Hey, everybody!! I'm back! I know it''s been three weeks since I last updated, and I'm really sorry! For one thing, I spent a couple days out with strep throat, then i had a mountain of homework and projects (curse you, teachers, curse you) and then it was Christmas, so I spent lots of time with friends and family. Then I got a new laptop, so I had to configure it with all my stuff. But now I'm back, and I reward your patience with my longest chapter ever!! With 6, 483 words, I hope you enjoy all the Roran- y goodness. Yes, it's from Roran's POV.
To my faithful reviewers- OMG, 168 reviews!!! I want to thank all of you for reviewing. Seriously, you guys made and keep making my day.
To someone179- thank you for reviewing no less than six times!! I'm glad you like my story. to .- yay! Best friends are lovely! to sup3101- thanks, and I wish he would buy it off me!! Also, chupacabrita is now my proof- reader. All hail. to everyone else- I love you all, and I'm going to stop rambling now, because I know some of you are thinking 'Hurry up already.'
To chupacabrita- My wonderful, wonderful friend, thank you for making this chapter better!! Thank you, thank you!! Everyone, say thank you!
Disclaimer- CP owns the main characters, settings, ect. I, however, own everything else, including Kimerlun, Tariku, and other such beings.
"Fear is only as deep as the mind allows." -Japanese proverb
Chapter Ten: Beat of the Hammer
Strong peals of metal striking metal filled the stifling tent, bounding to and fro through the smoke- filled smiths' forge. Dozens of brawny smiths beat metal into anything the Varden needed; shields, swords, and armor. Dwarves bustled among the humans, adding their expertise to the complicated art of forging. Everything seemed almost like a dance in the thick smoke, from the strokes of the smiths to the constant dodging and swerving shuffles of the beings darting in and out of the vast tent. Forging and metalworking was almost an art, more refined than tanning, brewing, farming, and certainly more than killing.
To a passerby, the tent would seem a virtual hive of grace, elegance, and determined speed, more artful than any other job the people of the Varden worked to prepare themselves. Then they would notice something odd; Roran Stronghammer, Captain, working tirelessly alongside a broad- shoulder, bearded dwarf. Why was a captain in the army, a killer, doing something as artful as forging?
Roran wondered the same thing himself. Somehow, the dwarf as his waist had convinced him to abandon his men and join him in the sweltering tent, hammering little bits of metal.
"There's just something about pounding metal that relaxes me." The dwarf said after a time. Roran glanced at his companion. He was short, like most dwarves, but stocky and muscled. Strength seemed to radiate from his powerful figure, coupled with authority. He had a craggy face and a long beard, with bright eyes that glittered beneath bushy eyebrows. Roran had only just met him. "What about you, eh? Your cousin doesn't have the time for such things, but I think everyone can use a little time in the forge. What say you, Stronghammer?"
"Who are you? How do you know Eragon?" Roran blurted. At the moment, he didn't care to bother with pleasantries. Why should he? After all, Eragon was missing, most likely captured, and the Empire was becoming bold in their attempts to try and reclaim the city of Feinster. Already Roran had led counter- attacks, driving away the crimson- clad soldiers while more and more of the Varden died.
The dwarf smiled faintly. "I… am Orik, of the dwarf clan Integitum. I am a friend of Eragon's." he continued to pound at his lump metal. "You're his cousin Roran, no?"
"Yes." Roran replied tiredly. He had no energy to talk to one of Eragon's many, many friends. He seemed to have hundreds; random nobles, common foot soldiers, even a timid spellcaster who swore Eragon had shown him powerful Rider secrets. All his friends wanted the same thing from Roran; information on Eragon.
"I've heard about you; the man who slew two hundred by himself, even though he was outnumbered and alone. And you hunted down the Ra'zac, which is impressive." Orik commented.
"Yes. What exactly do you want?" The man snapped irritably. He was exhausted and had more work to do with his soldiers, with barely enough time to himself to eat a decent meal, let alone converse with a dwarf.
The dwarf almost chuckled. "Well, someone is a little impatient. Peace; I won't badger you with insistent questions about Eragon, how he is, and what he is doing, scaring us all like this." Orik fell silent. "He can take care of himself. I went with him to Du Weldenvarden and watched him train. At the end, he could best a young elf who had beaten him in swords every day until that last morning. No, I wouldn't worry about Eragon too much."
