Hi there, everybody! Now before you get all mad, I do have reasons for my long, long gap between updates. First, my craptop died. It took a month to bring it back to life. Then school started. I'm taking some college-level courses this year (big mistake) and I've had several massive papers in the last few weeks. I got sick for a little, I hit writer's block, and yada, yada. But I'm back now!!
Much thanks to everyone out there; I really appreciate all the love I've recieved. Also, thanks to Doctor Yami and Sable1212. They have some awesome fic ideas that are really, really cool. I don't know if I can do them, so if anyone is interested, PM me or Doctor Yami or Sable1212!
811 reviews? Oh my God, you guys, this is amazing. I never thought I'd get this many reviews! I feel loved. :)
A note (or two): First, I am going to allow anonymous reviews again. All you people out there, please refrain from spamming me with repeated comments. "X", who ever you are, that's really annoying to both me and other reviews. If you guys want to leave unsigned reviews, feel free, but please no flaming and follow etiquite. I don't want to turn them off again!
Also, recently I have been receiving many comments that address my characterization. Yes, I have taken the characters away from CP's portrayal, and yes, I do have my reasons. If you want to know them, PM me. Flames are not welcome. Clear?
Okay, business aside, here's Chapter 26. Again from Roran's POV, so naturally I despise it. I rather like the ending, though.
Much thanks to the lovely betas Arya Shadeslayer and hatebookmovies.
This chapter is dedicated to hatebookmovies, who has joined the beta squad, and to Frank'Baen un Zar'roc, who has been astoundingly helpful with the whole figuring out of locations and distances and such!
Disclaimer- CP owns the main characters, settings, ect. I, however, own everything else, including Kimerlun, Tariku, and other such beings.
"War is not about who is right; it's about who is left." -Bertrand Russell
Chapter Twenty- Six: The Battle of Belatona
Roran crouched in the shadows of the trees with his men, watching the shadowy smudge of Belatona in the distance. Dawn had not yet arrived; the sky was dark and black, still littered with the faint glow of the stars and the moon. Nasuada was off to the south, her army curved around to crush Belatona between two forces. Orik the Dwarf King stood at Roran's side, leaning on an ancient battle hammer. Garzhvog and his Urgals waited restlessly, growling to one another, eager for the chance to avenge their betrayals.
"The fight is going to be long." Orik commented. "It will be a bloody battle."
Roran nodded, his hand on his hammer. Trumpet pawed the ground beside him, dancing with anticipation. The horse smelled battle in the air and he was intent on seeing some action despite his encounter with the Halfling earlier.
"The soldiers knew we were coming." He said darkly. Even in the black he could see the outline of catapults and war machines set on the wall of Belatona. Flickering orange glows marked the positions of several groups of soldiers and there were several more campfires clustered around the outside of the wall. The Empire was ready to fend off the Varden, further proving Nasuada's suspicions that a spy hid among the members of the resistance, one who was privy to all sorts high ranking of information. And now the Varden had lost the valuable element of surprise, which could very well cost them the battle.
"Aye." Orik spat in disgust. "I'd like to know who sold us out." He said. "Whoever it is might have condemned us all to die today."
"It has to be someone powerful enough to slip through Trianna and her magicians. Someone who has strong magic and is above suspicion."
The dwarf made no reply, stroking his beard, deep in thought.
"General." A messenger raced up to Roran, his face shining with sweat and anxiety. "A message from the Lady Lady Nasuada." He extended a hand, a piece or parchment clutched in his fingers. "I also have one for King Orik."
"Thank you." Roran took the paper and the messenger ran off again, more messages clutched in his fist. He read the scrap of paper quickly, grateful that he had taken the time to learn to read back in Surda.
"On the third blow of a horn, you are to lead your men and the Urgals forward, at to the left wall. Attempt to break the defenses there and head for the gate. Gods be with you, Roran, and do try not to get yourself killed."
"Ar, you've got the same thing as me." Orik had already finished his message. He was scowling fiercely, eyeing the fortified town. "Curse the blasted coward who turned to the Empire." He snarled. "A good many of us will die trying to take the city."
