Chapter XXI
Night Raid
Disclaimer: See Chapter One
Roran sighed as he pulled off his bracers, and discarded the cutlass he'd taken from the rider they'd captured earlier.
They'd escorted the pair into the city proper, before presenting them to Nasuada.
Afterward, Roran and his men had been dismissed, although he, his men and the cat over in the alley knew that the little dragon was now sitting rather disconsolately in the courtyard in front of the castle.
His rider was confined under guard in the castle, under the watchful eyes of the Nighthawks.
As Roran had suspected, the rider was little more than a boy,-barely fifteen,- and had been sent as a scout.
Or at least, those were the facts that had been gleaned by Trianna, when she'd looked through his memories.
He cast a loving glance at Katrina, and wordlessly took her hand.
What mattered if Galbatorix had torn a hole in reality and produced legions of dragons and riders to fight for him? What did that matter when he sat beside the woman he loved most in the world, and these dragons still so far distant, and the only testament to their existence a small scout, taken without a single drop of blood being spilled?
'How was your day?' Asked Roran quietly as he lay down, and looked up at the roof of the tent, allowing some of the tension of the day to ease.
'The same as ever, I worried for you, I took care of what work there was to be done, and just now I felt relief that you have returned unharmed again, and I heard you were the one to capture that rider that you brought in this afternoon,' replied Katrina, looking down at Roran with a small smile.
'We drew lots,' said Roran modestly, 'I drew the short straw.' He added with a small smile.
Katrina smiled in turn, and kissed Roran sweetly.
'You make it sound so easy,' said Katrina, as she straightened and flicked her hair out of her eyes.
'It was, with Yarbog, Carn, Harald and the other men keeping that dragon from any mischief, and Kiri keeping that boy disoriented, the dragon just stood there and let me take him, and the rider himself was in no state to offer resistance,' explained Roran, again in the same modest tone.
Certainly, he was becoming a figure of legend in the Varden.
Roran Stronghammer: Cousin of Eragon Shadeslayer, Rouser of Carvahall, Palancar Pirate, Bane of the Ra'zac, Slayer of the Twins, The-man-who-beat-an-urgal-in-single-unarmed-combat; He deserved some credit for these deeds, but through a lot of the trials that had earned him the epithets, he'd had help: Eragon and Saphira had helped him kill the Ra'zac, he hadn't been the only one to pirate the Dragon Wing, and he was inclined to put killing the Twins down to luck, if they'd been paying attention, they surely would have found him.
'Oh, Roran,' said Katrina with a touch of amusement, and giving him a warm smile. 'Take some pride for once, you brought in a dragon rider, a dragon rider who fights on the behalf of Galbatorix.' She elaborated, smoothing a strand of hair away from her husband's forehead.
A knock on the pole at the front of the tent called their attention to an out-of-breath runner.
'Sorry,' he said, with a note of true apology in his voice, 'Stronghammer you're wanted quickly, we've just received some troubling information,' said the runner.
Roran glanced at Katrina.
'Go,' she said, motioning to the tent flap.
Roran stood and buckled on the cutlass he'd acquired earlier that day, before jamming his hammer through his belt, then he set off, as Katrina saw to giving the messenger a cup of tea while he caught his breath.
'A night raid? They're going to hit us with a night raid tonight?' Said Roran in shock.
'Can we recall Eragon to see this off? Do we have any information on numbers? Do we have anything on the dragon they're going to use?' Rattled off Roran urgently.
Nasuada held up a hand, cutting off the stream of questions.
'I've already requested Eragon's assistance, but it appears time flows differently between these two worlds, when I contacted them, Eragon was in the middle of whatever training they're putting him through there, and Arya was away going to brief one of the Captains assigned to one of the dragons we've been promised; Murtagh was there, but we can't very well ask his help, and the trans-world spell requires two spellcasters on either side to work anyway, so we're on our own.' Explained Nasuada.
'As for information, Angela gave us that in spades, she's been studying various books in that world of dragon lore, and the French have a breed known as the…Flur de Nit…' Nasuada stumbled over the pronunciation.
