Chapter 48: In the Other Camp.
Orrin's personal guard had yet to come up with a good enough name for themselves. They had thought of one, which literally translated into 'Warders.' It was a good name for a group protecting the King, but it was already taken. 'Warders' in the ancient language was 'Varden.' Orrin had instantly refused the proposed name and given them a good lecture on common sense.
"Do you really think," he had said, "do you really think that I want to be guarded by a group named after the predecessors of my enemies? Those who declined me my right to power over Alagaesia? Traitors to me, their former ally? Is that what I want associated with any guard of mine? Do you think so? Well, let me tell you, the lot of you, you have no idea what common sense is. You may have heard of it. You may think you have an inkling of it within you. But if you walk up to me and call yourselves the Varden, then it must simply flee from you like a rabbit from a wolf. That, or it just does its best to stay away from Hugran, and the rest of you are similarly affected. I know not which it is, though knowing the intelligence level of the average man nowadays it is likely both. Run away like common sense from yourselves and come back with a better suggestion than the Varden this time!" They had backed out of the room, muttering, and he had slammed the door behind them.
Needless to say, they had not yet returned to him with another possibility.
Fools.
They trailed behind him as he strode the streets of the city. Bloodstains soaked the ground in several places, but it did little in the way of impeding movement, so those cleaning the city had chosen to leave it there for the time being. Citizens gazed out at him from doorways and windows, some glaring, others visibly struggling to keep their tempers in check. He was in control, though; there was nothing they could do. For all their hatred and anger, they were unable to touch their conqueror as he walked the streets that they lived on, head held high, men at his back, near, but yet too far to strike. He did not pity their helplessness, as he gloated over it. He thrived on the superior feeling it gave him. He was better than them, and both sides knew it.
The 'Varden' were muttering amongst themselves, though they still marched behind Orrin in a military formation: a cube, four men wide and three deep, Hugran at the head of the group, the King himself a few paces ahead. They had uniforms on, the formal and battle wear of Rakr Sverd. Only Zimar had not worn it in fighting, claiming it too cumbersome.
Dark leather clothes were worn under the plate metal, reducing the pressure on the skin. The many plates of the armour itself were a dull grey, painted over to avoid reflective problems. The custom-made sword, though they all followed the same basic guideline, slid through a gap in the metal, rather than hanging off a loose, weak leather belt that could easily become lost or broken. It was an innovation unique to Orrin's magician corps. The helmet was of the usual standard, a metal cap, though a red band wrapped around it symbolised their importance and rank. Their boots had small little spikes on the end, a sneaky little way to surprise an enemy in an attack they would not think to block, and likely not even notice.
Orrin himself wore the Crown of Nasuada, the symbol of the people's leader, now in the possession of their enemy. It was symbolic, in a way. He had taken their city, their throne, their hope, many of their livelihoods, and he showed that all off with that which was once worn by their greatest leader.
The usual orange-and-black cloak swung from his shoulders. He wore a blood-red shirt and dark trousers, deep brown leather shoes clicking against the pavement. He had pulled back the concealing mechanism on the belt, revealing twelve glimmering diamonds for all to see. The light from the high, midday sun reflected of the many facets of the diamonds, sending flecks of light flickering in multi-coloured spots around the entire street, and one kept flashing light into his left eye every time he stepped forwards with his right leg. He tried taking smaller steps with that leg, but it just made him feel like a cripple and an invalid, not to mention the fact that the light kept doing it anyway, so he stopped. After a few attempts at walking with a different gait, he was forced to accept the fact that either it would hinder his eyesight every other step or he would walk like an idiot, so he abandoned the task, instead pulling the black strip over it and another one, so that the belt only revealed ten of the twelve diamonds. It made the belt look as if it was on at the wrong angle, so he twisted it to the side to make the diamonds look more centred.
Another diamond flashed light into his eyes.
Sighing, he pulled the black strip across, concealing the remaining ten diamonds. They had been impressive, but everyone was staring anyway. What more of an effect could he produce? The glares were being shot at him with as much venom as ever as he paced the streets. The people of the city quailed under his gaze, for the most part, though there was the odd man or woman who would stare angrily at them even if he made full eye contact with them. One man was clutching a dagger to his chest, leaning in a doorway, and he walked further into the street as Orrin advanced, though not near enough to block his way. Orrin's hand slipped down to his sword, keeping a grip on the pommel. He had not slipped out of practice in his years on the throne, as the man would find if he attempted anything. The man moved closer to his house upon seeing the sword, but he glared as hard as ever, actually calling out to the King.