Roran nodded, watching the flickering fires. The Varden would be in for a hell of a fight, one that would claim the lives of hundreds, if not thousands, of men. He sent the message along the lines of gathered warriors, urging them to prepare for the first horn blast. The Varden's forces were separated from Belatona by roughly a half-mile of rocky ground. The cover provided by the boulders would be good, but the overwhelming strength of the Empire was a definite advantage in the King's favor. And the Varden was fighting without Eragon.
A pang shot through Roran, throbbing in his heart. He missed his cousin fiercely. Fighting without him was strange, like fighting without his hammer. He was used to seeing Saphira sail overhead, Eragon on her back, blue fire darting among the enemy ranks. And to think of him, trapped alone in the bowels of Uru' baen, was gut- wrenching, made even more so by the idea that Galbatorix could force Eragon into his service.
No. Roran told himself sternly. Arya and Saphira are going to get rescue Eragon and the whole Empire couldn't keep them from getting into the castle.
Still, the general could not shake the worry from his thoughts. Taking a fortified city without a dragon and a Rider was going to be a momentous task indeed.
Roran allowed himself to slip into a half- aware state as the minutes trickled by, hunkered down to avoid wind, cold, and magical eyes that might be probing the darkness for an enemy army. Orik was muttering in the language of his people, his knarled hands clasped together in what could only be prayer. Roran's armor chilled his skin and grated when he moved and he fingered the feathers of the magicked arrows the boy Solembum insisted that he carried. Strangely, there were no shrieking roars that signaled the presence of Halflings. The monsters were either being extremely quiet or they had vacated the city. Roran hoped that it was the latter.
The minutes melted into hours as the Varden waited, cramped, anxious, low growls and murmurs rumbling from soft- spoken conversations. Horses whinnied softly, warriors shuffled, and a thick blanket of tension crackled. No one dared to speak above a whisper and all ears were cocked for the horn that would signal the Varden's advance. Roran's muscles cramped repeatedly and he started to go numb. His eyelids drooped and he started to doze, only to be prodded awake by Orik, who looked equally tired.
"When is she going to sound the signal?" Roran hissed. "We're all going to cramp up here and no one will be ready when the time comes."
"She'll sound it when she's good and ready." Orik replied. "She's being careful because of the spy."
"We'll lose the cover of darkness if she waits much longer." Roran pointed out, massaging his cold fingers. Dawn must be near by now."
"Aye. The moon's starting to sink in the sky." The Dwarf King shifted, concern in his dark eyes.
Both fell silent, brooding, thoughtful, waiting for the horn to blow and the battle to begin. Roran allowed his thoughts to wander over memories, Carvahall, Garrow's farm, Eragon, Katrina. He slipped into a daze, half- aware of the world around him, his hand curled around his hammer.
The next thing he knew, Orik was shaking him and Trumpet was dancing again, his hooves stamping the cold earth.
"It's time." The dwarf said, helping Roran to his feet.
"I fell asleep?" The general stammered, dazed.
"You and half the army. The first horn has been blown."
"Ah." Roran shook off his armor and seized his dancing horse. Sure enough, a large number of men stumbled around, gathering weapons and shaking themselves awake. A second horn call, eerily similar to a falcon's hunting cry but far too loud split the hazy quiet. Roran quickly clambered up onto Trumpet, his tiredness shaken away by the beginnings of battle- fervor. The massive black horse stamped once, his tail swishing. The horse had rudimentary armor as well, a breast plate, a few sheets of metal to protect his shoulders and flanks, plates on his neck, and a headpiece that covered his forehead, nose, and cheeks. Orik had promised to work something more elegant later on, something made out of tougher metal, like dragon armor.
Roran waited on Trumpet, his whole body trembling with anticipation. The Varden had fallen completely silent, everyone waiting with baited breath, and then—
The third horn call shattered the silence, loud and commanding. Roran knew instinctively that Nasuada herself had blown the final summoning blast. He drew his hammer, raised it above his head, and breathed.
Thousands of eyes fixed on his back and his raised hammer and thousands of ears strained to hear his call.