"You sound like you know him well." Roran commented, his interest pricked. "Who'd you say you are?"
"Orik."
"Well, Orik, it has been… interesting to meet you, but I must return to my men. A large band of soldiers has been spotted east of here, and those blasted Empire- lovers are getting bolder by the day." He bowed slightly and trotted out, leaving the bit of metal in the forge. He returned his hammer to its usual position on his belt and trotted out of the smoky tent into cooler air.
The heat of summer was at an end, waning with each passing day. Feinster had been fully fortified for nearly a month now, but there was still no sign of Eragon. He had left without warning, accompanied only by the also- absent elf Blodhgarm. Saphira returned without him. Then she too had flown off after plunging into the sea, refusing to slow down or land. Rumor spoke of terrible half- dragons flying to Uru' baen, carrying a captured Eragon with them.
Stop that. He has not been captured. Roran scolded himself. If Eragon was now a prisoner of the Empire, then the Varden was doomed. With two Riders, Galbatorix would crush them all, and then Roran would never get to settle back in Carvahall with Katrina. Eragon, if you can hear me, you better not have gotten yourself captured. Roran growled. He half- expected Eragon's mind- voice to boom in his head, laughing at him for thinking something so foolish. Me, captured?
Roran gazed at the fragment of sky visible though the clouds. It was darkening, slowly fading from blue to orange to purple. He sighed heavily. He still had to drill his company of three hundred men. Roran walked down the muddy streets, avoiding the general hubbub of people constantly streaming one way or the other. He missed Carvahall and its familiar people. The thronging mass of the Varden left him alone, separated from his friends. Cairn the magician was assigned to his company, which was a relief, but none of the people from Carvahall fell under his command. Roran set off at a brisk pace; skirting groups of armor- clad dwarves and burdened humans, ignoring the general babble of voices and sounds.
He wove through alley after alley, expertly avoiding the throngs of bustling people. It was strange how like an enormous village the Varden acted when they weren't busy killing. They were all brothers in arms, bound together by combat and pain and bloodshed. Roran liked to watch the interactions, the touches on the arms, which stood for 'I'm sorry', the solemn 'We might die tomorrow' in gentle gazes. Everyone seemed to know everyone and gossip flew from ear to ear with tremendous speed. They were brothers, a wide extended family.
And yet Roran was lonely. He wanted Eragon's company, the brother he had grown up with, not all these strangers, with their curious glances and surveying eyes. Roran pushed those sad thoughts away. He approached the massive gates that guarded Feinster, freshly constructed from thick pines, and shouted up to the men who controlled the portcullis. With a great creaking groan, the doors began to slip open, moaning like a dying man. Roran strode through it quickly, hearing it groan shut behind him. Dozens of companies trained on the sprawling fields, hacking and slashing or lifting heavy rocks. His own company was far out, striving against each other with swords and yelling back and forth taunts or direction. The Urgals in his command were wrestling to and fro, grunting and bellowing as their heavy feet slipped in the rain- soaked earth. Roran stood off to the side, watching as his men honed their battle skills. He sighed. In the morning they would march off to repel another group of soldiers who had wandered to close to the Varden's new stronghold.
After a time, one of the men, a tall, dark- haired fellow from Dras Leona, noticed Roran and stopped battering his companion. "Hail, Stronghammer!" He called. Others noticed and ceased fighting, adding cries of greetings. The Urgals barred their throats and bellowed the welcome of their kind.
"Hail." Roran returned. He surveyed his large company, silently cursing Nasuada for giving him so many men. Shortly after Eragon disappeared, the leader of the Varden had placed another one hundred men under Roran's command, with the addition of a hundred pikemen and fifty horsemen, should he ever need them. Thankfully, the pike- and horsemen were absent, busy with special training.