"Hey, coward! Going for your sword? What's the matter; scared I'll set the cat-men on you?" With that, the man grabbed an alley cat from where it rested in the gutter, waving it in the direction of the Surdans. Laughs broke out from all sides, and Orrin growled. The incident with the cat-men was quickly becoming infamous. He advanced upon the man, who glanced around fearfully; looking at Orrin's drawn sword, then seemed to make a decision and threw the cat at Orrin's face.
Orrin's blade smacked the side of the creature in mid-air, drawing blood and covering its flank in red.
It wailed pitifully as it fell to the floor, practically dead already. Orrin ignored it and deftly smacked the dagger from the man's hands, as he had drawn it again. The tip of Orrin's weapon rested at the man's throat, and he spoke to the man, now practically as white as a sheet.
"Why do such a thing? Surely even an imbecile such as you should be able to tell that that is not a good idea. So then, why? Answer quickly, or I might decide to kill you more painfully than strictly necessary." The man's mouth opened, and he stuttered as he started to talk, before cutting himself short and standing taller, defiantly. Orrin disliked the change in demeanour. It made it look like the man could stand up to him. He considered plunging the blade in now just to end it, but stopped as the man spoke, this time, steadily and without pause.
"You killed the Queen. My friend, who was a good and loyal man in the army, was cut down just around the corner from here. And my wife... Your men took her and hit her and raped her before sending her back to me bleeding and covered in a white sheet that was stained dark red with her blood, all over it. It's the same blood which covers your red shirt now, isn't it; your fancy clothes brought with the blood of thousands of loyal men, slaughtered on your command so that you can wear that crown and walk these streets as if they were your own. I hate it, I hate you, and I would give up my own life to spit in your face and call you an idiot like this rather than see you looking around at my home like you own the place and controlling everyone here, and I know others feel the same. Get out of here or get killed. No one wants you here." With that, the man spat in Orrin's face and grinned. "You can't say I didn't warn you, you idiot." Orrin grinned back in response.
"And I hate defiant louts who aren't grateful that their wives are alive at all. I hate people who attack me and insult me in public. And while I would not give up my life to put steel in your neck, I would certainly not regret it; I shall, in fact, derive pleasure from it, and I would much rather that than see you walking the street like you wanted to die, throwing cats at me and finding people sympathetic to a revolution." During the conversation, Orrin had slowly lowered his sword a bit, and the man had relaxed slightly. Suddenly, Orrin stepped forwards, sliding the blade through the ribcage, forwards into the man's lungs. Looking into the fearful eyes of the man about to die, Orrin whispered, "And you can't say I didn't warn you, dead man."
The man held on to life for enough time to say, "I never said she had survived. She bled to death right where we stand."
Orrin tilted his head, as if amused. "As will you. Quite poetic, no?" He released the corpse as the light vanished from its eyes, stepping back, and without a second glance, he turned. As he did so, he saw the alley cat, attempting to stand on three legs. It was a pitiful sight.
He lashed out a boot and connected with its ribcage soundly. There was a crack, and it hurtled backwards into a building. He strode along the street, barely breaking stride. This time, there were more hostile gazes, but all appeared more fearful. Orrin allowed himself a slight smirk; they had been frightened, and any possible dissent caused by the man's words had been crushed at the source. Nevertheless, the 'Varden' tightened their hands on their swords as they continued down the street. It would not do to become complacent.
"So, you are confident that this task will be complete by tomorrow morning and the magicians as ready to fight as possible?"
"Yes, my lord. The enchantments are tricky and exhausting, and we need other magicians on hand in case the energy the ones doing the spell have isn't enough to complete it. Therefore, at least two men are required to cast each, with another nearby. How many do you want us to make?"
"As many as possible. I've given you forty magicians for this task, so let's say eighteen at the least, twenty if you can. These enchanted javelins could win us this war."
"Yes, my lord."
