Once again, author's notes.
There will be a renewed rate of progress, for a time at least, because I have the short term plot after this mapped out pretty well, and no exams to worry about.
A few apologies: firstly, contrary to what I assured my readers in previous chapters, the final lines of Lysistrata do not mention a "heroic Zeus born maid" anywhere. However, as I have had to hand my copy of Lysistrata back to the school library (now sadly out of reach due to the holiday season), the actual last lines are not available to me. Forgive me, or at least forgive the awful translation Pulcher got his hands on. Secondly, the ending to the last chapter was, in my view, somewhat rushed. I apologise. This is because it was getting late, and I really wanted to get it uploaded ASAP, as the attempted relief of Aroughs had been flailing about for far too long already. Some day, when I finally reach the end of this, I may go over the story and redo all the typos, rejig all translations, undo all historical and canonical errors, and rewrite certain scenes (the opening, for example) to make them more punchy.
Finally, about the method with which the dragon was dealt with. I would love to say that it was after a prolonged period of constant thought, consulting every history that came to hand; but actually, it came to me in a break between revision sessions when flicking through "Fortune's Favourites" by Colleen (here goes!) Mccullough. (Coincidentally, to all Romanophiles out there, I would thoroughly recommend the Masters of Rome series. The writing is pretty good, and they have tonnes of good research and bits of miscellanea jammed into them.) In anticipation of many, many outraged fans sending PMs about how their dearest Murty would never be so foolish, I may as well reiterate, and add on, reasons just why the Romans could pull this off.
-Roman skill at engineering is considered to be impressive even by modern standards, including in the military department. Indeed, hidden defensive stakes had been previously used by the Romans to crush chariot attacks (in the Wars against Mithradates), and Flaccus is well read in this sort of area.
-Romans were also generally extremely competent at adapting weaponry to fight new enemies. Their swords came from the Spanish, their helmets were reinforced to take on Dacian falxes, and so on. Because of this, it is likely that they would rapidly start planning methods to take on a dragon, using whatever materials came to hand, rather than doing the caricatured medieval reaction of declaring it as an unnatural devil (this, I must point out, is only a caricature of medieval thought, but a common one, and not without some basis) and reaching for their Bibles and burning stakes.
-Throughout the books, it is true that Eragon-the only representative we have of dragon combat-has been known to fly Saphira around quite a lot, including over the fortifications at Feinster. However, these are tall, stone walls, manned by a fairly well rested force. (In contrast, Murtagh is a relatively inexperienced rider, the walls are low, wooden ones, and are manned by an army that has been attacked throughout the day.) Once behind these, he mostly fights on foot. Similarly at Farthen Dur, Eragon flies around, shoots a few arrows, and fights on foot. And at the Burning Plains, apart from when he takes a breather or sees another airborne opponent coming, Eragon and Saphira fight on foot, negating any advantage of mobility they may have. Thus, whatever the actual practicality, military sense, or even sanity behind it, Alagaesian dragon riders more often than not fight on foot.
-Possessing a dragon probably lends itself to a certain level of arrogance, and Murtagh has been shown to possess a pretty considerable ego before now.
-Murtagh knows his enemy has a few crossbows, many skilled archers, and a great deal of artillery pieces with a functioning magic defence, which he does not want to expose Thorn's underbelly to. (Notice that Saphira's dragon armour only covers the top, scaled part of her body, not the armpits or vulnerable underbelly.) He also knows, looking down, that the walls are too close together for a landing to reliably succeed, and are filled with all sorts of obstacles-barrels, boxes, tents, armed soldiers, etc. Thus, an air attack is out of the question. In contrast, the ground outside the walls is comparatively clear, with corpses and only a few spike filled ditches. Perhaps intentionally, the Romans could have used their enormous arsenal of tricks to make these far more lethal. They could have covered the ground with caltrops, diverted the sea into the ditches to fill them up, or even set Goge and co to work on some arcane magical traps. Open ground, therefore, is far more palatable than inside the walls.
-He may wish the troops behind him to support him once on the ground. This is difficult to obtain is there is a burning wall between him and the soldiers, but easier to obtain if he is at the head of a column of them, providing them with the great morale booster that is a fire breathing dragon straight out of myth and legend.
Another note: some readers may have logged in and found that Chapter 9 had Sir Leon losing 500 men in the charge. I have amended this figure to 200 men, which is not only more plausible (he wouldn't have got his entire command, himself included, wiped out in one cavalry charge, no matter how headstrong he is), but also leaves them in the story. As my named characters have a surprisingly short life expectancy, I have to ration their deaths carefully.
Now, prolonged self justification over-to the story!
"They exterminate every form of life they encounter, sparing nothing, but do not start pillaging until they get the order. When the Romans have taken a city, as well as human corpses you will see dogs cut in half and dismembered parts of other animals." Polybius. Histories 10.15
It was a dull wet day in autumn, but the sun still shone where Saphira flew.
