Disclaimer: Ownership is a human invention. In the eyes of the highest spiritual authority, Christopher doesn't own Inheritance any more then I do.
Chapter 6
Horns sounded as the Varden prepared to march. It had not been as easy as either Nasuada or Eragon had expected, the problem being Feinstar had provided far too many distractions for the Varden's soldiers or sailors. When the Varden had conquered the city, it had already been full to bursting, with refugee's retreating to a more defensible location and deserters from the king's army who had made there way there. The streets had been crowded before occupation, with more arrivals coming every day, and vice and corruption following shortly behind.
Thieves flourished at everyone's expense, as did a black market trafficking things as simple as food and clothes, and even human life. Brothels sprang up across the city, as people without the means to otherwise support themselves were forced to sell their bodies and pride. And there were likewise places where darker passions could stir, where the brave or foolish could fight to the death over a handful of gold, or pursue other, darker vices.
Even before the Varden's occupation, the city watch, sorely undermanned for the task of policing a transient army and a horde of refugee's, while protecting the walls from an imminent invasion, had found it easier to take bribes and look the other way.
Now their problems were compounded by the fact that nobody seemed to be in charge. The watch didn't know who they were taking there orders from, what authority they actually had over the occupying soldiers or how to go about enforcing the law over the armed group. So they did nothing, and the Varden, always on a fine line between an army and a degenerate mob, began to sink still further.
"I don't care if the watch isn't any help." Nasuada sad angrily, rage making her voice shrill, "Why is nothing being done? Why aren't the officers doing something about this. I thought we instituted a military watch." She said, her eyes narrowing and her fingers steepling in front of her, her dark skin flushing angrily.
Martland shrugged. "Well, Nasuada," He began tentatively, "it's, uh, a, uh-"
Orrin leaned back on his chair. "What the good general is trying to say is that the officers are right alongside the men, infantry, cavalry and nobles alike; passed out in an alley somewhere or spending the day with a women who's affection and virtue is open to negotiation." He said, eyeing goblet full of wine reflectively. "Or something along those lines anyway. The invasion is floundering."
Nasuada didn't so much as twitch at the king's blunt analysis. "Then we need to get out of here as soon as possible." She said icily, then took a deep breath. "We will have to hasten our departure. Have the men available for inspection by highsun. Martland, since your men are facedown with Orrin's, you will gather the troops together. Understand?"
Martland nodded, but Orrin's narrowed. The king was not used to being given any orders, and had come to regret the rigid command structure he had agreed to. But he was wise enough to know that a confrontation here would be a mistake. Without a word he turned on his heel and strode out of the tent, his wine red cloak billowing behind him like the winds of some great bird.
Neither of the two leaders thought Nasuada's demands would be possible, but they didn't say so. Instead they made their way out of the palace and back to the city streets, and started a search for soldiers lucid and sober enough to serve as a military police.
Fortunately the two of them were far more successful then either had though possible, though the city did offer a myrid of distractions, the Varden's core members had been soldiers long enough to be mostly to experienced to fall prey to the vices while on campaign. Within twenty hours, most of the forces had been gathered to the south, many of them blinking blearily in the light or holding their heads and groaning. They were nothing like presentable, but their officers were forcing them into a semblance of order, and it would be only a shot time before they would be ready to march.
*****
Martland had been in the saddle for six hours since dawn, riding from encampment to encampment and preparing the army to march.
Roran had been one of the first men he had found. As he rarely drank to excess even when he was home, and had never even considered taking up other vices, he had watched the disintegration of the army with a certain sense of bewilderment. Why start now? After all, Feinstar offered nothing that couldn't be purchased in Surda. The price would be higher, of course, and each new debauchery wouldn't be advertised so openly, but he did not see how that made a difference.
