Chapter 50: Flames at the Break of Dawn.

Roran armoured himself quickly, before rushing out of his tent. It was positioned in the middle of a circle of tents that were owned by some of his captains, with their horses picketed in an area in the middle. He roused Horst, who was in the tent to his left, and told him to go around the circle, waking the officers and telling them to report to him outside his tent immediately. He did the same with the man who was situated in the tent to his right, Arnet, officially his second-in-command, and a friend, although he placed greater trust in Horst. Within minutes, the group had gathered around Roran, and he spoke quickly and urgently.

"Listen well, and do not panic. The Surdans are converging on the flanks of the main camp, numbers great in men and horse. They likely plan to attack at dawn, or with some type of pre-arranged signal. Ready your men as quickly and quietly as you can. Messengers shall be sent to run and wake each company, and they shall all assemble at the west entrance. It is far enough from the right flank not to be heard, unlike the south entrance, and we have enough space coupled with a relatively simple path leading around to where we can flank them and take them by surprise. Mount your horses, contact your subordinates, we ride to destroy those who oppose the peace." The men accepted their commands, and all but Horst and Arnet quickly left to do as he had commanded and to prepare for the fight themselves. Roran quickly jumped onto Snowfire, before sliding off with a quiet oath and going into his tent to fetch the saddle. The other two did likewise.

Roran glanced around at the host of many thousands, indistinct in the night. Upon Snowfire, he was at their head, Horst to the left, Arnet to the right. Other leaders-captains of different divisions, possibly some magicians-were spread out across the lines, a short distance ahead of the troops they commanded, but none were in positions as advanced as the three men at the head.

Roran warily drew his hammer in preparation for fighting. It slid from his belt soundlessly, the wooden handle passing the leather in silence, and he smiled for a second, glad of such a simple weapon and the fact that it would not alert others of his presence.

A second or two later, every single man of the Varden within eyesight drew his sword, metal grating against metal harshly and quite loudly, creating a chorus of sounds that Roran could have sworn would be heard by someone in the darkness. The army quieted when he held up a hand. No calls of alarm or surprise were heard, but Roran wanted to be sure that none had been alarmed or alerted by the noise.

He beckoned a man that he knew was a magician forwards, riding back to meet him between his group of three and the main army. The man appeared puzzled and awed that the general had called for him, but Roran just grabbed his arm, not willing to waste any time.

"You are a magician, correct?" The man nodded. "Reach out your mind to the plains and tell me what you feel." A blank expression passed over the man's face, and a few seconds later, he blinked, gasping, and looked at Roran again.

"There is no human life for quite a distance ahead of us, but a massive force masses further away. I touched a guarded mind, but pulled away as soon as I did, and I doubt the man thought much of it, or could judge its place of origin." Roran nodded, and the man moved back into his position. Roran re-joined his two commanders at the front.

Snowfire's colour seemed to glow in the darkness, the great animal holding his head high and proud. A black mare was Horst's mount, and it shook it's neck wildly as the large blacksmith turned in the saddle to look at Roran as he came up to them. His sword was drawn, the same as the swords of the other men. It was an ordinary blade, not particularly distinctive. They exchanged nods, and Roran took his place again, glancing at the other man as well.

Arnet rode on a horse which seemed to have patches of dark and light on its side, some of which were practically white, the rest brown, which had earned it the nickname 'Cow,' to great amusement from all concerned. Arnet protested against the term, but none paid heed to his dislike, and even he now referred to the steed as a stupid bovine whenever it attempted to rear and shake him off, as happened quite regularly. It was a spirited creature.

The second-in-command himself was quite short, a curved sword in his hand, made for hacking and cleaving. A harsh look crossed his face momentarily as he stared towards the unseen attackers, somewhere in the night, before looking back at Roran.

"Bleak is the future for many poor souls tonight." Both Horst and Roran nodded, unwilling to talk much before such a momentous battle, though Roran did spare a few words.

"Aye, it is, but we must fight." A sign of acknowledgement came from both men, and Roran took a look at the sky. It appeared to be slightly lighter than before, but he could not say for sure. What he could tell was that they had to move soon, if their plan was to work and their guesses be proven correct.