'Fleur de Nuit,' corrected the rider they'd captured that afternoon, pronouncing the name slowly.
'Thank you,' said Nasuada with a slight, stiff nod, 'regardless, they're a heavy-weight breed; they're nocturnal by nature, and have good night-vision,-better than Saphira's by the accounts,- and fully grown, they're larger than Saphira currently is,- nearly twice her size; however, they can't breath fire, although with this cloud-cover, it's dark blue colouring would probably mean it'd want to keep any fire guarded anyway to make better use of stealth,' listed Nasuada.
'Do we have a plan?' Asked Roran.
Nasuada gave him a savage smile.
'Lure it to the heart of the city and use it's greatest asset against it.' Replied Nasuada.
'Trés bien Rafale trés bien, this confirms that these rebels do not expect an attack from the mountains.' Said Henri Petard eyeing Rafale approvingly.
'I can't believe they took Champion so easily, and Amitius too no less,' Continued Petard, a little more low.
'It was a sight sir, Amitius was flying normally if a bit carelessly in regard to stealth, then all of a sudden he just dived straight into the arms of a rebel patrol, and sat there meek as milk as they took his captain, then lead him on foot into the city,' elaborated Rafale recalling the scene with disquiet.
Petard grunted.
'You've been applying the mindguard like you were shown?' He enquired.
Rafale nodded emphatically.
'Sanguinora as well sir I've made sure she minds the risk, and I've been minding it as well.'
After that incident at any rate. Added Rafale silently.
Petard nodded again, pleased.
'Well Captain Lefevre, I hate to do this,-particularly after your exemplary performance this afternoon,- but I'm having you and Sanguinora guide Valuré and Captain Mattencourt to the city through the mountains; you know the route, they don't. And if that fire-breather is waiting in the wings, I want a sentry, we don't want to lose a Fleur de Nuit to a mauling or magic because there weren't enough eyes on the lookout for trouble.
Rafale looked like he wanted to protest.
'Captain, I'm doing this because Sanguinora is the only other lightweight in our formation, I'd meant to send Champion and that reckless Chasseur Vocifere of his, but obviously I can't do that now, and you're the only other one I have to ask,' said Petard steadily.
'As you will sir,' said Rafale reluctantly, before Petard dismissed him.
He quickly walked to the part of the camp that'd been set aside for Sanguinora and Amitius to land in for the flights Petard was inclined to make for liaison with the empire soldiers.
Petard wordlessly joined them a few moments later after bidding his goodbyes for the day to the commander of the camp, before Sanguinora sped them back to their camp, a mile south.
Rafale muttered in a fury as Sanguinora banked through the mountains, with a steel ring around the base of her tail reflecting the starlight: A beacon for the lumbering Valuré.
The great Fleur de Nuit like the rest of his breed possessed incredible night-vision, but flying through the mountains he needed a light to follow so as not to fly head-first into a mountainside.
This is so typical! Fumed Rafale. Champion and Amitius get into trouble and Sango and I have to cover their collective ass, and Sango has already flown this route twice today, and now she's flying it a third time into a fight! Champion, if you get out of that mess you owe us so bad… Rafale continued his silent rant, indulging in some truly vile invective as Sanguinora guided them through the vales and around a final peak out over the coast, a bare thirty miles north-west of the city.
The sky was cloudy, the moon was a crescent of silver light, and the conditions were perfect for a Fleur de Nuit to reap bloody havoc on an unsuspecting target.
Roran crouched in the tower of the keep near a window watching intently north.
Many storeys below, from the ground hall to the cellars the populace of Fienster and many of the Varden's womenfolk and children were taking shelter.
In the fortifications of the keep were many of the Varden's soldiery:
Archers, scouts, pikemen, and magicians were waiting for the word to emerge and unleash hell on their attacker and take yet another dragon, which they'd been informed by Angela they could hand to the British for a not-inconsiderable bounty.
Roran was in the tower with Kiri, Carn, Harald, and Yarbog, all of them in gear designed so they could board the dragon if the first part of Nasuada's design worked.