Roran had been accepted gratefully by the Martland, and sent to find the men under his command. To that end he had wound his way through narrow, dirty alley's of Feinstar's harbor. Homeless refugees and resident beggars lined the streets, offering black market goods, or services, or simply begging for a few coins to get them through the day. The pleas touched his heart, but he had nothing to give them. He'd given most of his wealth to the poor the first day after the fighting ended; the rest had been stolen by cutpurses son after that. Katrina was looking the little he had kept.
Walking past the ragged children and diseased old men, the real victims of the war, he thought longingly of the austere simplicity of Palancar valley. Everyone knew their neighbors, and trusted each other. They weren't rich, but people would help the others get back on there feet if they couldn't make ends meet. He decided then and there that he didn't like cities. He looked up at the sky, but could see little of it. The dilapidated buildings on either side of the narrow alley leaned together so they blocked the sunlight completely. It's probably for the best, Roran decided bitterly. To much direct sun and the garbage clogging the streets would stink worse then it already did.
As quickly as he could, Roran walked the rest of the way down the alley towards the Urgals Head, a tavern where he had last seen Carn. The magician had filled his time by drinking it away, followed by most of the soldiers. Roran couldn't find the heart to blame them. Boredom and the pressure of war were enough to drive most people to the bottle.
The Urgals Head was a disreputable taverns disreputable tavern. It was a place that served those who had nowhere else to go, hadn't the coin to feed themselves and drank to forget. The place was small, cramped and dark, the floor was a layer of insect infested straw, the tables seemed so crude Roran felt it could only be intentional, and the Barman was a large, ham-fisted man who leered at everyone who came through the door and had a knotted cudgel close at hand. But it was cheap, had no standards, and was open well after any usual place would have closed. The perfect place for soldiers with nowhere to be.
As Roran came to the place, he noticed a thief riffling through the pockets of an unconscious soldier. Taking one look at Roran he scampered, for which he was profoundly grateful. He wasn't sure what he would have done had the thief held his ground.
Pushing open the door with a grating creak, he was forced to squint in the dim squalor of the place, the only light coming from sooty windows and sour-smelling tallow candles. The sound of raucous laughter and bawdy songs from a variety of sources mixed with jeers and swearing. Roran spotted a few rats darting around the room. Shuddering slightly, he went over to Carn who was sitting alone at a table, nursing a tarnished mug full of watery beer.
Carn looked up to see his friend and flicked his fingers in a clumsy salute. Roran looked a bit hagged, not that Carn cared. Right now, Carn was drunk. He had lost count of the number of watery pints he had drank, and he was feeling the worse for it. That was common since the siege had ended. It was common whenever he had nothing to occupy his time. It had been for nearly a year. Carn knew he was drinking too much, but that was another thing he couldn't make himself care about.
Carn drank to forget. At the moment he had done such a good job, he had forgotten what it was he was drinking to forget. Hand shaking slightly, he reached for the rusted stein to his left. It would be best to stay forgetful, just in case.
He knew what he was trying to blot out was bad. It was so terrible he had cut all ties, left his life behind and joined the Varden, made him want to spend the rest of his life fighting what had once been his home. For a second he wondered what it was, and the memories began to return, like vengeful ghosts.
In the depths of his mind, images flickered. A woman, plain faced and rosy cheeked, with a beautiful smile and auburn hair in a neat bun. Laughter. The smell of lilac and the sounds of children playing. A wife, children, little ones. All dead. Had he killed them? No. Was he responsible? No. He saw the face of a soldier, a crimson tabard stained dark, a sneer on his face and a scar on his chin. The stab of pain in his chest made him gasp. With a faint moan he reached for the tankard, but Roran stopped him.
Looking up out f the abyss with bleary eyes, bloodshot from the drinking and the time in the dark, Carn saw his friend shake his head. Carn grasped at it, but Roran didn't relent. At last he stopped and hung his head. A sob wrenched itself from deep in his chest, and then was followed by another, and another. His shoulders shaking, tears splattering on the straw, Carn let his pain pour out. He felt like he was being stabbed in the chest, a white-hot lancing pain as though someone was cutting out his heart. The memories kept flooding, until he felt he couldn't take anymore.