Apprehension rose in Roran, wariness, caution, and anticipation being his primary emotions. Jormundur would be preparing now. He would have alerted the commanders, they would have prepared men to wake people up, though not actually have done it yet, so as not to make unnecessary noise and alert any attackers, and men ready to call the alarm for an attack would be stationed throughout the camp. Roran's men were the only ones that were prepared beforehand, as they were stationed away from the rest of the camp and would therefore be unseen by the Surdans, not to mention the fact that they would best capitalise on their plan if they were alert and awake at the same time.

Roran raised his hammer above his head, then pointed it forwards silently and nudged Snowfire into a slow trot. The three leaders advanced, and the mass of men and horses behind them did likewise, heading west in order to come round behind the enemies on the right flank of the main camp. Advancing down a large, dirt road, dust rising into the night, they rode to Fate, and whatever it might bring.

The army had circled into a position slightly over a mile from the right flank of the camp. Nothing was visible in the darkness. The watchfires of the camp had faded from view with distance. Barely a sound was made as they waited. The stamp of a single horse's hoof was dull and quiet, due to the soft and dry soil of the ground, yet still the sound seemed to carry, and tension in the air rose a little bit more. Nervous glances were passed around, men managing to see the faces of their comrades for the first time that night.

Wait.

Something wasn't right.

They can see each other now?

The first time this night?

Dawn was on its way, fast. Roran looked ahead, to the east, hoping to catch a glimpse of the first rays of sunlight, the fiery flames alighting the land and revealing to him if the werecat was correct and a vast army stood between him and the Empire or not.

Flames burst into being in the east, but it wasn't the sun.

Twin blazing infernos spiralled down from the sky, their sources shifting and spinning above the camp. A few seconds later, immense, booming roars rang across the sky, and Roran winced in recognition. Dragons. The tents burnt, and agonised cries were heard as a blaze sprung up. Orders were yelled in the distance, horns blew, and the whole scene was momentarily cast into greater light as the dragons came down again, the truth of Solembum's words now becoming alarmingly obvious.

Outlined against the flames and the tents, a phenomenal amount of cavalry stood still. Then, moving as one, they started a trot forwards, picking up speed as they went, faster and faster towards the camp. Infantry, nearer to the barricades and stakes than the cavalry, and further to Roran's right, ran too, heading for the guards that even then appeared to be in a state of panic. Luckily, more organised groups were already moving among the flames, some stationing themselves in defensive positions. But they would all be overcome if Roran did nothing. He could not see the force assaulting the part of the camp nearer to the city, but the troops ahead of him could easily wreak havoc. He silently raised his hammer, hearing a collective intake of breath behind him.

Then, he charged.

Clinging onto Snowfire, emotions other than battle rage and anger left him. His men followed, all of them, spears raised. No war cries issued from their mouths; it was a surprise attack from behind. A single sound would alert their enemies and give them the time to take full use of their advantage of numbers, while at the same time reducing the Empire's hopes of a surprise attack to pointless hopes, soon to be changed and destroyed. The sound of their enemies hooves, increasing in volume and louder anyway, masked the galloping noises of Roran's forces, which was quickly gaining on the Surdans, who had started at a slower speed, while Roran's had given their full pace since the very start of their charge. However, the enemies were still speeding up, heading fast towards the embankments and stakes surrounding the camp.

And then, with an almighty sound, they met the defences head-on. By then, men had retrieved pikes and spears, and were standing, ready to fight off the horsemen as dozens of their horses impaled themselves on the spikes, those that did not being met with stabbing defenders. But the sheer numbers of the cavalry, and the somewhat haphazard positions of the Empire's watchers, meant that many broke through, gaps in the defenders' ranks offering easy passage through. They whirled and attacked the men still defending the boundaries of the camp, allowing even more to pass the dead bodies of their comrades. But the easy entrance into the ranks was not to go unpunished.