Flaccus, chest wrapped in bandages, had joined the crowds of soldiers on the battlements to watch the retreat of the Imperial army, and the arrival of their salvation. The day after the battle, they had received the message that Shadeslayer, having heard of their plight, was immediately en route to their position. This, of course, had sent the army into an excited flurry of activity. Dents were bashed out of helmets and shields, plumes were hastily rebuilt, standards and armour polished, and there was a brief, terrified debate as to whether Varden flags should be left ripped after the battle (to demonstrate how hard they had been fighting), or stitched back together (for parade ground neatness.) In the end, the issue was decided by the sighting of an expanding black speck in the sky in mid afternoon.
"It is true, then."
Flaccus glanced down, to see General Caastenburgh at his side. The Imperial General, who had commanded the defence of Aroughs with such skill, now looked tired. The sling for his single arm was grey with dirt, and his face, crossed with scars, was even more downcast. The scarlet uniform coat that hung off his almost skeletal frame was patched, the epaulettes shredded, and the scabbard at his side was quite empty; he had surrendered the city, and therefore his sword. "What is?" Flaccus asked.
"You have a rider. The Shadeslayer." Caastenburgh smiled wryly. "We didn't believe a word of it."
Awkwardly, Flaccus offered his hand. "The fortunes of war are treacherous," he said.
Caastenburgh did not shake it. "My family would agree," he said.
"Your ancestors?"
"No. My wife, my three sons, their two wives. Once I had five sons, with five wives. But the food ran out." Caastenburgh stared out over the plains. At the red standards, with their twisting flames and regimental numbers so proud, retreating into the distance. At the burning, gutted remains of the handful of crossbowmen who had tried to fight, not knowing the power of the Rider's wards.
"Your men fought well," Flaccus said.
"But not enough. If we had just… well, it is too late now. I salute your gallant victory, Legate." Lacking his sword, Caastenburgh instead saluted with his hand. "I also applaud the lenient terms of surrender from your fellow commanders."
Flaccus didn't. He had wanted to raze the city to the ground, to kill its inhabitants, and only to leave the docks intact for purposes of supply. That was the best and only way to terrify the citizens of the Empire into submission, in his view. But, of course, Gydrynne had spoken against it, and as she was in command of the majority of the army, she had got her way. What nonsense was this? Leave the citizens, militia and civilian alike, unharmed, put thieves before court martial? What other reward can a soldier get for capturing a city, at great personal risk, than the jewels of that city! But it would not be polite to say so, so he just nodded, offered the General tobacco (who enthusiastically accepted), and turned to see Aroughs' surrender.
The militia was marching out in columns, piling up their weapons and banners, before turning to the grave digging parties, where piles of spades awaited them. They were escorted by Varden troops, but were not being treated poorly; they had offered a gallant resistance, albeit a futile one. They were even being fed.
As for the rest of the city… no word had come. Flaccus had sent in Tertius along with a company of Varden footmen and Tenor Skeate to assess the damage: what required repair, and what could be requisitioned for the Varden. But, looking at Aroughs' empty walls, listening to the utter silence from within, Flaccus couldn't imagine there being much left. No dogs, no rats. People, certainly. How many? He could not say. But, looking at the starved, stretched faces of the militia, noticing how Caastenburgh's coat had obviously been made for a far fatter man, he doubted it was very many.
"And where," Skeate asked, "is the Black Hand?"
Tertius, swaddled in his cloak, looked down at his tablet.
-Timber-useful, unmeasured.
-Stone-potentially useful, unmeasured.
-Glass-mostly broken. Useless.
-Telescopes-6 discovered thus far. Useful.
-Food…
He gazed around. The street the Varden had stopped in was once, incredibly, in Aroughs' merchant quarter, with the Argard looming above. Once, he reckoned, those markets must have been open, their awnings unfurled, the goods of the world on sale. But now, of course, times had changed. Once, there were jewels, lapdogs and sweetmeats. Now, there were chipped stone walls, the skeletons of Gods knew what creatures littering the ground, and hungry faces occasionally glimpsed peering out of windows. Occasionally, voices could be heard. Shouting, arguments. Probably over some scrap of some rotten vegetable. Once, in Rome during the Games, Tertius had seen an old slave woman hacking at what he took to be a loaf. She looked up, smiled toothlessly-and Tertius realized that it was not a loaf, but elephant dung from one of the acts, and she was looking for extra grains.
He shivered.
"Go on then," Skeate said, putting a reassuring hand on their guide's shoulder. "Where is the Black Hand?"
Their guide was a merchant's wife who answered to the name of Bohemonda. She was thin, painfully so, and even more painfully young. But most painful of all, in Skeate's eyes at least, was her ignorance. "They come and go in the dark," she said hesitantly. "That… that is all."