With a grunt, Roran helped him to his feet, and half dragged, half carried him towards the door. The sobbing had stopped, but Carn was still tremmoring, the memories refusing to stop. A vision of himself dead on a battlefield appeared, but Carn ignored it. With the brutal self-honesty that comes with drunkenness, Carn realized he'd long since stopped caring. He didn't much care about anything, not since he'd joined the Varden. He was a walking corpse, his life had burned out long ago. All that was left was the anger, and the pain that never seemed to go away, no matter how much he drank.
*****
The Urgals were still nowhere to be seen, having departed to the nearby foothills shortly after the siege's conclusion, with only Nar Garzhvog and the Kull that had joined the Nighthawks remaining with the rest of the Varden. Garzhvog said he would call his people when the time came to march, and Nasuada seemed to have accepted that.
The dwarves had ignored the muster, remaining in their silent camp to the East of the city, with only Orik and a few runners ever leaving or even being spotted. With only a few hours before inspection, and the sun already high in the sky, Orrin had decided to go and get them roused personally. Taking his usual retinue of officials and diplomats, he made his way to the rugged foothills where the dwarves had made their camp.
Before they had reached the first tent, they saw the army. Hundreds upon hundreds of short, stocky dwarven soldiers marched in precise ranks. The bright sunlight glinted off their polished armor and the keen blades of their weapons. Orrin noted with some surprise that the camp was already packed, just the frame's and canvas of the tents remaining upright.
"Impressive, isn't it?" Said a voice that it took Orrin a second to recognize. Turning slowly he noted Orik seated in a splayed fashion on a rocky outcrop he had passed. Orrin nodded, noticing that the dwarf was in full military apparel, down to his vambraces and sabatons. A massive horned helm guarded his head and face, with the cheekguards hiding everything except his alert blue eyes and beaky nose, and a dark wool cape hung over his shoulders despite the heat.
Orrin nodded, impressed by the organization of the troops and the well-trained discipline they presented. "You make them drill in full armor?" He asked as they got nearer to the formation. He knew from experience that the hot, early summer sun would be devastating on the iron-clad soldiers.
Orik let out a short, barking laugh. "How do you expect them to fight in armor if they don't train in armor?"
"But the sun. The heat will-"
Orik snorted. "It will be most likely sunny on the first day of battle. The lads will be glad enough then." He was silent at that, and Orrin was left to consider this new testament to the dogged perseverance of the Dwarves. Stopping on the edge of the parade-ground, he cupped his mailed fingers and held them to his mouth. "Watch this." He shouted, then raised his right arm. A nearby Herald holding a banner with the insignia of Dûrgrimst Ingeitum noted the King's signal, and waved the banner in a complicated series of patterns. Instantly the nearby drummers took up a new tempo, and the army rushed into a deep line four dwarves deep. As the front rank linked shields and readied their axes, forming a defensive wall, the back three ranks quickly drew and strung short horn bows, then carefully notched arrows and sighted along the shafts, while the front rank kneeled, allowing them to pick their targets. The dwarves made it look easy, but the strength to string the bows and move in the heavy armor would have made it all but impossible for humans in so short a time.
Orik nodded contentedly, high praise indeed from him, and brought his arm down in a chopping motion. A new cadence was sounded, and the dwarves unstrung and stowed their bows, slung the shields of their backs and retrieved their axes. The drumbeat changed yet again, and the line of dwarves broke of into four large squares, each thirty dwarves across and thirty dwarves deep, bristling with blades.
Orrin, caught up in this display of amazing military training, suddenly noticed that Orik was staring at him, obviously expecting an assessment. Orrin nodded slightly, then realized Orik was still staring and forced a smile. "Very impressive." He said at last. "I wish we had more of your people." Orik beamed and inclined his head, then gestured yet again at the herald, who lowered his flag. The drumbeat changed again, and the dwarves returned to their regular drills. The squares broke into columns, and the dwarves resumed marching.