Roran's men were right behind them, and Roran struck their first blow, easily breaking a man's back, moving past and striking a man in the face with the sharp end of the weapon. The first soldier crumpled noiselessly in his saddle, dead, and the second collapsed, Arnet catching up and beheading him in case he made a sound. On Roran's other side, Horst sank his blade deep into flesh. Then, the main body of soldiers met the backs of the Surdans, spears ready. The back line of the enemy troops was almost entirely wiped out in the first assault. Not all the kills were clean, though, and screams rang out, alerting the rest of the massive group to the attack, but the majority of the soldiers had inadequate room to turn and the driving force and initiative remained with Roran. They pressed on, Roran now having to catch blows on his shield and finding it harder to get a clean strike on an enemy. A man ducked a strike to the head, and Roran cursed, as the man lashed out with a backhanded blow, which was deflected by the shield. Another attack of Roran's was evaded in the same way, then, frustrated, whilst blocking a similar attack to the previous, sent the blunt end into the man's leg, crushing it and drawing a terrible cry from the man, before following up his attack by simply smashing the man's chest in. Advancing further, he found that many of the men were starting to find space to turn around, and were engaging him and his men in proper combat, head-on.

After a particularly tricky duel with a soldier, in which one arm and a leg were broken and the Surdan continued fighting, though grimacing in pain, as well as ever, and Roran had to sneakily wind him with a blunt lunge from the hammer, concealed behind an attempt to move forwards and block an overhead strike before finally managing to break his skull in, Roran glanced around to see that the forwards momentum had been cut short, and his men were struggling against the sheer numbers of the enemy. He released an angry yell, "Onwards! For the Empire! For Jormundur! For Nasuada! For our future!" His soldiers roared in reply, surging on and stabbing at the Surdans in rage. The tide of the battle turned, on their side again. Roran and his two commanders lead from the front, fighting alongside their men, pushing deep into the ranks of the Surdans. Their men did likewise around them, but to their flanks, morale was dropping slowly as numbers came around to flank them. Pressure was forcing the Empire men to fall back, to curve in on themselves. The group was becoming packed together, Surdans on three sides, pushing forwards on one of them, the other two thinning rapidly. Though the Surdans were still more, Roran could tell that they had lessened in number considerably, but something more would be needed if he were to beat them. Their numbers appeared to be thinnest at a point directly in front of him, and there was a lower amount of people diagonally to his left as well. Two deft blows to a couple of skulls allowed him to reach Arnet's side, Horst likewise following him. The three fought a group of five soldiers that charged at them, disposing of them with relative ease.

"Arnet!" Roran shoved a man back as he spoke, the end of his hammer thrusting the air out of his chest. He followed it up with a series of strikes to the head, which were well-guarded by a shield, as the second-in-command blocked a thrust from a spear and replied.

"What?" Roran smashed the shield of the man to the left and disposed of him.

"Take some men with you and cut through their masses! To the front! Split them up! Pincer to the left afterwards!" The man nodded and hacked his way off to the side, to where a distinct company of men were fighting alongside their captain. Arnet called to them, and they rallied behind him, organised in the chaos of the battle, before advancing in formation, speedily forging a path through the vast army. The sudden, arranged assault pushed hundreds of Surdans back towards the still-standing fortifications, where some men with spears and pikes mounted a defence, and eventually the enemies were going to be divided, split in two. Roran yelled a command to the men that amassed behind him, and they too formed a group, and he and Horst charged off on a diagonal to Arnet's course, where he had seen a few breaks in the crowds of orange-clad soldiers. Like with Arnet's group, they cut through with relative ease. The battle was now more a series of small skirmishes between the more numerous Surdans and the men of Roran's troops, like the dwarves at the Burning Plains they broke through the battling groups in a powerful mass.