Roran cleared his throat. "As you know, we are heading out in the morning to eliminate a group of the Empire's soldiers. I don't want a repeat of what happened last time." Roran repressed the urge to flinch as he remembered returning from sending a message to Lady Nasuada, with the help of Cairn, and finding his entire command drunk from the spoils of the enemy wagons. The dark- haired Dras Leona man, whose name was Bjard, had stood up, pulled down his trousers, and declared loudly that he wanted to have a 'battle' with Lady Nasuada when he returned. Then he proceeded to stumble forward, trip over a rock, and pass out drunk, heedless of Roran's stunned spluttering and the roars of laughter from his comrades.
Bjard flamed crimson, his tanned skin flushed with embarrassment. Several of his fellows snickered and began humming love ballads under their breath.
"If we manage to defeat the Empire's men again, we will become," a small smile tugged at Roran's face, "the most successful company in the Varden."
Cheers rippled through the gathered men and Urgals. Several pounded each other on the backs enthusiastically. Roran allowed himself to grin.
"We're not going to let a few puny Empire boys stand in the way of eternal fame and glory, are we?" Roran called to his gathered soldiers.
"No!" Boomed the proud members of his company.
"Then get to bed, my friends. We leave at daybr-" Roran was cut off by a terrified howl. A man tore down the road to Feinster, his eyes wide with fear.
"They're coming, they're coming! " He cried in anguish. "Thousands of them! Led by a demon!"
Roran leaped out to intercept the frightened man, seizing him firmly by the shoulder. The man's eyes blazed with fright and he shook wildly. Roran remembered some of the villagers acting like this after fighting the Ra' zac.
"Breath." He commanded, keeping a firm grip on the man, who looked like he might bolt as soon as he was released. All around them the fighters of the Varden were coming to stop, ceasing their practice and turning to face Roran and the terrified man. "What is going on?" Roran demanded, his tone firm. He held the man with his eyes.
"T-T-T-they're coming!" The man wailed. "T-the Empire! By the th-thousands! I s-s-saw them m-marching d-d-down from B-Beltona! And there's a m-man with th-th-them, a m-man on a d-d-dragon!" The man loosed an anguished howl into the silence. All at once, whispers rippled outwards from where Roran stood, passing the frightened man's words back to those who didn't hear. The whispers increased in volume, pounding louder and louder until it was a scream that carried on the wind.
"The Empire is attacking!"
Men began to bolt back into the city, rushing for weapons and armor, anything to fend off the threat of an invasion. Roran found himself racing wild Bjard, both of them pale and white under their tans. They exchanged a single glance before Bjard swept away in another direction. Roran ran straight for the keep, barreling through the now- chaotic milling crowd. People were shouting questions that were snatched away in the general roar of confusion. Within minutes the keep loomed ahead of Roran, its towers black against the sun. Without hesitation he flew through the gates and the heavy wooden door and tore up the stairs, ignoring the protests from his legs as he climbed rapidly up the endless staircase.
"Lady Nasuada!" Roran yelled, finally bursting into her audience room. The black- skinned, fierce woman was bent over a table, muttering in low tones with Jormundur, King Orrin, Orik, and Arya, who was clutching a large, pulsing glowing stone to her chest. Roran was faintly surprised to see Orik among the leaders of the Varden.
Nasuada looked up, her dark eyes troubled. "Ah, Captain Stronghammer. I was just about to send for you." She murmured. Roran approached her with a little bow, his eyes on the table before her. It was a map of Feinster and the surrounding areas, marked with blue for the Varden and red for the Empire. Jormundur was moodily pushing around clay men on horseback, trying to plan out the best defense of Feinster.
"We received a message from one of the elves nearly twenty minutes ago." Nasuada told Roran, her voice heavy with worry. "A host of sixteen thousand, the Black Guard of Uru' baen, is marching upon us as we speak. The elf that spotted them said they were about an hour away. How they managed to sneak up on us, I'll never know. But…" the leader of the Varden sighed and rubbed her forehead.
"Is it true?" Roran asked breathlessly. "Are they led by a dragon?" Fear surged up in him and knotted his stomach.
"In a sense." It was Arya who replied, turning her green eyes to Roran. Noticing his confused look, Nasuada elaborated.
"Neither Eragon nor Murtagh are leading the Black Guard." She said quickly. "Since Eragon's disappearance, we have received numerous reports of strange, dragonlike beings roaming Alagaesia. These reports have been confirmed by Saphira, who has weathered several attacks outside of Uru' baen."