Skeate rummaged through his robes, and pulled out an apple. "I was reserving this for my lunch," he said in a voice that attempted to sound gruff, before handing it over to her. She wolfed it down eagerly. "Now, are you sure that you know nothing?"
Her head flicked up, eyes dancing. "Food…" she muttered.
From another pocket of his robes, Skeate tossed her a chunk of cheese. "You're safe here, alright? No black bastards can get past us." Tertius put his hand on the hilt of his gladius, and failed to look heroic. The Varden footmen looked far more reassuring, in their purple and mail, and with their multitude of weapons glinting dully in the weak morning sun. "You're safe, you've got my lunch, we can get a fire if you need it, and you can start talking!"
The cheese was merely nibbled on; obviously she had someone to feed. "They came at night, mostly," she said. "Until the siege. Then they were there on the walls. Now, who knows?" She shrugged her thin shoulders, little ridges under her dress. "But they were never the type to surrender in the open. They prefer skulking and running when the enemy is awake and has a sword."
"They were brave yesterday, mistress," Tertius said before he could stop himself.
Skeate shot a glare at him. "No 'Master' and 'Mistress' and 'Milords and ladies' in the Varden, see," he had told Tertius as soon as they marched out of camp. "We're free men, free women, free dragons, free elves, free everyone, and the lads don't want to be reminded that a bunch of slavers are helping us!" So Tertius had tried, but not very hard, to speak like a freedman. It was a strange experience, and he supposed that he should be somehow honoured to be donning the Pilos for a few moments. But, really, he had thought through what he would do in the unlikely event of Flaccus letting him go for far too long to play act his way to it for a couple of damp, grey skied hours. He had two choices: become a freedman clerk to someone else, or the old, vague dream of retiring to a farm somewhere a long way away from anyone, or anything, involving swords or Senators, and live out the rest of his days farming, writing, and trying to get a family of some description. But those dreams, no matter how golden the apples, or glorious the sunset from his imagined porch, were just dreams. Nice ones, though.
"Trapped animals," she replied.
"Aye," Skeate said, "but strong ones with lots of teeth, and we need their lair, and I'm out of spare vittles."
Tertius, out of habit, was putting their conversation into shorthand. He knew that he would not be noticed, for he was wearing a document case over his shoulder. That, of course, marked him out as an anonymous flunky, a bureaucrat of no importance, to be ignored at leisure. Flaccus knew that, and used it well.
"They always-appear, in the street, flow to wherever they are needed, and disappear when done. We cannot know."
Tertius rolled his eyes. A Varden trooper yawned. He smiled, and, as his eye travelled up the stretching arm, noticed something.
"You can't know nothing! Any rumours? Anything?" Skeate frowned in irritation. This questioning was giving him a headache.
Bohemonda shook her head, tentatively. Someone moaned a desperate, keening wail. In the middle of the street, a dragon mounted statue looked on impassively, sword aloft.
"The Argard," Tertius said.
"Yes," she whispered. "Yes." And gazed at the great, towering keep. The gargoyles stared back.
Tertius, an imaginative man, could have sworn that he saw one blink…
Saphira landed in a space of mud which had been previously occupied by fourty eight crates of dried meat; these were now being used to fill the breach caused by Thorn's breath, and would most likely be her lunch.
To the uproarious cheers of the surrounding soldiers, her rider dismounted in one bound, splashing into the mud, skidding, falling, but steadying himself immediately with a snap of his fingers and a word of his magic.
To many cheers, oaths of fealty, and salutes, which only intensified as he removed his helmet, he rapidly exchanged a series of words and gestures with Blohdgarm, somewhat awkwardly kissed Gydrynne's hand (obviously, in Flaccus' view, having never done such a thing before), and proceeded along the line formed of the army's commanders, their staff, and their bravest, shiniest looking soldiers.
"Now, recap, Gnaeus Aurelius," Flaccus muttered out of the corner of his mouth. "What do you say to him?"
"I don't expose myself. I don't make Trajan's Salute. I accept his handshake, and answer his questions with the greatest of enthusiasm."
"No, you do so with the greatest of economy of effort; but otherwise perfect." Flaccus, quiff hidden by his Attic helmet, fretfully tugged at the plume, and checked his borrowed sword hilt for rust. "Here he comes!"
Lieutenant Claye finished apologizing to the great Shadeslayer that no, Choirmaster Goge could not make it, and neither could his magic users-"Busy, sir, very busy" (to which Shadeslayer nodded soberly), and the Shadeslayer, with Blohdgarm and Gydrynne at his side, marched purposefully to the Romans' position. Behind them, Trajan's standard stared down, borne aloft by the tallest Legionary to be found.
"The Legate, Publius Cassius Flaccus; his second in command, Gnaeus Aurelius Felix Pulcher. A very interesting actor." Blohdgarm was clearly relishing his role as herald.