Yet, like the Burning Plains, the numbers were against them. Roran would smash a hand, then a helm, and the man would fall, but more would come, and they came from the sides as well. But the group hurried on, and broke the disorganised ranks of the Surdans in two, for the second time. Roran whirled to the right, intending to lead his men that way and crush a large portion of the men of Surda between his force and Arnet's. But the fighting was hard, fast, and fierce. His force only dwindled with time, and though the Surdan group ahead of him was weakening rapidly, Arnet's force on the other side having utilised the same train of thought as Roran, his own troops were falling rapidly. Having some of their comrades turn and be forced to fight enemies coming from behind the group got more of them killed, distracted the others in the group, and reduced the number pushing forwards. Roran still fought, through the ache in his arms, battering at the defences of the men in his field of vision. They were all he focused on.

A man wielding a bow appeared in front of him, an unusual weapon for such a situation. Roran deduced that he would have previously had a sword, which was lost or broken in battle, so he had resorted to his longer-range weapon. But the weapon presented a unique difficulty to Roran. Drawn and strung, the man was aiming straight at Roran, as if he knew who he was, and the only thing Roran could do was raise his shield above his face and chest and wait for someone to kill the man already! A glance revealed that no help was forthcoming, and he hid his head immediately, wary of a shot. The man, he noticed, had an evil expression on his face, a smug expression. An expression of someone who had just found a way to cause another pain and relished it.

Snowfire buckled under him, throwing him to the ground. He rolled to the side, freeing his foot from the saddle as he did so and holding his shield above his head, rising to his feet with a glance around himself. Suddenly, the battle seemed a lot more daunting without his impressively large mount.

The horse, a gift from Eragon so long ago, lay in the mud, an arrow in his brain. The man who had fired the arrow was struggling to put another to the string and draw the bow, and Roran took advantage of that by yanking him off the saddle, mounting up himself, and smashing the head of the soldier in in retribution. The man collapsed, bow forgotten along with everything else he had ever known, and Roran spurred the new, light brown horse towards its former companions and allies. He emerged at Horst's side again, the blacksmith striking his foes with massive strength born of years of work at the forge, quickly blocking an attack that would have beheaded his friend and sending a looping attack in retaliation, before again leading his men and crushing their foes between them.

A man who was armed with a mace emerged in front of him, a cold stare on his face. Roran blocked the powerful blow with his hammer, sparing a grin as the man recoiled, shocked that the simple wood had held against the strength, metal, and weight of the mace. Eragon's spells of strength on the weapon worked still. Taking advantage of the man's surprise, a bash to the hand disarmed the Surdan, and from then, the victory between them was Roran's. With ease, a hit to the side as the man turned, trying to run, set up a simple backbreaking blow that Roran placed in the perfect place for instant death. Turning, he looked for another opponent, only to see a spear being jabbed straight at his eye.

The metal of the tip sparkled ominously in the light cast by the burning camp, still the only visible source of light, though the sky was brightening with a great pace.

Roran's trustworthy hammer was by his side, low, unable to protect him.

His shield in his left hand, on the opposite side. Practically useless.

The manic glint in the eye of the wielder.

The extraordinary slowness with which the scene proceeded.

The shocked and agonised cries of his companions.

The strange point emerging from the chest of the wielder.

The manic glint, fading fast.

The spear itself, clattering to the ground under the horse's feet.

Wait.

Arnet ripped his sword to his right, tearing the body of the soldier to the side and charging over to take his place at Roran's side.

"Thanks for that," Roran muttered, relieved, and Arnet just grinned.

"Something to tell the kids about, saving Stronghammer's life! My group, I think, had an easier time than you with the pincer motion. They were focusing more on you than us, so we managed to take a great portion of them with little trouble. Should we join your group and assist the rest of the troops?" After a glance at Horst, Roran nodded to Arnet, who raised a horn and blew it thrice. A large group of Empire soldiers flocked to the call, eliminating most of the soldiers between the two groups and amassing behind the three, a smaller replica of the assembled army from the start of the battle, though a great deal smaller, and not entirely complete. Several thousand of them were still engaged in battle elsewhere, and they were all massively outnumbered.

As Roran surveyed the battlefield, the sun finally burst into view, showering them all in golden light for a few precious, beautiful seconds, when it seemed like all was right in the world and nothing could go wrong. All the men, on either side, turned their heads to the sun, wondering at its beauty. Then, Roran remembered the hammer in his hand and the armour on his shoulders, and sighed aloud as the fighting broke out around him again, the moment of unity and amazement broken by the shouts and cries of dying men.