"CHARGE!" He bellowed, spurring Trumpet forward, shooting from the dark forest. His cry was taken up by Orik and Garzhvog and the captains, reverberating across the forests with a terrible, earth-shaking force. Trumpet surged forward, bugling his challenge, and then Roran's troops hurtled forward. In the dark, the Empire couldn't see them well, but the glowing fires marked the locations of the Empire. Roran slowed to allow others to pass him. Nasuada's orders had been clear; he was not to endanger himself needlessly. The whistling of boulders and mage fire sang overhead, the clay boulders shattering and the fire splattering. Most of the projectiles missed, exploding into the forest or too far to the front or too far to the side. A few, most of them mage fires, hit the bulk of the advancing Varden, however, and the flames glowed a sickly yellow in the dark, illuminating writhing bodies. The soldiers camped along the wall leaped up, roaring, and began to wade forward, glinting and shifting from invisibility to visibility in the fire- strewn night. Roran watched as a streak of crackling magic, no doubt fired by one of the elves, streaked up towards the walls and exploded on a catapault, sending the broken arm, fire still burning in the cradle, back into the city. Another clay boulder smashed into the Varden, scattering fragments over the warriors. At least ten men fell dead, another ten wounded by the deadly shards. The Varden had reached the half- way point and now they were darting nimbly through the rocks, weapons out, clashing with the first wave of the Empire's soldiers in the dark. Roran was grateful that the Empire wore red; it made them easy to identify so that the Varden didn't kill each other.
A soldier rushed forward, screaming, and Roran battered his sword away, twisting to fracture the man's skull. Trumpet reared, lashing out with both front hooves, crunching bone, trumpeting with wild, fierce joy. The great horse lunged with all the fury of a dragon, kicking left and right, and Roran smashed as many soldiers as he could reach with his hammer, bone and flesh pulping beneath its worn surface. A ball of the liquid mage fire splattered nearby, molten, deadly, killing Varden and Empire soldiers alike. A drop landed on Roran's armor, smoking, and he hissed, blowing it out.
"Die!" Another soldier, this one dressed with the stripes of a captain cantered forward on his horse, sword raised, and the bearded general brought up his shield, catching the blade with minor difficulty. He lashed out, trying to break the man's wrist, but the soldier let go of his sword, pulling back. He drew a wickedly curved sort of blade, one that the pirates on the sea used. "We will not be beaten, scum!" He cried, swinging his second blade wildly. Roran was forced to lean to the right to avoid the whirling blade, the sharp edge nicking his elbow between the armor. He twisted, bringing his hammer around in a backwards grip, smashing the soldier in the chin. The man screamed and dropped his blade, howling in agony, and Trumpet bit his horse, sending the animal skittering away, while his wounded rider tumbled into the dirt.
Roran spurred Trumpet forward, aiming for a small rise in the craggy terrain. He needed to get the lay of the battle so he could decide what to do. Nasuada's attack had started as well, from what he could hear, two catapults on the south wall bursting into flames and tumbling below. He managed to maneuver his massive horse into the open area, scrambling up the small hill with relative ease. Once at the top, Roran looked around.
The warriors of the Varden were spread out by the hordes of the Empire, fighting in knots and clumps of a hundred or so. The Empire, with its superior numbers, was slowly driving the Varden farther back as the catapults hurled earth and fire into their ranks.
Something needs to be done about those catapults. Roran thought, peering up at the dark smudges. Another crackling bolt of magic smashed into one, the whole thing tilting backwards with a groan. Roran was dragged from his observations by a particularly bold soldier who ran up to meet him, slashing at Trumpet's legs with his blade.
The horse reared up and the general smashed down with all the force he could muster, crushing the man's back, but his moment to formulate a plan was gone. More soldiers had noticed him and surged forward, eager to take him down.
In the sickly firelight, Roran saw dozens of men in glittering crimson armor, rushing forward, a wild cry on each face, swords drawn.