'Here they come,' said Kiri, indicating with one slender finger.
Roran followed the finger, and saw a huge dark shadow fly out of the mountains to the northwest, following a flash of silver in the moonlight.
'And there's the guide just like Trianna saw in that rider's mind.' Said Harald indicating the flashing, silver what-ever-it-was, presumably a steel plate or something attached to a smaller dragon's haunches or tail.
'Nasuada says to be ready, Gringlok and Ornthrond are in position,' reported Kiri.
They'd been unable to secure Eragon and Saphira's help by the dint of Arya's absence.
The trans-world spell required two skilled spellcasters on either side of the portal to maintain the spell, and with only Murtagh and Eragon there to maintain the spell, they couldn't very well ask either of them for help for a whole host of reasons, most of them politic.
But the main being that with Arya's absence, Eragon and Murtagh were stuck on their side of the portal maintaining the spell, and couldn't cross themselves without potentially killing themselves.
However, they'd been able to negotiate the dwarf's and Fanghur's assistance temporarily, and that would have to serve.
And if Nasuada's plan worked, it would.
Captain Luc Mattencourt surveyed the city from the back of Valuré.
The weather-beaten veteran looked over the city with a cold, calculating eye.
Only a single one, as his left rested at the bottom of the English channel, courtesy of a long splinter that had lodged itself in his left eye years previously during a skirmish.
He could've worn an eye patch, but he preferred not to; it gave his gaze an absolutely horrid intensity.
All Luc Mattencourt had to do to break up a fight among his men was look coldly in the direction of the brawlers.
'Captain, I think I see movement down there!' Called the port lookout, indicating a square in front of the great keep's curtain wall.
Mattencourt followed the pointing finger, and saw indeed some small movement in the darkness.
'Valuré, what is that in front of the keep?' Asked Mattencourt.
The Fleur de Nuit was quiet a while, then finally spoke in a mournful voice, the sort that you'd attribute to a creature of the darkest night if you heard it camping alone in the wilderness.
'It's Amitius, they have him chained in that square, but I cannot see Captain Champion down there.'
Mattencourt gritted his teeth.
'The bastards are baiting us into attempting a rescue, they probably have a Scorpion or Mangonel set up in one of the streets to take a shot at us the moment we go near there,' he growled.
'Still, they more than likely are sheltering their commanders in the keep, we bomb there first, Skorl?' Said Mattencourt, turning to a slightly short, taut looking man with the gaze of a cornered predator. 'Tell Captain Lefevre we're making a pass on the keep, and he and Sanguinora are to run interference for us,' ordered Mattencourt.
The magician nodded, and his eyes glassed over momentarily, and a moment later he frowned and gritted his teeth, before he relaxed.
'Damned fool of a boy,' muttered Skorl darkly.
'What?' Asked Mattencourt in confusion; Skorl had spoken in English, a language Mattencourt didn't speak himself, nor could understand.
'He said: 'Damned fool of a boy', sir,' repeated Mattencourt's Lieutenant, who did speak English.
Mattencourt nodded, piecing together what had happened, before calling out to Valuré to begin his attack as the city's main wall flashed by below and the guards upon the wall cried out in surprise, and the alarm was raised.
'Here they come be ready,' warned Harald, before loosening his sword in it's sheath.
Roran drew his hammer, and checked the rope around his waist, before checking the knot attaching it to the roof.
The horns from the men on the main wall were already sounding, and below, a bustle was proceeding as bows were loaded, and the magicians rushed to get into position.
As the first, smaller dragon flew by, the soldiers fired off a small volley, being rewarded with a few shrieks of pain from the dragon.
Then, higher up came the Fleur de Nuit, and as it swept by the tower window, things happened.
In the courtyard moments later, blooms of fire erupted as the first bombs went off.
In the tower itself, hiding near windows men with crossbows whipped out of cover, took aim, and fired, being rewarded by cries of pain, though it was impossible to know what sort of damage the quarrels were doing.