"Honoured," Shadeslayer said, offering his mail gloved hand. "Honoured-an actor?"
Flaccus, promising to personally decimate every last whisker of that wretched cat-thing the moment he got the chance, shook Shadeslayer's hand with the most cheerful of smiles. "We meet again," he said.
"We do? Oh, yes," Shadeslayer said (a flicker of Blohdgarm's finger-magically jogging his memory, perhaps?). "After Farthen Dur. You had just escaped from that tunnel."
"And you, I think, were in a state of ill health."
Shadeslayer nodded. "The Elves changed me," he said.
"That," Flaccus replied, "is obvious." They had, into one of their own-quite different to the pale adolescent who strained to rise and greet them all those months ago. "For the better, I trust."
Shadeslayer nodded fervently, and moved on to Pulcher. "Acting?" he asked, elegant eyebrow arched.
"Yes," Pulcher replied, having brazened his way out of worse confessions before. "I got some fellows together, and we performed a play. Lysistrata, by Aristophanes-you haven't heard of it? A shame! Sounds magnificent in the original Greek, let me tell you."
"I'm sure it does," Shadeslayer said. "I prefer poetry, myself. I have even written one."
"Indeed he has," Blohdgarm cut in smoothly. "It was a fascinating experience, and I will watch his career as a poet with bated breath!"
Shadeslayer, entirely without suspicion, smiled, shook hands again, and that was it; he moved on to Roran, whose response, as it involved striking his cousin hard in the face (and his being restrained by Captain Uthar) before embracing him, was far more memorable.
General Caastenbergh, a few officers around him, only received a curt nod; the enemy was beneath the Shadeslayer's attention.
After this, they went to lunch. The mess, with its wobbly table leg and lack of chairs, was somehow transformed into a round table, with the banners of regiments (Varden and captured Imperial, but not Roman, strangely) fluttering in the damp wind dug into the ground surrounding it. Flaccus looked at the banners almost hungrily, thinking of the Aquila; and then the call was made for them to be seated: Shadeslayer, Caastenbergh, Gydrynne, Claye, Flaccus, Pulcher, Blohdgarm, Roran and (improbably) Saphira, with a barrel of precious wine, and a great deal of meat, forming a sardonic blue mountain nearby. Sir Leon, still missing, was conspicuous in his absence.
The usual toasts were made: to Nasuada, the Varden, Vrael, the Elves, and (with much explanatory whispering from Gydrynne) Trajanus Caesar, Optimus Maximus. Then the meal began properly. To the horror of the chefs, Shadeslayer refused all offers of meat; out of solidarity, the rest of the Varden joined with him, leaving an excellent joint of pork to go to waste.
"Excellent!" said Flaccus. "We Romans are a strange people, Shadeslayer; poor seafarers, but excellent fish eaters!" He knew that Immunis Strabo, along with a number of others, had been preparing a fish course, so he snapped his fingers and ordered that to be brought forward instead.
This, too, was rejected. "I am against the consumption of animal flesh," Shadeslayer said.
"Very… virtuous of you, Shadeslayer," Flaccus said, remembering a fragment of Pythagoras, and resigning himself to a meal that, in terms of food, was to be quite miserable.
There was then a lengthy discussion between Shadeslayer (now "Eragon", as his cousin was less formal) and Roran about their adventures. Flaccus, munching on his carrots (discreetly sprinkled with garum) looked on enviously as Caastenbergh tucked into every scrap of pork available, greedily gulped at wine, and put up a gallant defence of the Imperial army. "Conscripts, you see. Conscripts!" he said, laughing, when Roran was describing the defence of Carvahall. "Farm boys plucked from their homes don't all get legendary creatures to ass…ass… help them." Gloriously drunk, pink cheeked and far fuller than before, he bowed to Saphira, who bent her leg in response. "They just get a pike and a sack of straw to poke at. Don't fight so well."
Top secret information! Eragon, we must report this to Nasuada; this valuable insight into the Empire's secret training plans could win us the war!
"Whoops!" At that point, Caastenbergh seemed to realize how far gone he was, and clamped his hand on his mouth. "Silly me." He said little for the rest of the meal.
After the last dragon flight was discussed, Eragon looked up. "What of your battle here?" he asked eagerly. "It sounded like a great stand!"
"The enemy were met," said Pulcher, "and his city is our's." He gestured at the walls. "Our casualties are uncounted, but are estimated to be in the thousands."
"The dragon! How was it slain?"
"It tripped," said Pulcher. His face was pale, grim, and his eyes were trying to forget.
"We set up an ambush for it," Flaccus explained. "A series of spikes, under our walls. The dragon burned through the walls, but dashed itself to pieces on the spikes. Sadly, though, it is not slain. Its name is Thorn, its rider's is Murtagh, and I have a mind to crucify the pair of them."