"Then see to it." The man saluted, spun on his heels, and walked back to the group of men that were standing near a large group of ballistae on the city walls. Orrin had lost twenty-something magicians over the course of the campaign. With a hundred to start with, and twelve guarding Orrin, that left roughly sixty-five to fight with the common soldiers. The majority of them were here, casting enchantments on javelins to make them penetrate wards. The dragons and Riders would be the biggest threat, and he had found a way to deal with them quite easily. All they had to do was lure them close enough and fire. Then, one of them would probably die, and the rest would go mad as a result. His victory would then be assured.
As he watched, the men divided up into groups of two or three, probably decided by how strong the magicians were. The magicians in each group would then start chanting, casting the spell. A few collapsed, some started sweating, but none died, and the javelins were being enchanted. Orrin turned and walked back down the steps after a glance over at the Empire's camp. They had no idea what was coming for them!
Orrin stood outside the door to the cage of Murtagh and Thorn. Dragon eyes glared back at him, and there was no less anger on the face of the Rider sitting next to Thorn. Were they free, it would be intimidating indeed. As it was, they looked weak and overly defiant for people who couldn't get out.
"What do you want, Orrin?" Orrin hadn't been paying attention to who was speaking, choosing to look at their signs of pain instead, and, disconcertingly, the growl was so low and deep that it could have come from the dragon, though Thorn couldn't speak out loud, so Orrin spoke to Murtagh, presuming it was him by process of elimination.
"I would appreciate it if you were to address me as 'Your Majesty' or some other such title worthy of my rank as High King. I am here to give you your orders for the battle tomorrow. I-"
"Answer the question properly. Not 'why are you here?' What do you want?" Orrin glared down at the man, then spoke.
"I want power. I want to be respected. I want to rule my race and I want to cast down my enemies like the beasts they truly are! Then, I want to rule everything else that there is! The world shall be at my command!" Orrin finished the speech with an air of pride, looking down at the man who now sat cross-legged in front of him in the cage. A sneer was on his lips. But Murtagh barely responded. His only action was to raise an eyebrow, before speaking in a strangely calm, wise, voice.
"But will material gain fill the gaping hole in your heart?" Orrin frowned at him.
"What hole in my heart? My heart is whole." But the Rider shook his head.
"The hole. It calls out to you for something you can't recognise, which you presume is power and influence, but the power of the King of Surda is not enough. You feel compelled to search still for more, even when Surda is larger than ever before. You try to quiet the calling within, to feed that which calls until it can call no more. But even now it calls to you. You think you want to control more, me, Taiven, other Riders, you want more. The calling is incessant. Insatiable. It never seems to stop, calling to you. You want the power, or you think you do. You try to obtain more of that which you suspect you need, yet you never attempted to identify that which you craved so badly. Certainly, it is not that which you suspect it is. If the void in your heart required power to fill, surely the calls would have quietened by now. But they haven't. They continue, never to end." He paused, letting Orrin soak up the words. He seemed to recognise them; they struck a chord with him, though not one that was entirely correct.
Murtagh continued, "I felt the same once. There was a lack of substance in my heart. It called for something, something unknown. I tried to ignore it, to set myself things to keep me occupied. Training with Tornac. Escaping the name of my father and the constraints of my prison. Hunting the Ra'zac, for a time. Getting out of the Empire with Eragon. Yet still my heart called, sucking up into itself, caring for no others. And in Tronjiem, it found what it sought, and it relieved its pain even more, strangely, in Uru'baen. You have not yet found what yours seeks, that which makes it call to you so loud, and I suspect that it calls for the same thing as mine did so long ago. You will, of course, discard my advice on this matter, and continue this quest for power. You are stubborn, and I fear it shall take even more war and suffering before you realise that it is not power and territory which you desire so much and embrace that which is truly your need rather than your want. You have to accept that you neither need nor want power on the scale which you seek to obtain it.'