In response, there came sharp cracks! as the Franks answered back with their Black Powder weapons, and screams of pain and surprise from the windows as the crossbowmen were hit.
Then a squeal of surprise as the Fleur de Nuit stopped cold in midair.
Immediately Kiri grimaced, as he and the other six elves poured strength into the spell binding the dragon in place.
'Go!' Shouted Kiri, and instantly, Roran dove out of the tower window, clinging to his lifeline for dear life and setting his feet to the wall.
The dragon's belly-rigging was level with Roran, and he saw the looks of shock on the faces of the men in the rigging as he chanced a leap at the rigging.
He caught hold of a strap, and held on grimly as one of the men near him drew a Black Powder weapon.
'Carn!' Shouted Roran.
Too late.
The pistol went off with a resounding crack! and Roran flinched his eyes shut, waiting for searing pain.
Instead there was a surprised cry from one of the men on the other side of the belly-rigging.
Roran opened his eyes in surprise, and saw one of the Franks staring at him at close range.
Roran immediately belted him upside the head with his hammer, breaking the man's jaw as Harald pragmatically climbed over Roran and into the belly rigging, before punching another man in the face, stabbing a second in the throat, and beheading a third before Carn arrived, and turned to hauling Roran himself into the belly-rigging.
'Thanks twice,' said Roran breathlessly, before drawing his looted cutlass and stabbing a man who'd been about to brain Carn with an axe.
'You still owe me Stronghammer,' said Carn, before turning and fending off another attack.
Roran pushed past him, then leapt and grabbed at the harness straps above him, hauling himself up.
When he was halfway up, he saw another Frenchmen aiming down the barrel of a Black Powder weapon at him.
The next thing the man went down screaming with an arrow through the neck.
As the pistol plummeted past, Roran grabbed it, before continuing his climb.
He reached the dragon's back, and immediately had to duck a sword blow.
Another scream, and this time Roran saw Gringlok fitting another arrow to his bow as Ornthrond and a small dragon traded blows.
'Go, I'll take care o' these poxy bastards!' Roared Gringlok, before shooting another Frenchmen to prove the point.
A mind slammed into Roran's defences and he whipped around to see a taut looking man standing with another man missing an eye at the base of the dragon's neck.
They were guarded by roughly four other men, all looking determined.
Roran gritted his teeth and focused on Katrina, before knocking a man's face in with his hammer.
He still had the Black Powder weapon in his hand.
The taut man, who Roran suspected was a magician, was a wily creature, and was trying to worm into Roran's defences.
Without hesitation, Roran aimed the weapon at the man, and Roran's fingers found a trigger guard.
Somewhat familiar with how a crossbow worked, he had no problem slipping his finger into the guard, and firing the pistol.
The recoil knocked him off balance, but the pressure on his mind vanished, just like the Black Powder weapon, which went sailing into the night as Roran released the weapon in surprise.
Roran regained his balance in time to ward off a cutlass with a bracer.
He rammed the hammerhead into the man's stomach, before kneeing him in the face, and finished him by cracking his chest cavity.
With a bellow, Harald was at Roran's side charging into a small block of other men, slashing, stabbing, shield-bashing, even kicking.
A sharp cry went up, followed by a bellowed oath from Gringlok.
They all whipped around, Roran noting in detached satisfaction that the taut mannered man was nowhere in sight, no doubt dead.
Gringlok was swearing a blue-streak at the top of his voice, as Gringlok gripped at the other dragon in a bear-hug, and scratched at it's belly with his rear claws.
Roran saw immediately what the problem was:
Gringlok had taken a hit from a Black Powder weapon.
Only a glancing hit thankfully, but it seemed to pain him greatly, and blood was flowing from a hole in his arm.
Suddenly, the dwarf cut the bindings on his legs, stood, drew his war-axe, bellowed something in his own tongue, then leapt across to the back of Ornthrond's foe, and butted the haft of his axe into his opposite's face, before fending off a desperate sword cut.
The grappling Fanghur and dragon lurched in midair, and they both slipped, but Gringlok let his axe fall, grabbed the smaller dragon's harness, and drew his short-sword.