"Saphira has been reporting?" Roran asked, startled. "How?"
Again Arya answered. "Through this," she raised the glowing stone, "She maintains a strong connection to this, and through it she can send reports to us. She calls these creatures 'Halflings', because they are neither dragon nor Fanghur, but a magicked Fanghur with the mind of a dragon."
"Barzul." Orik swore. "Fanghur are rare enough without Galbatorix hunting them for his own purposes. Durgimist Fanghur will cause quite an uproar, as if I didn't have enough to deal with."
"Aye, and Saphira is under the impression that the spell is quite irreversible, King Orik." Nasuada sighed.
Roran started and blinked at Orik. The dwarf king? He narrowed his eyes thoughtfully.
"And since she refuses to leave her hiding place, we must face this Halfling and its Rider without the aid of a dragon, which will be difficult, to say the least." Orrin growled. "Are you sure that she won't leave?"
"She is determined to stay as near to Eragon as possible." Arya said. "She is adamant about it."
"Understandably." Orik grunted, fingering the map. "She and Eragon are bonded to each other."
Orrin muttered something under his breath.
"So Eragon has been captured?" Roran asked, his heart sinking.
Nasuada nodded wearily. "Saphira saw him being taken into Uru' baen, despite her efforts to prevent it. From what I can gather, the very Halfling that it attacking us now was carrying Eragon, and a black- skinned man was riding him. And what's more, I can identify this man. His is Tariku, from the Nashuwar tribe of my people. When I was little, he came to my father with his tribe, pleading for aid in an inter- tribal struggle. My father refused, and the Nashuwar came to ruin. Tariku has carried a personal vendetta against the Varden ever since, aiding the Empire in assasination, espionage, and other such damaging activities against us. Honestly, Alagaesia is better off without the war- mongering Nashuwar. They caused great strife within the tribes, and picked as many fights as the Urgals." Nasuada shook her head. "He deserves to die for all the people he has murdered."
"I assure you, we will all try our best." Orik rumbled. The others nodded in agreement.
"Now, Captain Stronghammer, I have your assignment. You are to gather seventeen other companies under your command and fight on the ground while Jormundor and five companies bombard from the walls and Orrin leads a few thousand of his own men around the Empire, cutting off their escape. Arya is in command of the elves. Roran, you must not let the Empire into the city." Nasuada fixed her gaze on the bearded man. "Do you understand?"
"Yes, milady." Roran bowed again. "With your permission, may I gather my men, and have an official statement to collect the other companies?" He asked.
"Yes, of course." Nasuada hastily snatched a piece of paper and began to write quickly, her dark eyes roaming over her words. "I myself will lead the horse- and pikemen, and the dwarves and Surdans are to be led by their respective rulers." She said. Her brown- black eyes found Roran again. "May the gods look on you with favor, Roran, for I fear you are going to need it."
Roran met her eyes, trying to hide his fear. So many soldiers would fight under his commands…. What if he made a mistake? What if thousands died because of some stupid decision he made? What if he died, and never saw Katrina again, or met their unborn baby? He struggled to suppress his terror. Nasuada obviously had faith in him, so she must trust his judgment. And no one argued against her choice to have him command a vast number of troops, so they must trust his judgment too.
Realizing he was dismissed, Roran bowed again to the leaders and started back towards the staircase. To his surprise, Arya accompanied him.
"Roran, listen to me." She said severely, causing Roran to look at her with surprise in his face. "You think of Eragon as a brother, don't you?"
"Wh- yes." Roran answered, suppressing the questions on his tongue.
"Good. Then you will support any attempt to free him from Galbatorix's clutches?" The elf- woman asked, her green eyes serious.
"Of course!" Roran exclaimed, pride coloring his voice. He would do anything to help Eragon, short of trading him for Katrina.
"Excellent." Arya said; sounding a little relieved. Roran arched his eyebrows in surprise. Arya rarely showed any kind of emotion at all. The pulsing golden object was still clutched in her grasp. It was at least a foot long, with bumps and jutting corners. The gold light inside swirled lazily, almost like a living thing. Roran was both fascinated and wary of it at the same time. It contained powerful magic, to be certain.