What has the world come to?

Roran yelled a war cry, and charged forwards again, though not far, fighting just a few seconds later, heading straight for the left flank of the enemy, just about the strongest side of the enemy forces. The middle of the battle ground, which they were trying to get through, was spread with a variety of troops from both sides; the enemy's right flank was being hotly contested between a large group of Surdans and a marginally smaller group of Roran's men. At the left, Empire men were fighting fiercely against a far superior mass of Surdans and being pushed back rapidly, and Roran deduced that it was that side if the battle where they were most needed. The two groups had greatly weakened the rear of the Surdans' army, and part of the right flank as well, and they pushed forwards at the left, Roran's war cry having alerted many of those between the two groups, distracting the Surdans and giving hope to the Empire men, who assisted in disposing of the intimidated Surdans, before charging along with Roran's group, falling into the ranks rather awkwardly.

Surdan men formed lines ahead of them, spears levelled at chest height. Roran yelled, "Shields!" and the men raised their shields to protect themselves as they thundered forwards. The Empire, once again, was smaller, but when the collision came, none shied away from it. Spears splintered on the shields, some got through, or past, resulting in screams of men and horses. Roran himself saw two spears coming for him, dashed one to the side with his hammer, which he left extended to crush the man's face as he rode on, and caught the other on his shield, head on, pushing the shield forwards and the spear slipped through the man's hand and struck him in the stomach, leaving him gasping for breath as the shaft of the spear broke off the tip, which remained embedded in Roran's shield. Leaving him for others to deal with, Roran ploughed on into the enemy ranks, men following, working with Arnet and Horst to bring down the soldiers that confronted him.

A squad of three met them after they broke through the lines. Roran took a direct approach; a hard smash towards the head of the middle one. It was dodged and deflected at the same time, and a stab quickly executed. Roran leant back, glancing around to see that the other two Surdans had likewise repelled the three Empire commanders. Roran raised the hammer again, but the blow was likewise blocked, and a fast response made. The three pairs were each evenly matched, or so it seemed, so Roran resorted to trickery.

Knowing that the Surdans had always placed high value on their horses, Roran pretended to move his mount closer and made as if to whack the man's horse's head with his shield. The sword was instantly there to block, and the hammer met the bottom of the man's chin half a second later. A backhand from that position caved in the ribcage of Arnet's opponent, and from there Roran leant across the back of the horse he'd pretended to hit and shattered the kneecap of Horst's attacker. The blacksmith disposed of the man quickly, and the three headed deeper into the mob, now unruly and disorganised, facing men like those they had just beaten, but none quite so good.

And the battle continued...

Roran's group was still less in size than their enemies, but they had the power, momentum, and morale to continue on and beat their enemies, though it would be a close thing, and the slightest change might alter the course of the battle. The small group that had been backing off at the start of Roran's assault on the enemy's left flank had regrouped and come around the side, joining Roran's main square of Empire men, providing vital reinforcements to the battered soldiers. Roran spotted the magician Fiark amongst the newcomers, raising a quick hand in greeting and getting a grim smile back. Past Fiark, there seemed to be a disturbance in the middle of the battleground, where men fought in ones and twos, but Roran thought nothing of it more than movement on the other flank, where another, if smaller-scale, fight between two more organised troops of men was taking place, and he continued onwards, leading his great square of men and horse further into the army of orange-clad cavalry that opposed them and their King.