Similarly, the French rider,-who Roran thought looked rather like the rider they'd apprehended that afternoon,- let his Black Powder weapon fall, and drew a cutlass.
Roran started as he felt Kiri against his mind.
Stronghammer! Hurry up, we cannot hold this spell any longer! Bellowed the elf, obviously straining.
Recalled to the current situation, Roran drew his own cutlass and punched a man in the face with the hilt, before blocking another strike, and cracking his foe's ribs with his hammer, forcing the blade down and taking off the top of his enemy's head off in a foul mix of blood, bone and brain.
Now there were only the last few men left.
Then the Fleur de Nuit lurched, and they were flying again.
Harald, and Roran looked at each other.
Then Carn followed the contingency plan for the situation.
'Jump!' He shouted, before doing just that off the dragon's side from where he'd been clambering up.
Roran and Harald followed suit, but Harald gave a cry of pain, as another sharp crack! rung out.
Roran didn't have time to be alarmed as he slammed into the tower wall with bone-jarring force.
That could've been smoother… He thought, grimacing.
Meanwhile, Gringlok and the French captain were duelling savagely, Ornthrond having gained superiority in the scuffle with his foe, which Gringlok tentatively identified as a Poux-de-Ciel from what Angela had told him.
'Your soul to the devil!' Screamed the French captain, tears of rage streaking his face as his dragon yowled in pain as Ornthrond managed to tear her belly scales with a long, shallow gash.
'And yours with me!' Retorted Gringlok savagely, bashing aside the cutlass, then managing to twist the blade in it's owner's grip, and disarm him.
His arm was on fire where the pistol ball had hit him, but he hung on with an iron grip refusing to let go.
'Ornthrond, let him have it!' Bellowed Gringlok,
The Fanghur complied, first releasing the Poux-de-Ciel, kicking it away, then tucking his left wing, and rolling right over, at the same time swinging his hindquarters.
The tail-slam took the little dragon in the head.
Not enough to break it's neck, but enough to stun it for a few vital moments.
Ornthrond's next action was to assault the dragon's rider's mind full-force, annihilating the boy's unpractised and inadequate defences, before disorienting him long enough for Gringlok to knock him out with a heavy kick to the head.
Next, Ornthrond focused his attention on the fleeing Fleur de Nuit.
It's mental defence was tolerably better, but Ornthrond had been trained to break thicker defences than the ones the heavyweight had erected.
All brawn and no brain, whatever have these idiots been doing? Wondered Ornthrond briefly, before screaming bloody-murder in the Fleur de Nuit's mind again for good measure, and to be sure it got the point.
Evidently it had because it was flying for it as fast as it could, the remaining crewmen dropping bombs into the city with a vengeful spirit, before casting the big dragon's belly-rigging away as well.
'Ornthrond!' Roared Gringlok again, as the Poux-de-Ciel fell towards the courtyard below.
With a long-suffering sigh, Ornthrond dove, caught the little dragon with his hind claws, and beat up slowly, lowering them down to the courtyard.
Gringlok stepped from the back of the defeated dragon, which was staring around blearily.
'By Guntêra's holy bollocks,' swore Gringlok, as he surveyed the carnage:
The Varden had restored the siege engines wrecked in the sack of the city during the week, but now they were completely destroyed.
Nasuada's design had been to lure the French into a rescue-attempt of the dragon they'd captured that afternoon, then dazzle the Fleur de Nuit with spells of light and torches, then board from above.
This had obviously gone astray when the dragon had attacked the castle instead, and the crew had started dropping bombs.
Many of the men who'd been crewing the siege engines were laying dead, impaled by splinters, blasted apart, dead of concussive shock, and a whole host of other causes, while others were badly maimed.
Many of the archers had been wounded when the smaller dragon had struck at them when they'd taken shots at the Fleur-de-Nuit, before Ornthrond and Gringlok had attacked them when they'd gone for the dragon chained before the curtain wall.
They'd been hiding in the tunnel in the curtain wall.