"What are you getting at?" Roran asked, suspicion knotting in his gut.
Arya was silent for several steps. "Do you swear to not reveal any of what I will tell you?" She demanded. "Would you bind yourself in the ancient language?"
Roran was taken aback, but after a moment's hesitation, he agreed. He repeated Ayra's strange words as best as he could, aware that he was tethering himself to the promise those strange, magical words offered.
"Very well." Arya said when she had finished. "Know that I only share this information with you because Saphira assures me that Eragon trusts you and thinks of you as his brother. After this battle, I plan to leave the Varden and go after Eragon. I believe I have found a way inside the King's palace."
For several seconds Roran was speechless. "Alone?"
"Yes."
"Does Lady Nasuada know?"
"No."
Roran simply looked at the black- haired elf, shock evident in his eyes. "That's suicide."
"No, it's not. I will have the aid of two dragons." Arya said calmly.
"Two?" Roran was confused. Did elves always have to speak in riddles? "But Saphira is the only free dragon."
"The only free living dragon, yes." Arya said cryptically. She picked up speed, clearly finished with Roran, who was more confused than ever.
"Elves are mysterious folk, Stronghammer." Orik the dwarf king trotted down the stairs to join Roran. "All manners and riddles. Ayra's not even the worst of them. In Du Weldenvarden, those pointed- ears won't even speak to you unless you bow and utter odd words in their tongue." The dwarf shook his shaggy head.
Roran merely stared, his mind overrun with anxiety and confusion.
"My dwarves will march with your men." Orik said conversationally. "I figure you could use as much help as possible." He winked and turned, vanishing down a hall where several other dwarves muttered to each other in Dwarvish.
Out in the open air, Roran could feel the fear in the milling crowds, and it cleared his head. The Varden needed strong leaders, and he was determined to rise to the challenge. He didn't have time for confusion and fear, for he had men to lead into battle. He was not a philosopher or a scholar; let someone else puzzle out Arya's bizarre, nonsensical messages. Fear could be pushed away and dealt with later.
Roran sent out a messenger, bearing Nasuada's letter, to the other captains. He hoped none would offer any trouble. In the house he shared with several other men, Roran quickly donned his bright armor, slinging on chain mail and strapping on a breastplate and greaves, as well as various pieces to protect other parts of his body. A helm went over his head and his sword was secured to his waist, swaying alongside his hammer. Clanking loudly, he stumped back out into the streets, which were noticeably less crowded. Someone had tacked Snowfire and picketed him outside Roran's door. The white stallion nickered a greeting when he saw Roran.
"Hello." The bearded captain mumbled. Roran effortlessly swung himself into Snowfire's saddle and set off at a brisk canter, weaving his way towards the front gates, where he would meet the men who would serve him. Seventeen other captains all called a welcome, their faces taut with stress and worry. Martland Redbeard winked at Roran as he approached. To Roran's relief, none of the captains seemed resentful at having their commands turned over to him.
"What's the plan, Stronghammer?" Martland called.
"Decidedly strait forward." Roran replied. "I am leaving all off you in direct command of your companies. Each of you, however, is to report directly to me."
Murmurs of consent flashed around the gathered men.
"The Empire is coming down us with all sixteen thousand of the Black Guard." Roran began, ignoring hisses of anger and worry. "And they are led by a man named Tariku, who rides what appears to be a dragon. However, our sources confirm that this beast is not a dragon, but a bizarre half- creature cooked up by the Black King."
"Will Saphira be joining us?" Someone called.
"Not likely." Roran said heavily. "She is… otherwise engaged."
Anxious murmurs broke out amongst the gathered captains. No one wanted to face a dragon- like beast without the aid of an equally dangerous creature. For a fleeting moment, Roran wondered if the half- dragon could breathe fire.
"Listen!" Roran called, drawing the attention back to himself. "As you probably have already heard, it is up to us to hold off the Empire on the ground. We, and the dwarves, are the only ones standing between the Empire and the city. Lady Nasuada will command the pike- and horsemen and King Orrin will lead his men around the Empire, cutting off their escape. If we can capture or kill most of the Black Guard, then Uru' baen will be virtually defenseless." And then we can save Eragon. Roran added silently.