"Murtagh?"
"Indeed."
"I knew a Murtagh," Eragon said, fists clenching.
"There are doubtless many Murtaghs," Gydrynne said, but she looked worried.
"I have missed something, I fear," Flaccus said. He almost summoned Tertius for dictation, before remembering that he was not at hand. "Who is Murtagh?"
They explained.
"Ah." Crucifixion, for sure. Had to be, if one was to teach the sons of the Forsworn not to rebel. "An unpleasant character."
"Not the one I knew," Eragon said.
"But an enemy to be killed, I think."
"By what? By… crucifixion, whatever that is?" Eragon leaned across the table, as Caastenbergh passed out.
Flaccus told him, in no uncertain terms, exactly what a crucifixion involved. "And we must not allow anyone help him, no. An officer on my staff had a great uncle who served in Judea, and told of how some rabble rousing Jew was administered drugs to fake his passing, and he was out preaching again three days later. We must be harsh."
Eragon opined that crucifixion was not a good plan, as he saw it, and he then moved on to the battle when he arrived. His account involved a great deal of dragons swooping down and burning soldiers to death en masse, which didn't suit Claye at all.
"If I may say so, sir, it was a risk too much. One crossbow bolt in the right place could have ended you and the entire Varden, and would have left the Imperial army facing us once more." He looked at his boots. "At least, I thought so."
"No," said Flaccus, "there is little risk of that."
"Of course not! The Elves have given me great power."
"Indeed." Blohdgarm nodded. "As much as one of our own kin."
"Yes…" Flaccus smiled. "And the Imperial Army, I feel, will start to suffer from its own lack of supplies. They have marched into an area whose harvest we have stripped and eaten ourselves, which lengthens their supply lines greatly. They cannot take the walls of Aroughs, once we occupy them, without massive quantities of siege equipment, and we only have to hold out until winter; a siege cannot be conducted through a cold winter. At present, they have to cart their supplies in convoys which, if I may make a suggestion to Eragon, are going to be vulnerable to a dragon, as well as to whatever men Sir Leon has left, without thousands of men guarding them. These are not available, due to the assault the Empire intends to make on the Varden's main army. So they will have to retreat."
There was a brief silence. My rider was just thinking that, wasn't he? This pork is excellent! Saphira intoned cheerily.
"The cooks will be honoured." Gydrynne discreetly signaled for the subtleties: in this case, a blue jelly shaped into a dragon, a rather insignificant looking knight of icing on top.
"Their wine suppliers especially," Eragon agreed, reaching for his spoon.
"The Argard." Skeate stuck his thumbs in his belt and whistled. "Mayor's place. Bloody hell!"
The company now stood in the square outside it, weapons drawn; and Tertius could only agree with Skeate. He had been around Mactator, may his shade rest easy, and Flaccus for long enough to know when a building was difficult to storm; and the Argard Keep, with its massively tall stone walls, seemed impenetrable. Worse, it was in the middle of a great plaza, with only a handful of statues offering any cover from arrow, ballista bolt, or worse. But he was a Greek, an Athenian, with all their famed way with words, so he said flippantly: "We could always knock."
"Yes! Knock! Against a fortified building held by a bunch of magic toting fanatics-speaking of which, where's that mind in the tower?" Skeate spat on the ground. "Bastards."
"They must have all been killed," a Sergeant suggested mildly. He adjusted his spectacles. "Along with so many other poor sods yesterday."
"This is the Imperial Secret Service, not some ancient order of dragon riders. They'll fight, but they'll have a good bolt hole." Skeate drew his sword, and made his mind ready for magic. "Right, Sergeant Hoxton. Since you're so talkative, I order you to lead a scouting party."
"Right." Hoxton hefted his halberd. "Corporal Barebones, I want your section at my back for this one. Get to that statue there, the one with the equestrian who looks like he's wanking off, and we have a good look round." It raised a few laughs, as he had hoped. "Shields up, gents. Forward!"
So, with the greatest valour, the Varden charged, weapons drawn, shields held high, roaring in defiance against the great, dark tower. Bohemonda had her eyes tightly shut, and Tertius joined with the cheers of the men as they urged them on.
Nothing happened. They reached the statue, and crouched low behind it. One of them pulled out a telescope, and another raised his hand, waggled his fingers.
Tertius could never understand the Varden signaling, so was surprised when Skeate led them rest of them forward. "It says all clear," Skeate muttered. "And it damn well looks it."
The hand gripping his tablet was shaking; but he had never learned to control it. He was a secretary, not a soldier! Of course he would be scared, even with a hundred soldiers and a magic user at his side. So, whereas the others marched, he merely crept along, the gargoyles glaring and soldiers sniggering at his obvious fear. "Well," he murmured to himself in Greek, "at least I'm honest with myself." The laughter of the soldiers was a bit too loud to be genuine.
