To Walk in Myth
Chapter 1
Battlefield
The stench of war hung in the air like a thick fog, flooding Roran's nostrils and waking the dragon in his chest, the dark creature that yearned for blood. Roran snorted, shaking his head, turning such thoughts from his mind. This was no war. Compared to the battles he fought for the Varden, this was hardly a skirmish. And nonetheless, he wouldn't be doing any of the killing himself. He was no longer a simple soldier after all. If everything went well, he wouldn't even need the hammer that hung at his waist. Even so, he absentmindedly loosened it at his belt as he surveyed the rolling grassland in front of him, that was about to become a battlefield.
"Our scouts have identified all five of the rogue magicians in the enemy's ranks my lord." A wizened scribe pronounced from beside him. Roran grunted in response. He didn't like dealing with scribes, but as Nasuada's representative, Maethir had insisted on coming to the battle, if only to flee should their line falter and his life fall into danger.
"Five magicians to our three." Roran grumbled darkly. "I'd prefer to take them out separately, when we have the advantage."
"We have the advantage in men sir. They have one thousand to our one thousand and two hundred. And their men are farmers, vagabonds and opportunists, not fighters." Said Dak to his right. Dak was a warrior, a man of Roran's own kind.
He stroked his rough beard as he watched the rebels shuffling in their ranks in the distance. With another grunt Roran gave the order to attack. No sense in waiting for his men to grow stiff of limb waiting for his command. The soldiers surged forward, closing the distance toward the enemy ranks. Archers would do no good against these rebels, they were warded, and had entrenched themselves on a hilltop. Bloody magicians.
He didn't have cavalry either, they hadn't been able to get any horses through the Spine. Now the mountains stood at his back as waves of infantry crashed together in front of him, the ringing of steel mingling with the shouts of the men wielding it.
Kaeden gripped the shaft of his spear tightly as he thrust it into the belly of a bearded rebel in front of him. The man stopped in his tracks and dropped the axe he had been brandishing. Kaeden grimly yanked out his spear as his squad-mates fought beside him.
Another man stepped up behind the first, filling his fallen comrade's spot in the rebel line. This one carried a sword. He snarled at Kaeden and charged, swinging the sword savagely. Kaeden hurriedly raised his spear to parry the blow. The swipe glanced off the hardened ash, though the man was unfazed. His momentum carried him forward, tangling with Kaeden and sending them both sprawling to the ground.
The two soldiers grasped and clawed at each other for a few moments before Kaeden was able to draw his parrying dagger, fiercely stabbing it into the swordsman's throat. The man thrashed for a moment, then lay still, blood pouring from his wound.
Kaeden scambled to his feet, slamming his parrying dagger back into his belt and picking up his spear just in time to defend himself from yet another attack. Blood mixed with the dirt at his feet, churning into a thin layer of deep red mud.
Sunlight beamed down from the sky, creating a kind of burning halo around some of the helmed soldiers, giving them an angelic appearance in the moments before their bloody deaths. Kaeden fought on, relying on skills he had acquired through his ceaseless training with the spear and dagger since he had joined Stronghammer's army just over a year ago.
Block. Dodge. Parry. Thrust.
That day, those lessons were Kaeden's entire existence. The battle seemed to go on for eternity, yet at the same time seemed to last for only a second.
Block. Dodge. Parry. Thrust.
Kill.
And kill he did. Kaeden lost count of how many men died to his spear, though their faces—twisted in pain and rage at the moments of their death—stuck in his mind like pitch.
Block. Dodge. Parry. Thrust. Kill.
Kill.
Kill.
Kill.
Roran paced back and forth in front of his advisors, eyes scanning the battlefield for weaknesses to exploit. Two of the enemy magicians had fallen early, the weakest, according to the notes provided by Nasuada's cabal of pet magicians. A tract of scorched earth marked the place where one more was engaged in a battle of the minds with one of the spellcasters at Roran's command.
The two were staring at each other intently, their determined eyes the only outward manifestation of the fierce battle Roran knew they were waging on the battlefield inside their heads. Soldiers from both sides avoided that flank of the battlefield, eying the scorched bodies surrounding the pair.
The last two of the enemy's magicians were hiding behind their men, occasionally sending explosive flashes of light from behind the rebel ranks, devastating Roran's front lines. Two of Roran's own spellcasters—brother and sister—sent fireballs of their own at the rogue magicians from his same vantage point, though they appeared to be ineffective.
He stalked over to one of them.
"Any progress?" He asked gruffly. The young woman shot him an annoyed glare.
"Until we can lure them into the open, neither Rashe or I can catch them in a duel."
"If you do get the chance to duel them, you're sure you can defeat them?" She nodded to his question, then returned to her arcane weaving of the ancient language.
Roran stroked his beard, eying the enemy warriors.
"Dak!" he shouted. "Get my guard, we're going to charge." The soldier nodded, retrieving the elite group of soldiers tasked with protecting Roran's life.