"Yeah, except for the King himself, that bastard Murtagh, and now your cousin." A man with short brown hair spat. Soft sounds of agreement rippled throughout the captains briefly, but ceased at the look on Roran's face.
"Eragon would never willingly serve the Empire." Roran ground out, his blood rising. He wanted to beat this man to a bloody pulp with his hammer.
"Like that's stopped the King before." The man retorted. Roran felt his hand reach or his hammer and his legs start to dismount from Snowfire, but a warning bugle from the top of the wall stopped him.
"The enemy is upon us!" The watchman bawled.
Roran turned and trotted Snowfire out of the gate, shouting orders as he went. "Form a wall behind the pikemen, archers in rows!" He bellowed. Behind him the other captains streamed out, shouting to their individual companies. "Archers, shoot as many of the blasted traitors as you can. Form the ranks, prepare to march!"
The Carvahall man trotted to his own company, moving to allow the archers to form rows behind the pikemen. Lady Nasuada and her charger Battle- storm cantered by with the three thousand horsemen, making the ground tremble under the pounding hooves. With hand signals, Roran coaxed his men into tight ranks directly behind the archers. Bjard, on his mare Lightstorm, saluted and settled among his comrades. Several others were on horseback. The Urgals tightened bows and moved their blades restlessly. The current of fear was gone, replaced by a thrumming excitement. Up on the wall, Roran could make out hundreds of milling shapes moving to catapults and other such war machines.
"They're here!" A cry came from the archers and heads turned to look down the dirt road. In the distance, glittering like living diamonds, marched the Black Guard. The front line carried great black flags with an iron fist and a dragon breathing fire above a castle, the King's personal crest. Instead of crimson, the soldiers were decked in black. Their armor shone brightly and they marched in perfect time, creating a steady rolling thunder that proceeded them. Mages intermingled in the ranks, some dressed in fine robes, some hidden. Horses tossed their fine heads and snorted, clearly ready for battle. The host of sixteen thousand advanced upon the Varden, calling out battlecries and chanting. Above, the gore- crows circled hungrily.
"Gods above!" Someone seized Roran's elbow and cursed again. Cairn the magician blinked up at his captain, his eyes wide with fear. "We are doomed." He said, and pointed. Within a few moments, Roran knew why. Floating above the Black Guard was a monster.
A tan creature with the general shape of a dragon beat long, narrow wings to stay aloft. Thin limbs clawed the air eagerly, wickedly curved talons and fangs yellowed. A strong, whiplike tail thrashed in anticipation of blood and killing and death. Whatever this beast was, it was bloodthirsty. In its chest a deep purple rock similar to the golden one Arya carried pulsed sickeningly, madly. The eyes, in contrast to the rather drab coloring, were vividly purple, the color of the stone. A thrill of fear coursed through Roran.
The armies were near each other now. In a few moments, the air would be filled with a rain of arrows. The Halfling opened its maw and shrieked angrily, causing Roran to grunt in pain as the hideous sound reached his ears. Nasuada raised her blade, and on the Halfling a man, presumably Tariku, mimicked her motion. Roran felt tension surge through the Varden, and then Nasuada jabbed her sword forward. Instantly the air was full of a hail of deadly arrows. They sang forward, biting angrily into flesh. Screams began to puncture the twang of bows. Roran watched as man after man fell to his knees, stopped by a barbed arrow. Nasuada began to charge forward, the horse- and pikemen following, and Roran tensed. Above, Jormundor and his men rained clay and boulders on the Empire, scattering debris into the sky. Fire leaped up from somewhere, orange and yellow. Smoke began to clog the battlefield.
"Charge!" Roran howled. The Empire was close, engaged with the fierce horsemen and fending away the pikemen. With thunder ringing in his ears, Roran spurred Snowfire forward, leaping through the scattered archers and pounding into battle. He was aware of the other captains following, but as he drew his sword, he forgot about them.