When they reached the statue, with all of them struggling to hide behind it, the soldier with the telescope glanced around. "There's a wooden door," he said rapidly. Tertius instinctively started writing it down, feeling good to be doing something. "Looks thick. Studded. The only entrance. A few windows, no arrow slits we can see."
"Warded?" Skeate asked.
"Can't say. Guardsman Hotchkiss! Ready your bow! On my order, loose your bow at that door!" The man stared intently down his telescope. "Fire!"
The arrow buzzed out. "Stuck clean in," the soldier said with relish.
"Unwarded." Skeate rubbed his hands. "We need a ram or summat."
"Can't you use your magic?" Tertius asked.
"I could, but if they're in there, they'll grab my mind by its bloody balls and get out a great big rusty mental knife to cut them off. No, conventional methods are the best. Sergeant Hoxton, get your section searching!"
"I suppose," Tertius said after a moment or two of watching Hoxton's men kicking in doors among the city's finest shops to scavenge wood, "that breaking through a window is not out of the question."
"No," said Skeate after a moment of thought. "It isn't. And that window looks bloody low, so lets get to work!"
A deceptively short man-so short, in fact, that he had to stand on Hoxton's shoulders while he worked- called Guardsman Oxingford was ordered to break it with his hammer. This took little time, but each blow shattered the glass with a sound that set Tertius' teeth on edge. When it was broken, the footmen clambered in, weapons drawn, and Tertius among them.
The room was obviously a sitting room, with armchairs, an empty fire place, and a portrait of a sailing boat. Nothing suggesting the presence of the Black Hand; but it was the mayor's house, above all else. Presumably they were only hiding.
"But in that case," Skeate said, "where's the mayor?"
And then the shutters slammed shut. Darkness fell.
"Keep them open, I want a good exit," someone shouted.
All around, steel was being drawn. "Brisingr!" Skeate growled, and a fire burst out above his hand, filling the room with a strange, purple light. "Right! Guardsman Oxingford, knock those bloody shutters open. Sergeant Hoxton! Take your section, scavenge for torches."
They set to work. One was soon improvised with an axe handle and a bundle of stuffing from a sofa being ignited by Skeate; and a few candles were produced out of packs. "Right. Oxingford! The shutters!"
"They won't open."
"They won't open? This isn't a fucking potter's, man, hit it harder! Hit it-" Skeate froze.
Tertius, with a cold feeling in the pit of his stomach, realized he had drawn his sword. It didn't make him feel any better. "What is it?" he asked, dreading the response.
"That Mind's back. I can feel it. And we must stop it." Skeate gripped the hilt of his sword with white knuckled hands? "Where's Bohemonda?"
"Someone must have ordered her out…" Tertius began; he could not see her. Not difficult, with the shadows dancing around, and the candles guttering away.
"Lads. Lads!" Skeate spoke swiftly. "I want two assault parties. Four sections climb the tower, scour every room, kill anyone who even looks like they're using magic, alright? The other four search the cellars. Wine cellars, dungeons, whatever. Do the same. Work! I've got a magic user to hold off!"
At the mention of a magic user, the men immediately allocated themselves into the parties, readied their weapons, and set forth.
"Why do you build your houses so tall?" Tertius asked, but Skeate wasn't in the mood. His eyes were fixed straight ahead, his breathing was rapid, and he was sweating heavily. Tertius didn't know what he was thinking, and nor did he want to. He instead slumped into one of the sofas, and pulled out his tablet.
Nothing to write! He could dash out some dramatic message, but what would be the point? No one would read it! Every bit of poetry had been scraped from his mind by the possibility of him getting killed by magic, Gods know how. Would he die with dignity? He couldn't say, but he doubted it.
No.
"Did you hear anything?" Tertius asked, but there was no one to answer him.
His ears were drinking the sounds in. Every creak in the building, every footstep, every other noise, all caused him to jump, twitch. And there was a smell in the air, too, only now beginning to grow on him. The stench of something foul. Corpses…
Not corpses. They still live.
"What?"
The voice repeated itself.
"Who is this?"
They still live, for now. But not much longer.
"Right." Tertius feverishly started scribbling this in his tablet. "What is down there?" he tried.
Why not? People are down there, beneath the tower.
"People? What sort of people? Men? Pygmies? Elves?"
People who are about to die.
"And what is up there?" Tertius asked desperately.
The Mind in the Tower.
"Anything else?"
You will find it. Unopposed.
"Find what?"
The voice repeated itself. But the tone was now recognizable.
"Bohemonda?" Tertius guessed.
You believe so.
"But…" Tertius ran to the shutters, and started pounding at them. "Let us out!" Boots pounded up from the cellars, down from the tower. "Let us out!"