Damn! Roran swore, twisting and turning with his horse to avoid the blades that reached hungrily forward, eager for blood and flesh. Trumpet, the stinging sensation of swords nicking his legs driving him into a maad dance, bugled in pain and outrage, biting, kicking, darting. More and more soldiers swarmed, single-minded, ruthless, to replace their fallen, smashed, bitten comrades until Roran feared he might drown in the bodies that reached forward.
A dozen small wounds opened on the gaps between his armor and bruises throbbed beneath his armor and clothes.
I'm going to die here! Roran had time to think before shattering a man's shoulder with a side blow and swinging at another's skull.
"General!" A familiar cry rose above the clamor, echoed by at least a hundred voices. Roran, out of the corner of his eye, saw Bjard and some of his men, a close-knit group of whirling weapons and dull armor. They advanced, yelling, and began to systematically destroy the mob attacking Roran. The Empire's soldiers turned, surprised, and threw themselves against the oncoming Varden, their battle-cries mixing with the Varden's. Roran was all but forgotten as the two forces collided and he, yelling, attacked from behind, bashing as many bodies as he could reach.
Within the space of minutes, the group of Imperial soldiers lay dead, dying, or too wounded to move, and Roran was encompassed by Bjard's men.
"General, are you alright?" Bjard had to yell above the clamor to be heard.
Roran nodded jerkily, keenly aware of his multiple little wounds. "Well enough. How are we doing, Captain?"
Bjard shrugged. "It's a deadlock, sir. They outnumber us and their catapults are wreaking havoc over here; Lady Nasuada is battering the other wall with our war machines, and the elves are doing all they can. We have more heart that they do, but there's probably more troops inside the walls."
"Do you think we can win, Bjard?"
The new captain looked up at the general with hooded eyes. "In all likehood, sir? No. Not without Shadeslayer and Brightscales to aid us."
A knot in Roran's stomach tightened. "We'll be fine." He said forcefully. "We can win."
Bjard blinked his hooded, shadowed eyes. "Of course, sir. Now let's get you somewhere out of the heavy fighting."
"No." Roran said flatly. "I'm not leaving."
"Lady Nasuada gave orders for you to be kept out of the heavy fighting." Bjard explained. "You're valuable."
Roran tightened his grip on Trumpet's reigns. "I won't." He repeated.
"Sir--"
"No. You can't lead from behind."
Bjard's hooded eyes lifted for a moment, awe and respect shining through. "And nothing I say will change your mind."
Roran felt the scars on his back, testaments to the last time he disobeyed. "Nothing." He growled, firm finality reverberating in his voice. "I am going to stay."
Bjard nodded. "Come with me, sir. King Orik might be able to help you plan a way to get to that blasted gate."
Surrounded by a guard of bristling warriors, Roran went with Bjard, weaving through the flame- splattered battlefield, cutting down all who dared to fight. More Varden warriors joined the throng protecting their general, fiercely lashing out.
The fight was raging wildly, out of control as the two sides tore at each other with the savagery of fighting wolves. Roran caught a glimpse of more elf magic, singing high above the battle. This both smashed against the wall, tearing a chunk from it and scattering debris below.
Orik and his dwarves, too short to be seen from a distance gradually came into view, fighting as well as any man on the battlefield.
"King Orik!" Roran howled above the screams and the ring of metal on metal. "King Orik!"
The dwarf looked towards the sound of the call, saw Roran, and began to struggle over, followed by a group of his clan. He soon stood by Trumpet. The general swung off his horse to better hear the dwarf.
"Roran, what's going on?" Orik bellowed.
"We need a plan." Roran yelled back. "We're going to lose this battle if we don't change our methods."
"I know." Orik agreed grimly. "Those catapults on the wall are the main problem."
Roran gazed up at the war machines, hurling flame and rock at the thronging mass of warriors. Elf- magic had taken out at least half of them, but they still churned out enough fire and rock to do severe damage. "We need to get out of their range." He said slowly, clearly.
"Retreat?" Orik's brow furrowed.
"No." The general shook his head. "Closer. If we get close enough, the Empire won't be able to use their long-range weapons against us. We can hug the wall and get to the gate that way."
The dwarf king stroked his beard thoughtfully. "Aye, that might work. We need to get to the wall first, of course. A centered force might be able to break through the enemy lines with the Empire as separated as it is."