Fire chilled Roran's blood, forcing him to fight on with greater vigour than ever as one man after the next came at him, and he came at them, his men tiring and falling, their men tiring and falling, an almost endless fight, but the end was in sight. Though his men were tried, and they were now encountering the men at the very sides of the fight, playing little part, and therefore more energised, the conclusion of the fight on that flank was being made. The Surdans were being pressed down towards the fortifications in an attempt to crush them between the swords of the soldiers and the stakes surrounding the camp. Roran's men were going to win. The group with Fiark in them was coming around in a flanking move, the endgame for the last thousand or so soldiers. They were backing up now, fearful, Roran and his men outnumbering them, finally. Roran pressed forwards on what he thought was the last big group that they would face, and eliminate, giving it his all in an effort to end the fight then and there. None of the Surdan men he could spot behind them were numerous enough to pose a threat. His force applied the finishing pressure on the enemy soldiers, Horst at his left, Arnet on the right, soldiers following hopefully, finally, inwards, to their victory!

A man raised his spear in front of Roran, aiming for a throw at him, and Roran roared in anger, hurling his hammer into the face of the soldier, which both surprised him and killed him, before quickly spurring his horse forwards to retrieve it, blocking blows with his shield, relying on the men at his back to protect him from any other attacks. He yanked the hammer out of the mud which it had stuck, shaft first, into, throwing it up to catch it by the handle, spinning it around and pummelling the skull of an attacking soldier, before Horst came up, protecting him further, and Arnet too arrived, hacking off a head and blocking a blow at the same time. Empire men surged around them, killing fast, relief on their faces that it was finally coming to an end. Roran and the other two brought their horses to a halt, allowing the others the ability to finally destroy the force that had attempted to flank the camp. None of them, obviously, had come off unscathed.

A long scratch ran down Horst's neck. Blood poured from his shoulder, trailing down his arm, and a nasty gash was on the side of his ribcage, but he was otherwise fine. Arnet had, strangely, three separate cuts on his left forearm, and a rather deep thigh wound as well. Roran, a special target, he presumed, had a cut in his cheek, injuries on both arms, a stab wound to the chest that he had cut short by crushing the man's own chest at the same time, and a horse had practically crushed his foot with its ribcage against his own, resulting in a rather sore bruise, and a possibly twisted ankle.

"So that's the end of Snowfire, eh, Stronghammer? Pity. Good horse, that." Arnet gazed at Roran's new mount, evaluating it, "But you've found a decent replacement, at least. Not as good, but decent."

"Thanks, but I can't say the same to you. That's a cow, Arnet, not a horse! Oh, no, it's just Cow. My mistake."

"And an easy one to make too," Horst put in, earning the both of them a hard glare from the second-in-command, who relented after a few seconds, and asked a question.

"You going to name it?" Roran considered the question.

"I'll have to see if I get through this first, if you get what I mean." Roran looked away, uneasily, seeing that the middle of the battlefield, again, was disturbed. The small groups that had begun to develop in the gap of just a few soldiers fighting each other, away from Roran's battalion or so, and whatever had been happening on the other flank of the conflict, were all looking away from each other now, at what had once been the location of the Surdans' right flank, blocked from Roran's view.

Suddenly, a cheer went up from the men of Surda. Several groups of ten or so Empire horsemen began to back off from them, towards Roran and his men, fear on their faces. More followed them, the Surdans themselves doing nothing to stop them, heading away, amassing, and eventually, every man under Roran's command still standing had amassed next to him, giving him a glimpse of what they had seen on the other side of the field.

The battle on Surda's right flank, going so well when Roran had last seen it, appearing roughly even, had tilted to Surda's favour with his departure. About two thousand men were grouping at the other end of the battlefield, Roran's own being a mere thousand or so at last check. The remaining troops had been dealt with with ease, pressed back, and Roran's men were assuming a formation behind their three leaders again. Counting the men who had retreated to their support from the middle of the battle, their numbers were at about one thousand two hundred. Outnumbered almost impossibly. With no support in sight. Not a good start to a day, or a good end to a battle.

Wait, there was support. A few hundred spearmen were still on the walls, and Roran quickly called to them for support. The men assembled into ranks, in double lines of fifty, three of them, and marched down from the embankment, a while away, being a third of the distance between the two opposing cavalry groups away, and the Surdans hastily began to move forwards towards Roran's group. Roran glanced around, uncertain as to what to do, but he realised that standing cavalry could do nothing against a strong charge, and even less when they were outnumbered, so he would have to face fire with fire, speed with speed, cavalry charge with cavalry charge. However, he would need to be near enough to the spearmen for them to have enough of an impact to win, meaning, he would have to judge the speed of his own men and the speed of theirs to make sure that the two forces met as close to the men as possible. To make the task easier, he raised a hand to the lines of men for them to halt, and, puzzled expressions prevalent on their faces, they did so.