"That which you crave, Orrin, that which you crave so badly that you are forced to kill thousands, a greater power than any you have known, which is currently involved in a crisis over its own identity with one who lacks it, that which drives you, or so you think, to lash out at the innocents of this world, is love. The gap within you wishes for someone to fill it, someone you love. For me, Nasuada and Thorn bridge the void of pain, or at least, when she was alive she did. For Stronghammer, his wife. For Eragon, Saphira, and from what I have seen of them, possibly Arya. Everyone needs it, or at least something to do to temporarily fill the gap. But when it doesn't, all have to find the one to hold their heart, or be miserable and lonely for the rest of time. Losing the one you love can cause more pain, and have the same, though worsened, effect, but it is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. You have a choice, Orrin. Find love, or fight, and condemn maybe fifty thousand more to death, not to mention the misery of those who lose their loved ones because of the deaths you caused. Without love, life loses purpose. Loses focus. Loses happiness. Sends you into a spiral of depression and madness. This I know. This I am experiencing." Thorn nudged Murtagh heavily then, turning his head and staring into Murtagh's eyes, blocking him from Orrin's view. Murtagh's hand stroked the snout, and Thorn moved his head back, lowering it to the floor, though with a concerned look in his eyes, if that was possible for a dragon. Orrin wasn't sure.
Gazing into Orrin's eyes, obviously serious, Murtagh went on. "I tell you this for one reason. I am not sorry for you, far from it. Any heartbreak I can cause you I will. I am trying to insult you by saying that you will not love, and you heart is hollow, but it is merely a statement of the truth as I see it, which you commanded me to tell you at all times, so in that manner I can get my own small bit of revenge. Someone else can crack your skull though. As well, I am trying to get you to relent in your pursuit of power and to turn to peace the way things are and therefore save thousands from sadness akin to that which I am feeling. Although, on a whole, it is more because of the former that I speak, as I know you will refuse to listen anyway. So that is what I mean when I say you have that hole in your heart. It cannot be filled and consumed by the fuels of war. Love is the only saviour you will have from the pain within." With that final statement, Murtagh turned his back on the King.
Orrin considered his words. Love? I desire love, he says? Certainly, I do feel a need for something deep within me, but the need is partially sated whenever I expand my power more. When my troops passed the numbers of fifty thousand, this gap which he claims exists was filled. With two Riders under my control, I was pleased throughout myself. When Belatona was taken, my pride swelled and filled it. And now, in control of the largest army of humans in the world, I reside in the largest human city in the world, and it is under my sole control, and I am satisfied. Well, I will be when humans in the world, then kill all those Urgal beasts. And then... we'll see. Hang on a minute, is he partially right? All I want is more land and power. Will I ever be satisfied with what I have? Or will I push the boundaries of the map to their limits? Well, if I do, I shall be the most powerful being in history, and I shall be pleased with that. In fact, History shall be what I want it to be. It shall be my reign, and it shall be glorious! With that, Orrin pushed all self-doubting thoughts to the back of his mind and concentrated on the matter at hand; silencing Murtagh's questions.
"You are mistaken. I know when I should be content with what I have."
"And when will that be? When you own everything from here to Alalea?"
Orrin frowned. "Where's that?"
"Somewhere Galbatorix mentioned. His next conquest after Alagaesia or some such triviality. But anyway, answer the question." Murtagh was persistently annoying, and it was starting to get to Orrin.
"That shall be when I am content. And this hole in my heart of which you speak, if it even exists, which it does not, shall be filled by my strength and achievements. I have no need to find love to find happiness. Happiness can be found in pride, comfortable surroundings, a good drink and a warm fire. There is no need for love as well." But Murtagh still had a reply ready.
"Just as there is no need for control over the whole of Alagaesia either. And greater happiness still can be found with love. One of the happiest moments of my life, if not the happiest, possibly second only to freedom from Galbatorix, was when I kissed Nausada, just before your oath forced me to kill her, despite it also being quite likely the saddest. Without love, life is hardly worth living, at least, not half as much. Personally, Thorn helps, but for you, you have no one. You sad little person. I would feel sorry for you if not for what you have done, and Eragon would anyway. He's just that sort of person. Unfortunately, my restrictions on what I can say prevent me from speaking my true mind on these matters and telling you the full measure of your intelligence, so I will say this: Your lack of love shall destroy any chance at happiness that you may yet receive." Murtagh's persistence was extremely irritating, so Orrin chose to end the conversation. Besides, he didn't want to hear what was being said and possibly consider it being truthful, his determination and pride refusing him the chance to even consider accepting the words.
I shall not falter. Alagaesia and this puny Rider shall both cower before me! The King asserted his thoughts mentally, certain of himself. He started to give Murtagh his orders for the battle, shoving the Rider's words out of his mind, but was interrupted from behind.