Roran turned to Bjard and his men, who stood, waiting, faithful, and he knew they were ready to attempt the impossible. He didn't even have to ask. "King Orik, I need you to take command of the rest of the men."
Orik nodded. "Of course." He said. "And when you return, you must dine witth me at the table of dwarf chiefs, as your cousin did after the Battle of Tronjheim."
Roran nodded and mounted Trumpet again, turning to stand in the center of Bjard's men. A man with another horse appeared, offering the stallion to Bjard, who mounted to stand beside Roran. They were ready.
"If any man wants to leave, I will not hold it against him." He shouted.
No one moved, every face determined and resolute. A rush of pride swirled in Roran's heart, warm against the cold of the terrible danger he was about to face. In his mind, the niggling sensation that was his link to Katrina tugged painfully.
Are you thinking of me, my love?
The group started forward, Roran and Bjard somewhere in the middle, wading through the mass of soldiers with deadly precision and determination. Even as Varden warriors fell, more, sensing the importance of the charge, came to replace them. Soon the forward march was almost a thousand strong, all roaring their bloodlust in a single, throbbing voice.
The Empire tried to stop the advance, throwing men and fire and rock at the mass with all the effort they could manage but it simply was not enough. More and More Varden men joined the marching mob to replace their fallen comrades, each with swords and maces and spears drawn to spill blood. Roran felt himself get caught in the firestorm of emotion, allowing his individuality to meld into the mob mentality. As one, they roared, their voices shaking the earth. As one, they lashed out, striking at their enemies, reveling in the bloodshed. As one, they began to break through the thinned defenses.
His arms, their tiredness and aches forgotten, moved in perfect tandem, blocking and striking, striking and blocking. The Empire could not stop the throng of Varden from advancing, foot by foot, across the field. The screams of the dead and the dying were almost drowned out by the throaty howl of the Varden. Flame and stone spattered, swords crossed, metal struck metal.
The niggling sensation in the back of Roran's mind flared suddenly, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand up, and he looked to his right and almost fell from Trumpet. Garrow, his face blue and ivory, was running with the Varden, yelling, whooping, leaping like a madman. The dead man turned to his son and smiled an awful smile, revealing rotten teeth and worms that writhed in his throat. He drew one blue finger across his throat and grinned wickedly. The message was clear.
Death was on the way.
Roran, shaken, was torn from the image of his dead father by a screaming that began as the Varden neared the wall; the Empire had poured oil from ramparts and now it was aflame, leaping, crackling, snarling, oily orange and blue. The Varden's warriors were trying to stop, desperately turning aside, but some still perished in the flame.
Swearing, Roran kicked Trumpet forward, through the thronging, panicked mass. "Follow me!" He cried. "To me! Turn aside!" He quickly reached the front of the column and tried to guide them around the flame. A wild plan sprang into his mind. The gate was made of wood. The Empire could not set the area near it on fire because it would burn to the ground. There, the Varden would be safe.
Roaring, the general led the charge, battering through the few Imperial soldiers who dared to stay so near the flames.
At least the Empire's soldiers are getting out of the way. He thought darkly. They're afraid of the fire too.
Racing along, trapped between the Empire and fire, Roran guided his men towards the gate, almost unhindered. Arrows from above flew down, but since the Varden was so close, most missed or hit men from the Empire.
Under the cover of the wall and flame, Roran was able to get the warriors nearly to the great gate. Fire and blood mixed in the air, hot and coppery. A sinking feeling in Roran's heart told him to look past the darkness and the smoke, forward by the gate, and he nearly howled in frustration.
The gate was guarded by hundreds of Imperial soldiers, all of whom were armed to the teeth, bristling with steel weapons.
"Pull back!" Roran bellowed, tugging Trumpet to an unsteady halt. He looked around and groaned in horror; another set of red-clad soldiers had come to stand behind the Varden's warriors and a third had come to swarm to the right, trapping Roran and his men between flame and steel.