Yelling wildly, Roran slashed the throat of the first black- clad man he could find, spraying crimson into the air. A dwarf rushed past on a goat- thing, smashing two soldiers with a mace. The Carvahall man continued forward, hacking and slashing furiously. Cairn was still beside him, wielding a sword as well as magic, and then the tide of soldiers separated them. A man dressed in ornate robes turned to look at Roran, a spell on his lips, and then the whirling steel blade beheaded him.
"Good day for killing, aye, Stronghammer?" Martland was nearby, lopping off heads and limbs gracefully.
"Aye." Roran agreed grimly, and continued to charge through the mass of bodies. A particularly brave soldier managed to wound Snowfire and nick Roran's leg with his blade, but soon he was dead, crushed by a towering Urgal. "Thanks." The bearded man grunted, stemming the flow of blood with his leg. The Urgal bared his throat and bounded away, tearing the arm off one man and smashing another. A man on a jet-black stallion cried a war cry, lunging forward with his blade. Roran caught it just in time with his shield, stopping it from goring him. The black horse continued on its way, forcing Roran to release the trapped blade. He turned and killed another three soldiers, felling them with rapid blows.
"Yahhh!" There was a battlecry, and the drum of hooves, and the next thing Roran knew he was flying from Snowfire's back. His sword left his hand and Roran landed with a crash several yards away, a rent in the back of his chain mail and leather tunic. Dazed, he managed to stagger to his feet, only to sway and his ribs screamed in protest. His breastplate was dented and twisted, blood leaking where the metal had burrowed into Roran's skin. Something wet trickled down his back and the wound on his leg reopened. Roran tossed away the torn shield. It was useless now. Snowfire was nowhere to be seen, but the black stallion and his rider loomed above Roran.
"Hellfire." Roran cursed weakly. He spat up some blood and drew his hammer. The black rider surged forward, determined to kill Roran this time. His sword was wet with blood. He bore down, sword drawn.
With enormous effort, Roran swung the hammer, hissing as his ribs protested the movement. The hammer collided with the blade, cracking it and wrenching it from the swordsman's grasp. The man howled in pain, his wrist broken. He yelped in anger and turned his horse again, intending to crush Roran to death.
"Not going to work." Roran mumbled. Somehow he managed to side step and bring his hammer up, cracking it against the man's chest. Armor buckled under the force of the blow and the man screamed in pain, coughing up thick blood. He toppled from his horse, wheezing, sobbing, and cursing. His throat was hit neck, and then he was dead.
"Damn." Roran swore again, swaying. Everything hurt, his ribs were broken for sure, and somehow he was in a sort of neutral area, where no one fought. Most of the Varden had been pressed back to the walls and were being harried by the Halfling, who would plunge and seize struggling men in its jaws. It easily tore up trees and dropped them on the hassled soldiers, dodging rocks from the catapults. Roran cursed again and coughed, searching for Snowfire. The white stallion was still missing, but the dead rider's black steed stood docilely by his dead human. He gazed at Roran serenely.
Murmuring to keep him calm, Roran approached the black stallion, his hands held out. The horse sniffed him lazily and nickered, clearly not bothered at all. The Carvahall man swung himself painfully into the horse's vacant saddle and urged it forward, towards the main fighting. From behind the Empire's men, the Surdans burst from the Spine yelling like mad. The black horse trumpeted gleefully and reared, lashing out at the black soldiers with skilled hooves. He seemed to know that his allegiance had changed.
With his hammer Roran was able to batter a knot of soldiers out of the way and rush into the thick of battle, bashing heads left and right. Twice he was forced out of the ranks and twice he returned, yelling hoarsely and batting aside soldiers. His arm throbbed dully and he and the black charger received a number of small wounds, but still they plunged among the Empire, sowing death. Roran passed Cairn, who was alive; Martland, who was dead; as well as a wounded elf; Orik; and Ayra. Above, the tan Halfling was making quick work of the battlements, creating destruction with fang and claw, while its Rider cast fire after fire. The sky seemed to be bleeding smoke.
The Halfling had to be stopped. Remembering his journey on the Dragon Wing, a ship he had stolen from Teirm, Roran slowed the black horse and snatched a bow from an Empire man, knocked it, and took aim.
The arrow flew straight and true, but a flare of magic surfaced around the beast, batting the arrow aside.