"I beg your pardon sir?" Maethir asked. "You are an earl! Earls don't run haphazardly into battle!" Roran ignored him, and he had to admit it brought him no small amount of joy to do so.
Roran's guard formed up around him, faces firm and determined. He could tell many of them were itching to join the battle. They didn't like standing by while their fellow soldiers died. He knew the feeling. Drawing his famous hammer from his belt, Roran let out a blood-curdling cry as he rushed down the hill towards the battle, his men following him, letting out their own shouts.
When he reached the first enemy soldier he brought his hammer down in a crushing blow, smashing the man's helmet and skull alike. He continued forward, bellowing as he swung and smashed his way through the enemy ranks. His guard followed him, protecting his flanks and holding the ground he took.
The enemy soldiers initially pulled back in shock before surging back in greater numbers, at the angry shouts of their officers. Roran planted his feet held his ground against the onslaught. His hammer rose and fell, each time taking an enemy soldier with it. Come on. Come on see me you bloody fools! Roran thought, waiting for the enemy magicians to retaliate against his offensive.
As if heeding his mental command, one of those flashes of burning light, even brighter up close, ripped into the ground to his side, missing his wards, but blinding him and sending him tumbling in the shockwave all the same.
Roran's ears were ringing, and he blinked dust out of his eyes. The explosion had torn through men of both sides, clearing a swathe of land around him.
A high-pitched screech woke him from his brief reverie. A horse approached, bearing a pale rider with a long black cloak streaming behind it sped toward him threateningly.
Before he could do anything, a young soldier with a spear seemed to fly over the ground, leaping into the air and driving his spear into the rider's side, the horse tumbling to the ground about forty feet from where Roran lay. He rose unsteadily as his guard gathered around him.
Another flash of light to the right of the battlefield signaled the end of the magician's duel on that flank, and a cheer from his soldiers confirmed it had been their man that triumphed.
The boy struggled with the pale creature on the ground, now holding a notched parrying dagger, a swordbreaker. The rider quickly drew two ghostly white knives, long enough to be shortswords, rising halfway off the ground slicked by soldier's boots before the soldier tackled it again.
Roran's other soldiers seemed too scared of the pale rider to help their comrade. With a snarl Roran began to charge at it before his guards seized his arms, holding him back. A reexamination of the situation revealed why. Behind the fallen horse and rider were the two remaining enemy magicians.
A closer look revealed that they were strained, and sweat glistened on each of their forheads. Turning around, Roran saw his own magicians, the brother and sister, with the look of dueling heavy on their faces. Roran's charge, along with the explosion, had cleft a hole through the middle of the enemy army. The rest of the fighting was relegated to the flanks, where victory seemed almost assured by now.
Another, tired looking magician stepped up beside Roran. He recognized the man as the one who had just won his duel. That determined, focused look came over his features again as he joined the arcane battle once more. One of the enemy magicians seemed to balk, a look of fear coming over his face a moment before he burst into flame at a hushed "Brisingr" from the sister-magician. All three of Roran's magicians now turned their gazes on the last rogue spellcaster. No fear showed on this man's face, instead anger washed over his features. He lasted a few seconds longer than his companion, but then he too caved, and was destroyed at a phrase from one of Roran's magicians.
Now Roran looked back to the struggle with the pale rider that had tried to kill him. It appeared that the young soldier had taken a blow to the head, and was unconscious at the creature's feet, blood matting his hair and forehead. The pale creature seemed to stare at Roran before he realized something, it had no mouth, or nose, or ears. The only immediately apparent facial features it possessed were a pair of black, beady eyes. Those eyes stared into Roran's own. The creature cocked its head.
The magicians at Roran's side seemed confused at first, then began to rattle of strings of words in the ancient language—the language of magic—hurling bolts of lighting, fire, and other unseen deadly curses at the creature. The spells however seemed to have no effect on it whatsoever, running off its skin like rainwater on the slats of a roof.
Eventually, Roran's magicians stopped their spellcasting, exhausted, and dumbfounded at their ineffectiveness. Roran squinted his eyes at the creature and gripped his hammer tighter, falling into a stance. Those black eyes looked at him still, boring into his soul. Then the creature let out a keening peal of sound, despite its seemingly lack of a mouth. The noise reverberated in his head and sent him to his knees, clutching at his ears in pain. The cry had the same effect on the remaining soldiers and magicians on the battlefield, knocking many of them unconscious.
When the sound stopped, none of Roran's men remained standing, or any of the rebel men either. Those dark beady eyes washed over Roran and his army once more, then, oddly, the creature reached down and picked up the young, unconscious soldier at its feet, slinging the poor boy over its shoulder, before stalking off away from the army. Roran just lay there with the rest of his men, the painful effects of the sound rendering him helpless to stop it.
Roran didn't like being helpless.