lift his bow. After a long, breathless moment, the bear grunted, turned with deliberate calm, and lumbered back into the trees, leaving only a trail of broken ferns in its wake.

Eragon exhaled, realizing he’d been holding his breath the whole time. He had come here searching for something larger than rabbits, but he hadn’t thought to wonder what might be searching for him. He had seen a bear—and for the first time, he began to understand just how little he knew about what lay ahead.



Eragon spent the afternoon weaving his way deeper into the Spine, moving as quietly as he could manage across the uneven slopes. To his relief—and no small wonder—he discovered the mountains were teeming with life. Here, the woods were not barren and haunted as the old stories claimed but rich with creatures. He glimpsed deer slipping between the trees, their sleek bodies vanishing into the shadows before he could so much as nock an arrow. Once, he spotted a small herd of elk grazing in a clearing far below. Their antlers rose like pale branches against the green, and for a moment, he was sure he could stalk close enough for a clean shot. But the wind shifted, and in an instant they bolted, scattering into the brush faster than he could follow.

Frustration and awe tangled inside him as the day wore on. He knew now that the Spine could feed a hundred hunters—if only they were brave or foolish enough to venture here.

His wandering soon brought him to something he had not expected at all. Perched atop a steep rise was the broken husk of an old tower, half-swallowed by ivy and moss. Most of the roof was gone, and only a portion of the stone walls still stood. He couldn’t guess who had built it, or why anyone would raise such a place so far from any road or village. But the thought of spending the night with a wall at his back instead of empty woods was enough to settle his mind.

As evening bled into dusk, Eragon climbed into the ruin and laid his pack in a corner where the stones still held fast. The tower was close enough to the stream that he could fill his water pot easily, and he drank his fill before collecting a pile of dry branches from the slope below. Soon, a small fire crackled in a shallow pit of rocks he’d arranged with shaking hands. He ate slowly, tearing pieces of flatbread in silence, listening to the wind sigh through the broken stones above.

But when darkness fell, and the fire became the only light in that endless forest, courage proved harder to hold. Every rustle beyond the walls felt enormous. Twice he was certain he heard claws scraping over stone. He fed the fire again and again, watching the shadows dance across the tower’s interior. And though he tried to tell himself he was safe enough, he could not stop the uneasy feeling that he was trespassing in a place meant to be forgotten.

Long hours passed before sleep finally took him, fitful and thin as cobweb.


The next morning, Eragon woke to a soft chorus of birdsong echoing through the ruin. Sunlight streamed in through the gaps in the stonework, striking the last wisps of smoke curling from his cold fire pit. The air felt fresh and almost gentle after the night’s unease. He sat up slowly, brushing leaves from his blanket, and watched as a golden leaf drifted down through the broken ceiling to land at his feet.

His stomach tightened with hunger. He unwrapped one of the last pieces of flatbread and ate two bites in careful measure, pressing the rest back into the cloth. If he didn’t find something soon, he’d be on short rations by the end of the day.

After drinking from the stream, he checked his bowstring and counted his arrows. The cool clarity of the morning steadied his thoughts, and as he slung his pack over his shoulder, he felt a small surge of determination. Today, he told himself, he would not come back empty-handed.

He didn’t have to search long. Less than an hour from the tower, he froze in the shelter of an old pine and spotted movement across a small clearing. There—a family of elk grazing among the ferns. A towering male with a broad rack of antlers, flanked by two sleek does. His pulse quickened. Meat enough to last weeks, if he could bring one down.

Careful not to break a twig or snap a branch, he moved into the shadows at the clearing’s edge. The elk were too far for a clean shot. He crouched low, mind running through every story he’d heard about hunters spooking their quarry with careless wind. Shifting his position, he tested the breeze on his cheek and adjusted his path, circling wide to keep the scent of man and fire behind him.

When he was close enough that he could see the twitch of the big bull’s ears, he drew an arrow, feeling the breath lock tight in his chest. For a moment, everything stilled. Then he loosed the shaft.

It struck the earth with a dull thump, two paces behind the elk’s flank. The big bull jerked up his head, muscles rippling, and in an instant all three animals burst into flight, crashing into the trees in a whirl of hooves and snapping underbrush.

Cursing under his breath, Eragon bolted after them, weaving between trunks, following the churned path of crushed leaves. He caught another glimpse of the bull bounding over a fallen log and set his jaw, refusing to let it slip away. He ran, heart hammering, until at last he spotted the elk again—pausing just long enough to look back, as if deciding whether to flee farther.

This time, he didn’t hesitate. He raised the bow, aimed for the shoulder, and let the arrow fly. It struck home with a meaty thud, driving deep into the elk’s side. The bull threw up its head in pain, staggered, and bolted once more—blood streaking dark down its flank.

Eragon sprinted forward, scanning the ground for the first bright drops that would mark the trail he must follow.


Eragon pushed through a stand of saplings, the branches snagging at his sleeves as he followed the fresh trail of blood. His breath came ragged, and his heart pounded from the sprint and the fear he might lose the animal altogether. But at last, just beyond a mossy rise, he saw it—the elk sprawled on its side in the ferns, sides heaving shallowly. Its massive antlers lay half-buried in the leaves, and its dark eyes had grown dull with exhaustion and pain. Relief flooded him so quickly his knees nearly buckled.

A smile broke across his face as he stepped forward, careful not to make any sudden noise. He could feel the ache in his legs, the hunger in his belly, but none of it mattered. At last, he thought, something to bring home. Something that would make the weeks ahead easier.

He had nearly reached the elk, hand outstretched to touch its flank, when the world split apart.

A blinding flash—like lightning trapped in a bottle—erupted from the ground no more than ten paces ahead, brilliant and unnatural. A crack of air so loud it felt like a hammer drove into his chest. For an instant, he thought the mountain itself had exploded. Then the shockwave hit.

Eragon felt himself lifted clear off his feet. The elk tumbled end over end like a rag doll. Branches snapped overhead. He struck the earth hard, all the air punched from his lungs. For a moment he couldn’t move, couldn’t even gasp. Spots swam in his vision as he forced himself onto his elbows.

When he looked up, he saw the clearing transformed. A perfect circle of scorched earth radiated outward, ferns flattened and stripped of leaves. At its heart lay a stone unlike anything he had ever seen: an ovoid shape as large as a small barrel, glittering with deep blue facets, as if someone had carved a giant sapphire and left it there to blind the world.

His mouth went dry. The elk was nowhere to be seen—whether fled or dead, he couldn’t tell. Slowly, one shaking hand pressed against the ground to steady himself as he rose. Whatever this was, it hadn’t been here before. He was certain.

Almost without thinking, drawn by wonder stronger than fear, Eragon stepped into the ruined circle. Heat radiated off the stone in shimmering waves. He reached out, fingertips hovering just above the polished surface.

The moment his skin made contact, the world twisted around him. His thoughts seemed to flatten, pulled through a narrowing tunnel. There was no sound, no breath—only pressure, as if he were being crushed into something smaller than his own heart. The light swallowed everything. He tried to scream but had no voice.

Then nothing at all.