Inside the tower where the snipers had been hiding, many of the archers lay dead from the ministries of the riflemen on the Fleur de Nuit.
Others were wounded, and many of the spellcasters were fainted from pouring so much energy into the spell of binding they'd used on the Fleur de Nuit.
At the top of the tower, Roran hauled himself back through the window, groaning with the effort, before collapsing onto the floor.
He stood shakily before helping his two compatriots back through as well.
'That could've gone better,' observed Carn, clutching a bloodied nose.
'Damn right, we could've taken that big fellow, if only we could've had Shadeslayer…' mused Harald, more concerned with what might've been than the dozen-or-so minor wounds his one-man charge had earned him, as well as a hole through his shoulder which was oozing blood.
'We couldn't have held that brute any longer; could you give me a hand, I put too much into that spell,' admitted Kiri weakly.
Harald and Roran obliged him, and they hobbled out of the tower.
'Well, at least we accomplished something this night.' Said Gringlok, nursing a tankard of ale.
He would leave in the morning back to Loch Laggan, but until then he and Ornthrond were staying with the Varden, in case the Fleur de Nuit came back.
'Indeed, the capture of a second French lightweight, and this one's rider can speak the common tongue?' Asked Nasuada again.
Gringlok grunted.
''Is dragon as well, the feisty thing called Ornthrond a 'ole 'ost o' vile things, before she bit 'is shoulder an' 'e got mad with 'er,' He confirmed, adjusting the bandage on his left arm,- where the Black Powder shot had hit him,- slightly.
'We'll question the pair of them tomorrow, until then the least I can give you is the Varden's gratitude,' said Nasuada sincerely, 'that could've been far worse.'
It was true.
All told nearly sixty men, urgals and dwarves killed outright, and another hundred and fifty badly wounded.
'As for you four,' said Nasuada, turning to face the haggard Kiri, Carn, Harald and Roran. 'You did well, although it is a shame you weren't able to capture that other dragon, and Roran now that you have used one of these Black Powder weapons, what is your assessment?' Asked Nasuada.
'They're a deadly weapon my lady, however from what Gringlok has told us, they only have a single shot, much like a crossbow, only they take far longer to reload; if that problem were to be overcome, they'd be a potent equaliser in our fight ahead.' Said Roran nodding.
'But you do not believe that they should become a widely used weapon?' Pressed Nasuada.
Roran shook his head. 'No, such a tool would mean even a common bandit would be a match for a dragon if they could place a shot well, and I believe those Franks forsook proper armour because of them, they only wore leather coats and the like,' recounted Roran.
'And skill at arms counts for nought when even the worst hand with a blade can be taught to fire a crossbow, and these are more dangerous again.' Agreed Nasuada.
'Well, I believe I can give you four the rest of the night off, you look like you need the rest; and take tomorrow as well,' added Nasuada as an afterthought.
Roran, Kiri, Harald and Carn bowed gratefully and left.
Gringlok wordlessly drained his tankard, nodded once to Nasuada, then followed the other four out of the castle into the courtyard, where Ornthrond was busily devouring a cow Eragon and Murtagh had requisitioned from the herd-masters at Loch Laggan for the Fanghur, to preserve the Varden's supplies.
'Well my friend, we're in for a long night,' said Gringlok, as he hunted his axe out among the debris in the courtyard.
Ornthrond may have replied, but if he did his maw was so stuffed with meat it was unintelligible.
I hope I didn't make a hash of that.
I prefer my action to have some realism to it, but I hope I didn't underpower or overpower either side.
Well, the judges of that are you all.
So, thanks for this time around:
For Story alerting: Humbuggy and CrimsonQueen24.
For Favouriting: CrimsonQueen24.
For Reviewing: Hideout Writer, T-2238, GoldenMoon1997 and Humbuggy.
Also, a special mention to GoldenMoon1997 for correctly guessing the two Ancient Language phrases from last chapter.
If you're interested, they were:
"Dragon, fly to the earth and your rider will not be harmed."
And the second one was:
"Stop flying, or your rider dies."
So, 'til next time:
No One-liners.