"Sir!" both soldiers crashed into the room, saluted. "Sir!" Both of their faces were pale. "Sir!"
Skeate stared ahead, eyes fixed on the opposite walls.
Almost as if they were dead.
Remember those captives we took? Normally, they would have been paraded around the battlements to enrage you, but they were not. The Black Hand seized people, you see, and brought them into the cellars. You may remember, perhaps, a patrol of cavalry that your men encountered…
"You-you first," Tertius said, struggling against his own rising gorge, pointing at the man from the cellars.
"Full of people! Hundreds, thousands, wallowing in their own filth! Trapped! I gave 'em my waterskin, but…" The man, with a strange sigh, vomited over his boots. "Chained up," he finished hoarsely.
"And you?" Tertius said, before vomting himself.
"I was here," the man muttered, "for Tenor Skeate. We needed him. And…" he checked his pulse. "He's dead."
"Well…" Tertius was lost. "Can't we get out of here?"
"I've ordered a section to the door, but we can't break it open. Just like the shutters…"
All three of them started shouting at once. They could get through the walls, off the roof somehow, tunnel through the cellars, there must be a sewer somewhere, and all the while the stench grew, and Skeate gently collapsed to the floor.
The Mind in the Tower is Ready, the voice said.
"But…" Tertius searched for something to say. "That means death?"
Yes.
"But… we fed you! We gave you food! Doesn't that merit you letting us out or something? Or were you faking your hunger too!"
I was hungry. I wish for no more of our cities to suffer as Aroughs has. Farwell.
"We could…" a soldier said.
And no one knew what his suggestion would be, for the Mind in the Tower decided to use his spell.
The spell was simple enough: one of transportation. It is simple, but it requires immense amounts of energy; far beyond that, considering the distances intended, possessed by a human magic user.
So the spellweavers of the Black Hand had to improvise; and they did so with relish. The Empire, they knew, lacked the immeasurable expertise of the Elves, but it had one key ingredient: manpower. So they could enlist the assistance of other human bodies also, to provide energy.
For how long they had built up their stocks in Aroughs, none could say. Perhaps, when they had leeched it from the fish near to Aroughs, they had driven the rest away, by the instinct for danger possessed by all animals, this was only the beginning. Perhaps they had been stocking up on dissidents for years, just in case the spell should be required. It will never be known just how many people they acquired over the years; but they were definitely hard at work in the Siege, when life was especially cheap. Certainly, two of the drained husks of men still sported their legionary helmets.
The spell killed Tertius where he sat, killed the soldiers with him, killed every one in the building, and within a hundred yards, save for a small woman who took to her heels and fled. It also killed an estimated one and a half thousand wretches in the cellar. And, whilst it is perhaps a coincidence, the werelights in the Aroughs marshes were flaring with their greatest vigour in living memory. In addition, the spell caused the destruction of Argard, such was its force; the tower collapsed on itself, crushing fourty nine people to death, including a school party at its lunch break.
The crash was audible for miles around. On the siege lines, soldiers grabbed weapons and stared as the great cloud of dust enveloped Aroughs, and heard screams from the city. The captives downed their tools and immediately ran to Aroughs, shouting for relatives and friends. The guards followed them, shouting the same for Skeate's Company.
Eragon's entire reception committee, Eragon included, jumped to their feet and began shouting orders, with Saphira growling and spreading her wings; they barely fitted between the walls. "Gnaeus Aurelius! Fetch a cohort, and send them in!" Flaccus refrained from drawing his sword; he wished to appear calm, and in any case he mistrusted the new weapon. "To Aroughs!"
Pulcher stared at the city.
"You will take them forward, sir, or you may expect your flogging."
Pulcher ran, waving his arms and shouting, narrowly avoiding Lieutenant Claye, who was attempting to rouse a Regiment in the same manner.
Eragon, Blohdgarm and Roran had climbed onto Saphira, and from her back they both stared out into the swirling fog of dust. A dispatch rider thundered over, and actually threw his message over the wall; the gates were now clogged with soldiers forming ranks and getting ready to advance. Gydrynne opened it and tried to read it aloud; and then handed it to Flaccus; she trusted his voice, so he filled his lungs, and bawled it out.
The message came from one of the prison guards' commanders, and it reported that the tower of Argard had been entirely destroyed. A mass of dead men were found, including the city's entire contingent of robed Black Hand; only two had survived the fighting. In addition, the rubble also yielded the bodies of Tenor Iohann Skeate, the soldiers sent to escort him, and the slave Tertius.
By now, the shouting had lowered in volume; so much so, indeed, that Flaccus could hear Eragon say to Roran and say "Death or Liberty", as the last name was read out.
Gydrynne tensed as Flaccus lowered the message and raised his cane.
"Say that again," he hissed.
"Better to die," Eragon said, as if this was self evident, "than live in slavery."