Satisfied with the display, Orik turned his full attention towards the Surdan king, seeming to dismiss the marching soldiers behind him. "So when do we march?" He asked gruffly, fiddling with his helmet as though trying to adjust a strap. "We about ready yet?"
Orrin stared down at the dwarf. "Actually, that's why I am here. We're preparing for inspection, and your people still haven't arrived."
"Don't worry lad. We'll be there." He said, finishing with his helmet and letting his arms fall to his sides. "But how long until we march?"
"Nasuada says tomorrow."
Orik nodded at this, then began to turn. "Well then your majesty, mine people and I will be there shortly. You see to it that your people are prepared, and I'll see to mine." With that he turned, leaving Orrin unsure if he'd just been insulted or complemented.
*****
Orik made his way through the skeleton of the dwarvish camp, watching unconcernedly as around him dwarves busied themselves stowing goods and filling packs for the long march ahead. The tents themselves were a uniform slate grey, set out in neat, orderly rows a far cry from the disorganized sprawl of any human encampment. Palisade had been carefully erected around the place in case of attack, and the tents were in neat, orderly rows, gear was kept in tidy pile, and even the inevitable rubbish heap was kept contained in a tiny enclosure. Dwarves at war prided themselves on efficiency.
The dwarves he passed clasped their fists to their chests in a warrior's salute, and inclined their heads. Orik returned the gesture, but did not slow his pace. He had an appointment to keep. Coming at last to centre of the camp he walked around his own impressive cloth-of-gold pavilion to an adjoining tent, made of expertly cured leather and engraved with twisting patterns, great swirls and twists that hurt the eye if stared at too long.
Taking a second to compose himself, Orik straightened his armor and gripped Volund, then pushed aside the flap and marched in. Incense filled the space with a faint blue fog, rising wispily from three small braziers. The tent was enormous, large enough for thirty dwarves to sleep quite comfortably. The space was dominated by an enormous alter over which loomed a statue of an equally enormous mighty warrior with a hammer clasped in each hand, each resembling Volund down to the tiniest detail. The figure was recognizably a dwarf, and was bare-chested, showing great rippling muscles and an enormous beard. Orik muttered a quick prayer under his breath as he beheld the statue. It showed all the dwarven genius for stonework. It was carved with a level of detail no human sculptor would have the patience or skill to master. The Varden had said they were mad, transporting the statue, but the alternative would be far worse. Going to war without the favor of the gods would be disastrous. Orik finished his prayer, then looked up at the other dwarf.
Gannel was simply dressed in a simple red robe, unarmed with no ornaments save two large gold clips in his beard that showed the sign of crossed axes. He had remained kneeled in prayer when Orik had arrived, and showed no sign of relenting, continuing to murmur dwarvish under his breath, his eyes tightly closed. At last he rose to his feet and turned abruptly, not as a man would leave a shrine to his god, but in the manner of a warrior who has been given an order by his general and goes to carry it out. Turning to face Orik he inclined his head, and then gestured to the right, were a thick pile of rugs took the place of a seat.
Orik's feelings about Gannel were complicated. The dwarf could be extremely cold, even by the standards of his gruff race, and was impossible to understand. For a long time, Orik had been slightly bitter towards Gannel for voting against him, but in truth he didn't blame the older dwarf. Gannel had done what he thought was right, picked the candidate he thought was best for his people, just as he always did. He had since done anything in his power to help Orik without bitterness or hard feelings.
"Any sign?" Orik asked, seating himself gratefully. Gannel lowered himself beside him, smoothing his robes as he did so, then shook his head.
"Gûntera gives no sign. The gods will have no stake in this war. It is ours to win or loose." Gannel replied, his hooded eyes impassive and his manner relaxed.
Orik sighed. It was what he had expected, but he had hoped they would have something for him. A message, a sign, anything to let him know his cause was right. But they were silent, keeping their own counsel.