By then, the enemies were much closer. "People! You have fought well and hard, but there is one more task to do! Will you fall at the last attempt, or will you fight them?" A roar rose from the men, and Roran yelled too, his voice ringing out over the plains. He waited for what he guessed was the right moment, before releasing a shout of, "Charge!"

Thunderous sounds rose from the hooves of the horses as they surged forwards, cries were torn from the throats of the men, and they charged as fast as they could across the already blood-stained ground, covered in bodies of men and horses. Roran's new, unnamed steed leapt gracefully over a couple of corpses, Arnet's 'Cow' doing likewise with surprising agility at Roran's side, Horst's mount being steered around the majority of the bodies. Many of his warriors were being slowed by the obstructions, but the same held true for their opponents, and the Surdans in fact were moving slower than they were, having been slowed down more, and were unable to pick up their pace again. Roran maintained his own pace, and some of his men did the same, quickly accelerating ahead of the main body. The spearmen, coming from the side, were likewise closing in.

"Speed up! Faster!"

Roran's encouragement invoked a response from the men behind him, more catching up to the first, fastest, group. Roran prepared for the last stage of the battle. It all came down to this, for them. There were other fights elsewhere, probably another great group on the other side, not to mention the forwards assault of the infantry, but it was this that would decide the destiny of him and his men.

Anger.

Determination.

Anticipation.

Fear? No, not for himself. For those he fought to help, those he fought to save, and those he fought alongside. He didn't let it show, just lifted his shield higher and brandished his hammer in the air to raise the confidence of his troops a little bit more.

And then the fight was upon him.

He battered at his opponents, utilising brute strength to break down both their defences and their major bone structures. Surdans threw themselves at him, in the hope of striking the fatal blow, but his hammer was strong, and his shield was thick, and his arms refused to back down and ache like they wanted to so badly, instead maintaining his performance to the best of their ability. Men came in front of him, and they died. It was as simple as that. But there were so many... The spearmen, he realised, had joined the battle, stabbing in from the side, forcing the Surdan army on the defensive on two fronts. However, their numbers advantage allowed them to send some men around to attack both groups of Varden from the back. The fact that the Empire's charge was more spread out, some men ahead of the others, meant that the first few ranks had been badly supported, and had fallen fast, but with the arrival of the rest, the fighting had evened out a bit. Now, they continued with great losses into the formation of their enemies, driving them back even as they were in the process of being attacked from behind.

The spearmen, on the right, had entered a square formation, all their spears facing outwards towards the men that attacked them from the front and behind. They were holding up their defences quite well and many of the Surdans were attempting to back off, moving away from the strong formation, only for the nearest men to jump forwards and spear them. About five hundred soldiers were occupied with them and they were falling quite fast.

Roran's men continued pushing, making progress, but more and more their opponents, he sensed, were giving way on purpose. Their centre was being pushed back rapidly, and suddenly Roran could tell what would happen.

The Surdans would split themselves down the middle, letting his own men do it for them. Then, they would press in from the sides, a two-fronted attack, leaving Roran's men to be crushed mercilessly against each other and killed with ease. A quick glance around confirmed his guess. Men on both sides of him, enemy commanders, he inferred, were issuing orders, waving arms, gesturing to their men in ways that seemed to suggest that he was right. Having realised the ploy, Roran was no closer to solving it. He would have to change the direction they were headed in, but which way? To the right and they would receive support from the spearmen, yet be forced to fight more men that were attacking the infantry unit. To the left, and it would mean no support, but a chance for the infantry to dispose of their attackers unhindered, and then attack from behind. To the left, and their enemies, mostly right-handed, would be at a disadvantage, forced to slash awkwardly across their bodies. To the right, the opposite. It was that which decided it for him.