Before he knew quite what he was doing, Flaccus leapt onto the table and threw himself at Eragon. Both fell, grappling-but, with a snarl, Eragon simply tossed Flaccus aside. Both men were seized by many strong hands before they could draw swords. But the curses still flew.
"Mentula! Pipinna! Mande mertam at morere…"
"You dog faced, snake tongued, floppy haired slaver! You…"
"Enough! Enough!" Gydrynne drew her own sword. "Gentlemen, please!"
"That," said Caastenbergh, "is no way to run an army." He smiled to himself, and watched the shouting, the mass of onlookers, some drawing weapons to defend their leader.
And what was the spell transporting? That was initially difficult to establish, for it was obviously valuable; but the details began to link together. The cavalry patrol engaged by Macedonicus could, perhaps, have been heading for Aroughs; and it could easily have been coming from the direction of the Beors-certainly, no Empire cavalry patrol could have passed through without treating the Surdans pretty well, and avoiding most of them, which seemed to have been their course of action. It was also not impossible that, as the Legion had been hurled into the tunnels by touching a dragon egg, it could have arrived close by. All it would require, indeed, would be for an Imperial agent to be on hand-possibly, say, two of them who, noticing a group of Roman soldiers bearing down on them, could conserve their energy for their flight by merely paralyzing rather than killing them-to obtain this egg.
And on the strangely intact table, originally from the top of the Argard, was a bloodied scorch mark. A round one. Possibly, one might imagine, a dragon's egg.
Perhaps unsurprisingly, Eragon cut his visit short. He had much to tell Lady Nasuada. "And besides," he added, "soon, we will face the Empire in battle once more. I will be needed there." He swung onto Saphira, and off they flew, leaving the battered Roman-Varden army to sort through the ruins of Aroughs.
Three days later, the news came. Lady Nasuada had, with the assistance of King Hrothgar, a number of Urgals under a certain Nar Garzhvog, and of course Eragon and Saphira, engaged the enemy at the Burning Plains.
And they had been crushed utterly.
Glossary
Pilos: A conical felt hat, associated with freed slaves. More recently, it was the basis for the French Revolutionary's distinctive red "cap of liberty"; the French Revolution, in absence of any other previous representative democracies to get their inspiration from, harked back to the Roman Republic, as well as democratic Athens, to get their symbols and suchlike. Since then, the French Revolution has been used for the same purpose.
That both Athens and Rome had large slave populations and a considerable degree of corruption, demagoguery and internal violence is perhaps anticipating how the French Revolution would end; however, the American Revolution also used a considerable amount of classical imagery, with George Washington getting the Roman title "Father of his Country", the White House having a decidedly Classical appearance, and their senior legislative chamber being The Senate.
As another aside, looking back over this story, I am now beginning to wish that I had brought in a Republican legion, perhaps from the time of Gaius Marius. In raw military terms they would be pretty similar-after all, Marius more or less invented the Legion that would lead the Caesars to victory. But there would be a far more interesting clash of ideas, between the despotic Galbatorix, the feudal Surdans, and the Citizen Soldiers of a democratic Republic, albiet one with vote rigging being accepted as standard procedure by all bar the most stern and incorruptible of politicians. However, I think that the main reason I had in mind was simple: bowing to imagined popularity. Everyone knows about the Caesars, with all their pomp and splendor. No one knows about the Senatus Populusque Romanus, with its labyrinthine Cursus Honorum ("Way of Honour"-types of Senators, from People's Tribune to Consul to Aedile), all its different Senators, noble families, Great Men, New Men, Military Men, and so on. Which is a pity; but, as Juvenal said, "Bread and Circuses" (or, for the Emperors, massive Empires and enormous buildings) have a habit of overruling ideas of democracy, whether in fan fiction, Ancient Rome, or even today. Dammit, that sounded pretentious.
Trajan's Salute: It is sometimes thought that it was general practice throughout the entire Roman Empire to, whenever a salute was needed, make a Naziesque sort of salute; indeed, many Fascists and Nazis adopted a "Roman Salute", as did many Revolutionaries before them (such as the French Revolutionaries.) This is not the case. However, the Emperor Trajan is depicted as making a similar sort of salute on Trajan's Column (with a crowd returning it to him), and salutes again on his statue. So, if nothing else, it could be an eccentricity of his.
Fragment of Pythagoras: Pythagoras, like many Greek philosophers, was a polymath. As well as mathematics, he also developed his own classification of food, with some being god like, others being bestial (the Greeks were very centred around Humanity as being the greatest creature of all, especially Hellenic humanity), and there being a scale in between. God like foods included vegetarianism (or, if you must eat meat, pork and goat meat), cereals, spices (or, for the Gods, a spice ox), dry food, and burnt offerings (for the Gods, obviously.) Bestial foods included being a carnivore (especially beef), beans, and rotten food.