"He's right, you know. Don't try to deny it. In many of the elven epics and tales, the separation of lovers, or their absence in life, makes people feel terrible, some even considering death. Linnea, an ancient elf of great standing, sung herself into a tree after her lover betrayed her and she killed him. In 'Du Silbena Datia,' which literally translates as 'The Sighing Mists,' an elven song of great fame and meaning, two elves, mates, Acallamh and Nuada, were separated by longing for the sea, and in the end it practically tore the both of them apart from the inside." Orrin turned slowly to see Taiven, sitting cross-legged in her cage, leaning against Miremel for support. The eyes of the brown dragon were closed, but her muscles were tensed, and her ears twitched occasionally, showing that she was alert and ready. Not that she would be able to do anything. The both of them were trapped. Taiven's eyes revealed sorrow, sorrow for herself, Miremel, Murtagh, and Thorn, Orrin presumed. She leant her head back and softly spoke the words of a song.
O liquid temptress 'neath the azure sky,
Your gilded expanse calls me, calls me.
For I would sail ever on,
Were it not for the elven maid,
Who calls me, calls me.
She binds my heart with a lily-white tie,
Never to be broken, save by the sea,
Ever to be torn twixt the trees and the waves.
"That is but a small part of Du Silbena Datia. All the Riders are taught something of elven culture, though I suspect Murtagh has not heard it before." Orrin glanced at the red dragon and Rider, surprised to see that Murtagh appeared touched by the song, though he himself merely thought of it as a soppy fool's dream. That was all he thought of the whole affair. "I know that you likely feel contempt for this, Orrin, but it is something more pure and true than you have probably ever felt. Some of the tales of the elves are truly works of art, masterful, magical pieces that entrance and enrapt you, capturing your attention in their sweet words and melodies and binding it there with the fascination of hearing that which cannot be expressed in words expressed in words, the sweet tunes ringing in your ears gently before fading, fading away... On occasion, elves will sing a single song for three days straight, that which tells the story of their terrible war with the dragons being prominent among the numbers of such long poems. The emotion that is expressed by their work is staggering, touching, amazing, and it made me realise just how much of an impact love can have on anyone. Though you do not understand this, Orrin, and despite myself, I pity you for it. You do not know, never have known, and will likely never know, one of the greatest things this world has to offer."
"And why do you presume that I never have known love? You know not my past. You know not my sorrow. You know only your preconceived misconceptions, which lead you astray from the cold light of truth, which sinks further into grief than you may imagine. So cease your talk and listen!" The two Riders fell silent. They had little choice.
They know nothing of what I felt. My past is my own, as is my grief. I can wallow in it for as long as I want, or as little time as I want. They have forever to feel the pain and shame of what I do now, if that is what they feel. I couldn't care less about their feelings.
"You will listen and obey. Understand?" After a couple of nods, Orrin continued. "Tomorrow, at dawn, my armies shall be in position in front of the Empire's camp. Just before the sun's rays rise across the sky, both dragons shall swoop downwards and burn as many as they can of the tents, with their Riders on their backs. You, Taiven, shall remain in the air afterwards, alert for the coming of any Riders or dragons. Murtagh, you and Thorn are going to land and search out Jormundur and Roran Stronghammer. You defeat any guards they may have. If you find them, your priority is Roran. The morale blow of his loss will be monumental. However, you shall switch from this task and defend with Taiven upon any signs of Riders. If there are more than there are of you, retreat towards the city and retrieve the Dauthdaert from where it shall be set upon the balcony. You will fight them again with it, and if you can, you shall lure them down towards the walls, where another surprise awaits them." Murtagh frowned.
"What surprise is this?"
"I chose not to tell you for a reason, you know. And I still won't. Do you understand your orders?" A nod from each of the Riders. "Will you carry them out to the best of your ability?" Two more nods. "Then tonight I shall come and release you from the cages. You shall then stay silent and make no attempt to warn or communicate with the Empire as you fly overhead. When the time comes, you shall do as I commanded, and Jormundur's pathetic attempt at an army shall begin the process of being slaughtered." Bringing an abrupt ending to the conversation, Orrin turned and strode off to his group of elite 'Varden' to travel back to the city and prepare the troops for the attack.
He looked upwards and saw that there were still several hours left in the day, before glancing at the encampment that was a few miles from the city.
It would burn tomorrow, as the red light of dawn struck the sky.
