The Vault of Souls
A fortress was a poor place for a newborn child. An insecure one was infinitely worse.
The Vault of Souls-or Hades, or The Alley of Death, or any other name you'd care to give it-had a narrow entrance. Tactically, it had all sorts of areas from which to spring ambushes. But a defence would have to constantly fight, uphill. They would have to fight in their own filth-the Riders of old, it seemed, had made little provision for latrines. And that would bring sickness, and death. Gods forbid what would happen if a dragon blew fire down there.
But, worst of all, it was noisy, full of altogether too many soldiers, and too little of anything else.
Gnaepia's experience of child-rearing, such as she had, suggested to her that one's baby ought to have a modicum of space and rest. This was difficult enough in the Subura; but at least there the street brawls weren't fully armoured.
And they didn't come over, off duty, and stare at her child all the time.
Ball was attracting a lot of attention. People would come over, and-bow to it. Bow to her. Touch it. Touch her (or try to.) Present offerings.
Normally, she'd be all for it, but just after a fight to the death with a Ra'Zac and all, it was getting alarming.
Ball just stared back. She heard (heard-was that the word?) its feelings, every time a new person came over, a new species or uniform or animal. Curiosity-was this what the world was like? Was it meant to hunt these people? How did they taste, smell, eat? Were they friends?
(Pulcher, when he asked for advice, at least announced his presence first.)
And, of course, Ball would try to wonder off. She would be talking to yet another admirer-yes, they had killed one of the King's dragon hunters-no, they had not used magic-no, she had not the least idea how to repair his crossbow, or shoot a dragon, she wasn't a Rider of Old-and turn, to see a twitch of a little green tail as Ball scuttled off into the crowd.
'Oi! Get back here, you little-' and off she'd go, diving down to yank it away. (She couldn't have Ball getting stamped on by a soldier, the Old Ones' voices would be terribly upset.) So-what to do?
The answer was obvious. Take your cloak, tear the hem, fashion a little sling. Wear it round your neck, the little scaly head poking out, in serene contentment.
(Pray to the Gods that it couldn't breathe fire yet.)
Eragon was of surprisingly little help. He came over, dropped to his knee before the dragon, and-kissed it. He then said something in the ancient language.
'I'm right here, you know,' Gnaepia said. Elf-men in full armour kissing her pet-child-whatever (slung tightly to her breast) was a strange, if not altogether novel, experience. 'What did you just tell Ball?'
He jerked back hastily. 'Is that it's name?' he asked, surprised.
'Course it is, it flies around, and it's under my control. What else?' She stroked it on the head; Ball, just about to fall asleep, was stirring again-most uncomfortable for a scaled creature.
'It is our custom to call our dragons something beautiful, in the Ancient Language. But your-Ball-is very, ah, very homely. How a rider names their dragon is a sacred thing, you see. And it will be forever recorded in the annals of your people that your first ever Dragon will be known as Ball.'
'It will also be known that the first Roman rider was a slave-girl. I think we've gone beyond anyone's traditions here, don't you?' She gave him a weary smile. 'Besides, we fought for it. Finders keepers.'
(Unsaid, of course, was that-Eragon didn't.)
'The dragon, for it to accept your parentage,' Eragon tried again, 'must have noted your virtuous and upstanding nature.'
'Yeah, well, I used the egg to punch a dragon-hunter in the face. My master finished him with a knife. I think that's pretty virtuous and upstanding.'
Silence fell.
'If you need any help-' Eragon began.
'Of course.'
'But for now, I'd advise rest. Plenty of it. We're watching over you, you know. Both of us.' Eragon smiled, rose, and departed.
How to come by rest was a tricky question. Especially as, yet again, Pulcher needed a secretary.
'Just, just…' he sat down in her little patch, stretching his long legs out in front of him and sinking into a deep sigh of contentment, 'well done this morning. Well bloody done.'
'Thanks.'
They both sat, stared into their own exhaustion.
'You were pretty good too.'
'One tries.'
They laugh.
'And I wish I could sit here forever, but-'
'Empire at the gates.'
'Exactly.'
'So you want me to take Ball to the next meeting then?'
'Why not? If he's going to be brought up in the Legion, then he'd better get used to it.' He paused, frowned. 'Ball?'
'It flies, and it's mine. And, ah about-'
'Lovely name.'
She's too tired, and the situation too grave, to suggest that, actually, Ball might not be growing up in the Legion. Neither might she. There were, doubtless, a whole host of political implications of a dragon choosing a Roman slave-girl for its rider. But those could wait. Everything could wait. There was a war to be won.
'I'll fetch my-'
'I've got your satchel, tablet, ah-and your stylus too.' Pulcher clambered to his feet. 'Thought you'd have a lot on your mind right now.'
'Ah-thank you.'
She accepted Pulcher's offer to help her up. And, together, they headed to the rest of their subordinates.
The first item on the agenda-Pulcher's secretary, standing at her accustomed position at his side.
'What is she doing there?' someone wanted to know. 'Why is she not at the front, where a Rider should be? In glory?'