God's cursed spell caster. Roran growled silently. Arrows wouldn't work.
"Try this." A shaggy haired youth appeared out of nowhere, a finely craft bow clutched in one hand, a quiver in the other. A dagger hung at his belt and his teeth were curiously pointed. "It's special."
Doubtfully Roran seized the bow and knocked an arrow from its quiver, determined to hit the beast. He let go, and the Halfling screamed. Bluish blood spilled from a circular wound below the wing and the beast writhed in pain. Surprised, Roran knocked another arrow and loosed it, and another, and another. Enraged, the man, Tariku, turned on Roran and uttered something. The Carvahall man was lifted and thrown away by magic, tossed into the Spine. Trees closed around him, hiding him, but Roran watched dazedly as elves rushed forward, similar bows grasped in their hands, to continue shooting the Halfling. It screeched and screech, filling the air with terrible, head- splitting noise. The elves were shooting it too fast for Tariku to heal it. The screeches reached a fever pitch, deafening the dazed, wounded Roran. Spots swam in his vision and he hurt. As soon as it started, the howling was gone. The tan creature fled at incredible speed, disappearing to lick its wounds. The Black Guard was in full retreat too, some of them managing to slip past the Varden, dwarves, and Surdans. Then it was quiet, aside from the screams and moans of the dead and dying. Something warm and soft nuzzled his ear, followed by a friendly nicker. The black stallion stood over Roran almost protectively, his large eyes peering down with concern.
"Hello there." Roran said cheerfully. He weakly patted the horse's nose. "Good horse."
The stallion trumpeted loudly, and then again, as if to call something.
"He's here, milady!" A familiar voice shouted. Cairn's face appeared, ashen with exhaustion. "Call a healer, Trianna, if you can! He's terribly wounded."
Nasuada's voice rang powerfully through the air next, summoning the sorceress. Roran was dimly aware of hands pulling apart his ruined armor, touching his ribs and neck. He saw a mass of bloody, bruised skin and tried to sit up, but his body wouldn't allow it.
"Cairn, did we win the battle? Is the Black Guard gone?" He managed to croak feebly.
The ashen magician turned to face him. "Gone or dead." He replied. "Thank the gods the Empire was unable to capture you, Roran. Without you, that monster would be inside the city by now, and we'd be dead." There was worry on Cairn's face as he looked at Roran's aching chest.
"Is it that bad?" The Carvahall man asked weakly. Gods, how he hurt. He just wanted to sleep forever… To be with Katrina as she murmured tender things in his ear and he rubbed her belly, feeling the child growing there…
"If it wasn't for your trumpeting friend, we'd be too late to save you." That was Trianna, her reply clipped and brusque. The horse trumpeted again loudly, tossing his mane and snorting.
"You fool…" Nasuada's voice seemed to be coming from far away. "Do you… could have… yourself killed… taking… Halfling alone…"
Roran grinned vaguely in the direction of her voice, tired and aching and sore, but triumphant. "At least we won." He murmured. "Right, Trumpet? We won…."
The black horse trumpeted again at the sound of his new name, seemingly pleased with himself.
Trianna muttered a word in the ancient language, bringing back memories from earlier that day. Arya's probably gone by now. He thought tiredly. He felt himself slipping away, a fuzzy contentment taking hold of his wounded body. His pains slipped away and he was faintly aware of seeing Nasuada, smiling slightly and shaking her head.
We won. Eragon, if you can hear me, we won. The Varden is safe. Roran called softly. Satisfaction rushed in his veins. Take that, you damned fool. See? We can manage without you. And at the back of his mind, Roran could have sworn he heard a faint chuckle before he passed into blessed relief.
Well, that was long. Did you guys like it? Some quick clarification, because this was full of little details.
Orik befriending Roran will be very important later on. Trust me. Arya is leaving the Varden, and that is Super Important. Really, its like a key detail. KEY. Snowfire's disapearance will also be important later, as will Tariku's defeat at Roran's hands, the magic bow, and other details. Clear?
The next chapter will be from Eragon's point of view and will be posted within 10 days. Many thanks again to the lovely chupacabrita! Review!!