"He looks more like an elf than he does his own flesh and blood. I wouldn't count on his loyalty any more than the Urgals'." The third man spoke up again: "Have you noticed, he's always freshly shaven, no mater how early in the morning we break camp?" "He must use magic for a razor." "Goes against the natural order of things, it does. That and all the other spells being tossed around nowadays. Makes you want to hide in a cave somewhere and let the magicians kill each other off without any interference from us." "I don't seem to recall you complaining when the healers used a spell instead of a pair of tongs to remove that arrow from your shoulder." "Maybe, but the arrow never would have ended up in my shoulder if it weren't for Galbatorix. And it's him and his magic that's caused this whole mess." Someone snorted. "True enough, but I'd bet every last copper I have that, Galbatorix or no, you still would've ended up with an arrow sticking out of you. You're too mean to do anything other than fight." "Eragon saved my life in Feinster, you know," said Svern. "Aye, and if you bore us with the story one more time, I'll have you scrubbing pots for a week." "Well, he did..."