"What do you think I should do?"
"I think you have made the right decision, or I wouldn't be here. This must be decided, with or without the god's direct intervention." Gannel replied, taking a jug and pouring himself a tankard of a thick, black mixture. Taking it in a few gulps he smacked his lips appreciatively then blew on his hands, despite the stifling heat of the tent.
He offered it to Orik, who sniffed it then recoiled.
"What is that?" He spluttered.
Gannel grinned wryly. "That is Hourmis. Us wizards brew it, when we have time. Helps steady your nerves and keeps you awake, keeps you warm in anything short of a blizzard, and keeps your mind sharp. It also makes it easier to access your magic, and gives you a bit more power to use." He made a face. "Takes the tarnish off silver too."
Orik removed his helmet, shaking his head. "So what should we do?" He asked, returning to the matter a hand. Gannel looked at him, almost pityingly. It must be nice, Orik mused, to have no doubts, to always be certain.
"Continue as we have. The gods gave us the ability to make our own decisions and our hearts to let us know what is right. They made us thus so we would not be there playthings, but their heirs, to shape this world as we desire." Gannel said, effortlessly recounting scripture to fit the moment, then continued. "Orik, I have studied the mysteries of the gods my entire life, and they remain a mystery. There are some things we are not meant to understand. Do as you believe is right, and don't fear being considered wrong."
Orik shrugged. "And what of the other gods? Those of the humans?"
Gannel shook his head "The gods are not something we mortals can understand. How can we? So we have made them like a dwarf, like something we can understand. Is it their true nature? How can we know? How can we know what it is they wants? They made the earth, gave it to us and all the people, made us equal without distinction, just as they gave us souls, as they gave us life and breath and freedom. They made no laws, no decrees. They set no boundaries, none of them ever spoke to our ancestors or whispered long lost secrets in their ear. He who forged the chains of mountains, who established the bounds of lands under the sun and poured the sea's from their earthen vessel, never commanded anything of us." Gannel shook his head, and gestured at a rack of scrolls behind the rug. "They are legends, and so many of us accept them as reality while ignoring what they really mean. It is the teachings that matter, not the stories." Gannel said, then walked over to the alter and added another brazier of incense. "Only those who know themselves to be flawed scoff at the gods, thinking that by denying them they can deny judgment. They are fools. We are all accountable for our actions, from the greatest king to the poorest beggar. Does he pass judgment? Or is it as the elves say, all meaningless. Is their good and evil, or simply chaos and power? I think you know the answer very well, Orik." Gannel ended, and with that returned to the rug, his impromptu sermon over.
Orik nodded slowly. "So is this war right or wrong?"
"It's as I said. Ask your heart. Do you think your actions to be fair and just? If so then forget your doubts. We Knurla came for our honor, for justice, but more importantly, because you are our king and you led us. We believe in you, and that is enough." Gannel replied, his face impassive, but his eyes crinkling as though in smile. "Hrothga would be proud of you, boy." He finished, then sat back, inhaling the smoke of the incense with a content expression on his face. His eyes began fluttering as he began his meditation.
"Gannel, I-"
Gannel shook his head again, but didn't open his eyes. "You were chosen as king for a reason. That reason is simple: you are brave enough to do what needs to be done. Do not doubt, that way leads to compromise with evil, and eventually to evil itself. Be not the tree, bending in the gale, but be the mountain, strong and unyielding. Look to your own heart, not that of others." With that Gannel took out a pipe, which he lit with a muttered word. Orik opened his mouth again, then closed it when he realized he didn't have anything else to say.
Orik stayed there for a while, thinking. He doubted he would grow to be half as wise as Gannel. At last he rose, made a cursory bow to the statue, and left. He had a war to prepare.
Long chapter to make up for the previous one. If you like the story, review. If you don't like the story, review. If you see a way for the story to improve, review. Please, review. Hell, even if you have questions about my take on the characters or plot, review.