One of the younger Varden leaders. Tired, frustrated, watched her warriors fall. Too many of them.
'Her job,' Pulcher replied, to a few chuckles. 'Next question?'
'How strong is your dragon?'
'Newborn… strength, I don't know. Next question?'
'What's being done with the rest of the eggs? What of the… Eldunari?'
'Don't have a bloody clue, I'm not from around here, we'll fit them into the rest of our strategy. No more questions? No congratulations for the pair of us taking a Ra'zac? No? Right. No, forgive me, everyone's been fighting too bloody long, too bloody hard. I do not mean to diminish anyone's courage. So. My turn for a question. How many effectives do we have after the retreat?'
Their strongest units were at around two-thirds effectiveness. If it wasn't Vroengard, against an enemy who knew no mercy, the whole force would have broken already. Precious few horses for the cavalry. Supplies of all types running low. Field pieces mostly abandoned to the enemy. Mages nearly spent-request permission to draw power from The Troops. The usual, dismal patter.
'Our position here-how long can it last for?'
Barricades were being prepared at the cave mouth, and further back. But after that, there was nothing, just the troops. Could make them bleed, for a time.
No one seemed to know how long, or willing to make a guess.
'How are we going to get out of this?'
Gydrynne answered this time. Her eyes were red, but her face was set. 'The Fleet.'
Stunned silence. Gnaepia dropped her tablet.
'They're here?'
'Where?'
'Huzzah-'
Gydrynne turned to one of the warriors with her, an unfamiliar face, and gave a small nod. 'Tell them,' she said. 'Quickly now.'
The warrior told them. He was a swimmer, from forward elements of the Surdan fleet. A Vanguard squadron had linked up with their own flotilla, and was close to the island. The main fleet was still some time away-but they were now in a position of strength. Capable of action.
'So. What would you have us do?' he concluded.
Eragon, suddenly, had an image of many necks craning. It was more than just a bunch of officers sitting on a circle of upturned crates listening here.
It was the vault of souls.
'When all seems lost, and your power is insufficient, go to the Rock of Kuthian and speak your name to open the Vault of Souls.'
He said it aloud.
'We have a weapon,' said Eragon Shadeslayer. 'We have the power of every dragon who ever served in the Rider War. We have a cache of eggs. Let us give them to our bravest warriors, let the dragons come forth, and let us wield it. Let us attack.'
'Attack?' Orik looked at him with incredulity. 'Attack, out of a mountain? Are you out of your mind, Eragon?'
'Under the mountain, they can just starve us out. And if the Empire had a tough time taking the island from our army, imagine how hard the Surdans will find it from a much bigger force, with a giant navy backing it up? I say we attack!'
Arya was nodding. 'Their mages could try to bring the mountain crashing down on our heads. It will take sacrifice, but they do not care about death.'
'We could make them bleed, a great deal.' Pulcher thought hard. 'If they attacked here. But our supplies are almost spent. Many of the soldiers are weary. Can we not defend using the dragons' power?'
'Not against this sort of numbers. Not in the long term. Their black hand have soldiers they can draw upon. We must be quick.'
'But the soldiers will mutiny, surely-ah, but this is the Empire. Of course. So you are suggesting a sally. With what intention?' Pulcher was thinking hard. 'Ah-a breakout. Down to the coast.'
'Where the fleet will bear us to safety.'
'Well,' Pulcher said, making a thin smile, 'apart from the difficulties of guiding a fleet through thick fog, and launching an outnumbered force, on foot, to break through an enemy which outnumbers us by gods know how much, it sounds like a goer. How are we going to keep the dragons safe? If , that is, we can hatch a significant number here. Oh, I see. We carry them all with us.'
The whole thing was gloriously absurd-but, dear gods-this was the Vroengard campaign.
'The fleet can be guided by Saphira and me,' Eragon said proudly. 'We'll show the way. And clear the path. And the warriors can be empowered by the Eldunarya.'
'Are they willing?' Pulcher asked.
'WE ARE,' said a voice, deep as the mountain itself.
They all fell silent.
'The prophecy is right. This is the hour of destiny for the last ember of the fire that was our face. This is the hour of greatest need. The cat-beast spoke of a power. It is here. It will be used.'
'Better die on your feet,' Gydrynne said, 'than in a hole.'
She, who had lost more to this war than any of them, knew that.
'We look around this cave, and we see life. We have looked, through the leaves of the trees, and we have seen your courage. We have seen you scream defiance into the darkness, and we have seen you fight, claw to claw, with those who seek to destroy our race. We have seen you keep ranks under the fire of our kind, and we have seen your warriors fight as never have they fought before. We will stand with you, and we shall have your warriors stride above the surface. We would have it so as our fire can blaze across the land, in the hands of warriors worthy of using it. For one. Last. Time. And we will have it so as a new order of riders can emerge, greater than ever there was before. Not for a tyrant to toy with, but for the free citizens of the land. That is what we would have. We will aid you, and you will go forth, and take us from this place. We have cowered in a tomb for FAR. TOO. LONG.'