Roran soon lost sight of Bjard in the swirl of battle, his hammer cracking skulls and his horse lashing out, dancing between blood and fire. Dawn was on the way, the eastern sky tinged pale gold and pink. In the light, the general could see the bodies strewn everywhere, gray and crimson, and the fire spat oily, reeking smoke along the wall. Boulders from the remaining catapults shattered into the Varden and horses screamed and bolted, their dead or dying riders clinging or flopping limply. The Empire was everywhere, seizing the Varden's disorganization and capitalizing on it. Roran's men screamed as they were killed, falling forward into waiting blades or back into hungry flames.
We're going to lose! Roran thought, wriggling to avoid a sword stroke. He fought like a madman for several minutes, possibly hours, Trumpet dancing like a demon to stay alive.
Something large and hard collided with his chest, denting the armor and throwing him from Trumpet's back, onto the bloody ground. Dazed, Roran tried to stand up, his chest aching, and he fumbled for his hammer. Another blow, this one to the back of his head by an opportunistic swordsman. Stunned, he lay flat, watching the flames flicker closer and men dance all around him.
A sudden growling roar, a sound like the wind and the sea, split the mundane sounds of battle, closely followed by another and another. Roran watched the dawn-tinged sky with a fascinated horror, for he knew what the sounds were. All eyes turned to face the east, the direction of Uru' baen, as another growling, wind-sea roar exploded, this one much, much closer. Great percussive thuds vibrated through the sky as the air bent to support massive weights.
Saphira and Thorn, flying side by side in perfect tandem, sailed over the wall, roaring their fury, dawn chasing their tails.
Pain like a thousand swords burst in Roran's heart, raw and ripping. Eragon, no! A wail of despair rose from the Varden, keening as they turned to flee, and the Empire roared with delighted surprise, cheering on the two dragons.
We're doomed! Oh, Eragon, what happened to you? He thought, aching. Saphira and Thorn circled once, gaining height, and bellowed again, their voices echoing around the city. The crimson dragon, apparently unable to contain himself, plunged, his wide wings furling. Roran imagined Murtagh drawing his murderous red blade, his dark hair billowing, eyes bright with the desire to kill. He wondered briefly who the crimson Rider's first target would be. Would he continue the tradition of killing dwarf kings? Or would he expand on that and kill someone else, like Nasuada? Thorn neared the last several hundred feet of his journey, flashing, and then he opened his jaws, the sullen red fire cooking in his throat. His wine-red wings snapped open, catching him as he came within a hundred feet of the ground, and then fire was darting among crimson soldiers, billowing up and out, fueled by its sudden feast of bodies.
What...? Roran was confused as he struggled to his feet and watched Thorn bellow gleefully and shoot his fire among another chunk of Empire soldiers. Panic began to grip Galbatorix's men as they stumbled away, confused, stunned. Thorn was one of their own, their personal monster, and he was attacking them. High above, Saphira turned and began to angle down, aiming for the wall. She landed with tremendous force, blue flames springing up and men and catapults raining down.
Hope stirred in Roran's chest. If Saphira was attacking the Empire, then Eragon had not been forced into Galbatorix's service. He was free and well enough to fight.
With this new knowledge warming his belly, Roran gabbed Trumpet and stiffly pulled himself up. He raised his hammer, gazing around at the remaining members of Bjard's men, who were chasing off the confused, panicked Imperial soldiers. Their eyes found Roran, and every breath was held.
He breathed.
"To the gate!" He bawled, and the answering roar was almost enough to drown out the sounds of Saphira on the other side and Thorn, who was wreaking destruction with casual ease. The Varden surged forward, invigorated by the return of Saphira and possibly Thorn, smashing into the confused, fleeing Empire. The gate was open to allow the soldiers to retreat and Roran, yelling like a man possessed, charged forward, the whole of his men on his heels. They hit the Empire with the force of a thousand, roars erupting, and then steel and fire boiled together, the Varden pushing forward into the city. Fire flickered from the rooftops and soldiers fled left and right, trapped between Roran's determined men and Saphira, whose blue scales gleamed and her red claws flashed.