'I am a rider and a friend,' said Eragon Shadeslayer. He had tears in his eyes. He fell to his knees.
There was a silence.
'That isn't what the prophecy meant,' said a voice. 'It was my prophecy, I should-'
Solembum, with a tenacity that in any other circumstance would be heroic, had stepped forward.
'You can't just burn the power here!' it spluttered. 'What about the King? Galbatorix? You can't-'
Solembum could expect many things-but not the sword that was lunged expertly through his spine.
Arya withdrew her blade.
She looked down at the animal that lay, front paws twitching, upon the ground.
'Your prophecies brought us here,' she said, with the scorn of an ancient looking upon an infant. 'They brought us to our deaths. We'll find our own way out.'
'You-you-can't-
And Pulcher, suddenly, felt a word , high, clear, but what it was he couldn not tell, bein screamed into his mind. A word? A phrase? An ode? He could not-
And Arya, snarling, took the cat's head from its shoulders.
'I, too, am a rider and a friend,' she said. 'In spirit, if not in fact.'
'Rash,' said the cave. 'Brave, and rash.'
'I am a rider and a friend,' said Gnaepia. 'We're new, but we'll do what we can. Whatever we can.'
'The courage of youth. It is good to see the young.'
There was a pregnant pause.
Then, as one, the warleaders of two races, four nations and more martial traditions than they could count, made their salutes. The Roman raised palm, the Surdan click of the heels, the Dwarven bow, the Varden fist to chest. Bootheels crashed to the floor.
'You are friends,' said the voice. 'Now bring us victory.'
So they did.
The Century slept hardly a wink that night. They were kept up by the Surdans' new dragons.
'Turns out,' said the Tesserarius, 'that nippers, whether dogs, men or beasts, make a fucking racket.'
'It seems to be the men for this one,' said the Optio. He leaned against the wall, and ran his whetstone across his gladius. Kept himself busy. Not thinking about tomorrow. 'They're just bloody singing.'
'Singing? Is that what it is?' someone snorted. 'Thought they were feeding their new beasts a live werecat.'
'Makes you feel glad we didn't get any, doesn't it lads?'
They grunted back.
'Not like some of those bastards in First Cohort. Course they bloody would. Glory boys.'
The Century had two objects to look after: an egg, and an Eldunarya. The former had been given to the Recruit, who was under strict instructions to never let it, or its satchel, leave his sight. The punishment, should he fail in these duties, would be a flogging, getting kicked off the Tarpeian rock and, worse of all, having to spend a night watching the Tribunus Latisclavius perform a Greek comedy.
The Eldunarya, now, was a more pertinent question. It had very strong opinions on the subject.
'So,' it said after a haggard staffer had left it in their care, 'which of you is the greatest hunter?'
'Well,' someone had said, 'the girls call me…'
(As it had said this in the local tongue, there was some ambiguity as to what it had meant.)
After about half an hour of people showing it their phalerae, or reciting the war records, or discussing their trophies, the Eldunarya had given up in disgust, and requested that they dice on it.
This was much more fun. They had several games for the job. This was why Municus the Younger, with a cold, and a set of dice that made Venus Throws like other men make mistakes, was now the proud bearer of a sardonic golden orb that promised to let him fight like man possessed. Literally.
'So he's sorted then,' said the Terrerarius. 'But what about us?'
'We won't be spearheading the charge, that's I Cohort. Run out of the cave, head for the coast. Get on a ship. Run.'
"And Speed," Pulcher had said to his Centuriones, and his leaders of Cohorts, "is of the most vital importance!" He had clapped to emphasise it. "Of the most. Vital. Importance!"
'Bugging out?'
'With a whole bundle of dragon eggs, yes.'
'Makes you wonder why we defended here in the first place.'
'Apparently,' said the Optio, 'because the dragon eggs didn't want to leave.'
'So why do they want to leave now?'
'I have absolutely,' the Optio replied, 'no idea.'
Both men started to laugh.
'We impressed them or something.'
'Impressed them! Us, Marius' Mules, impress a dragon!'
"Because you are here," said a voice, "while others are not."
No one on this campaign could not be, in some capacity, used to strange voices in their heads, so they considered this.
'The others don't get a chance to get a dragon, do they?'
'Nope.'
'But they didn't get their mates killed, did they?'
'We don't know that they didn't. Aberon could be gone by now, for all we know.'
"You are here, in flesh and blood," said the voice, "with swords and skin, when the dragons of old have passed away. And we took, as you say, some impressing."
'Right.'
"You joined the army to protect your country. You're now cast many leagues away, and yet you still fight. For your Legion, for your pay, for each other. Not, as in the Empire, because a magician has made you do it. That is why we have chosen the Varden. You are hunters. They are cattle."
They were silent.
'Listen,' said the Optio, 'whoever you are. Thanks. Hope we can get you out safe. But if not, no hard feelings eh? It's the brass' fault if we go down. And that fookin' werecat.'
Silence.
'Well,' said the Tesserarius brightly, 'at least that singing's stopped.'
It had.
So, finally, the Century slept.
For tomorrow, they would fight.