"Forward!" Another cry was heard and more Varden warriors poured into Belatona, headed by the blood- smeared Nasuada. Orik was suddenly there too, his dwarf warriors fierce, sensing victory. The Varden shattered through the Empire's defenses, sweeping them aside as they poured in and the Empire poured out, harried by blue and crimson, talons and fire.
The keep of the city was still occupied by soldiers. Saphira was currently on one of the towers, fire streaming from her jaws, a broken catapult clutched in her claws, swinging it with terrible force. Glittering soldier bodies were swept away and many more were trying to flee, panicked, only to meet the onrush of Roran and his men. Many soldiers laid down their weapons, surrendering, and others fled into the fire-smeared alleyways. Saphira plunged a paw into the keep windows and dragged out a struggling man, presumably the lord of Belatona. Civilians who watched from windows and rooftops groaned as she took off, the lord trapped, clinging to her talons, terrified of letting go and plunging to his death.
"General!" Nasuada and Battle-storm clattered up to Roran. Nasuada's armor was skewed and blood marked her arm and her brow, but her eyes were bright and triumphant, sparkling with fierce pride.
"Lady." Roran saluted. He looked around and saw that the last of the Empire was either being killed or captured, and the battle rush began to fade from his veins.
"We did it, Roran." Nasuada said, nodding in a satisfied sort of way. "We drove the Empire out of Belatona."
"Yes." Outside the walls, where Thorn still bellowed, Imperial horns were blowing the signal for retreat.
Nasuada was silent for a moment, watching the Varden touch one another, offering congratulations, assurances. Tonight there would be a celebration in the captured keep with Belatona's finest wines, with music, dancing, laughing, and storytelling. The healers would be busy for days, mending those they could, and friends would burry dead friends. Life would go on, on to the winter, the next victory, all the way to Uru' baen, where the Varden would either kill Galbatorix or die. Roran wanted to share the jubilation that would soon creep into his men's hearts, but he found that he couldn't. There was no joy in his heart, no wild celebrations or desire to laugh.
There was simply exhaustion. So many men had died, on both sides, for one city. Hundreds, maybe thousands, lay dead in the field outside Belatona and inside the walls. They would become the feast of the gore- crows that circled overhead, cawing eagerly for their meal. They would dissolve into the earth and make the land fertile, worm-food and fertilizer for next season's crops. Some would burn in the fires, but those would be put out soon by the rains that loomed just behind the dawn, red-edged and heavy with thunder.
Nasuada sighed heavily. "What a waste." She murmured. "So much death. But it's necessary, Roran." Her dark eyes met his. "All these people have died to bring an end to a tyrant. We must win now, if only to avenge their sacrifice."
"Of course, my lady." Roran agreed. He looked out at the dead men. "Of course."
Saphira, having deposited the lord somewhere, flew overhead, back over the wall.
"I'm going to go see Eragon." Roran told Nasuada, turning Trumpet back towards the gate.
The warrior woman nodded. "Yes, that s a good idea. I must ask him why he brought Murtagh and Thorn along, and if they can be trusted."
"I doubt it." The general replied dryly. "It might be a trap."
Nasuada shrugged noncommittally, but Roran saw something akin to hope gleam in her eyes. He resolved to ask Eragon about it later on, when they were alone.
Battle-storm and Trumpet cantered out of the city, skirting the fires, and King Orik, riding a bearded goat, joined them. Soon a procession of sorts with all the captains and dwarf clan leaders and curious warriors was making its way across the bloody battlefield, towards the blue and crimson scales settled at the edge.
Roran felt himself smile, the darkness and weariness fading. Eragon was back, the Varden had won, and it seemed as if a new ally had joined the battle. The warriors of the Varden, bloody, tired, and triumphant, rode out to greet Saphira and Thorn.
Roran's smile grew.
Later, when he was alone in his tent, he'd write to Katrina.
Okay, all done. No, Roran does not know that Eragon is not with Saphira; he'll learn later. Next we have two chapters from Eragon's POV, then Arya's, and then one from Saphira's or Thorn's. We're reaching the end, people! The plot is building!!!
Review, please! How soon can you guys get to 1000?