"Head to the left! The left!" With that cry, Roran disposed of a soldier that came at him, before coming face-to-face with one of the commanders he had noticed earlier. The man appeared surprised and bewildered at Roran's change of direction, and Roran took full advantage of the lapse, a strong strike removing the spear from the man's hand with ease. The man, whom Roran had thought was just an ordinary soldier, grinned, and a mental attack hit Roran. Though it was much weaker than Eragon's had been when he had taught Roran, Roran had had very little practice since then. He quickly focused his mind on an image of his hammer, and the magician's smirk turned surprised before Roran bashed his face in and moved left again, where his men had turned, on the most part, and were facing half of the enemy forces against them. Some men, obviously, could not turn to the new direction, or risk attacks from behind, and they were slowly backing off and defending from the rear, but they were fewer in number, and soon to be overwhelmed. Roran smashed his hammer into a back as he came up behind a Surdan fighter, before seeing Arnet and Horst up ahead, fighting side by side with several other soldiers against a group of men that outnumbered them by four. He urged his horse on, to assist them in their battle, and caught up quite soon. Just not soon enough.

As two soldiers converged on an Empire man, Arnet shifted his position and fought at the man's side, deflecting blow after blow from the two, and from a man that had previously been attacking him. Though he was undoubtedly more skilled than any of them, he was continually forced to defend the other man as well, who was evidently a new recruit, and inexperienced-the gods alone knew how he had lived that long-to avoid losing the man who was really just as important as some extra target for the men, as a three-on-one would be simple for the three, no matter how skilled the one. Roran was almost near enough to join the duel himself when it happened.

Arnet leant across with his sword outstretched to try to deal a blow to one of the men, raising his shield to deflect an attack at the same time, but was forced to turn the lunge into an upwards slash to defend the young soldier from a simple decapitation stroke. The soldier he had been lunging at to start with took advantage of the moment he took to regain his balance on the horse and sank his blade into Arnet's shoulder. The commander winced in pain, though luckily for him it was not his sword arm, and a quick slash gained him the soldier's head in retribution. But his shield's movements were slowed, and he was much more on the defensive than before. An attack looped towards the other soldier's head, and simultaneously a stab was directed at his throat. Instinct flickered the sword down to deflect the stab onto his shield, and the other man was killed easily. Arnet lashed out in anger at the killer, a near-unstoppable backhand stroke that hacked through his neck with ease, but his haste to obtain revenge turned out to be his undoing. As the fatal blow made contact, the final Surdan took his chance. Slipping his blade easily around the useless shield, his sword plunged into Arnet's chest just as Roran came alongside and ended the small section of the fight with a single strike to the skull. As his men advanced around him, pushing on towards the ever-dwindling group ahead of them, Roran stopped abruptly and looked at his friend, even as Horst rode on at the head.

Arnet was almost certainly going to die. Coughing up blood, he had maybe a minute to live, Roran guessed, at the most. Rather redundantly and hopelessly, he asked, "Is there anything I can do?"

A small grin tickled the lips of the second-in-command. "You can do a lot of things, Roran. One of them is win this battle. Another is keep the peace afterwards, and keep my family safe. They live in Gil'ead, by the way. And finally, you can name that damn horse already! It's irritating, the poor nameless thing. No name means no identity, which is sad, even for an animal. At least 'Cow' can make you laugh."

"I'll do as you say, friend. Good luck."

"Also, contact your cousin as soon as you can. I mean, he doesn't even know this is going on right now. He might do something and save the battle. But not me. I'm too far gone. I always was..." Roran found a bit of a tear in his eye in that second, but blinked it away as the warrior slumped in his saddle, passing into the void, replacing it with a glint of rage and charging back into battle.

The moment he began charging, however, he noticed the fact that there were very few soldiers in the direction that the majority of the Empire's men were headed, and he yelled an order; "Quick! Around!" Men whirled around, attacking the foes behind them with vigour. The two groups were of roughly equal size; around five hundred each. Roran was caught up in the middle of his own soldiers, and was momentarily confused as to which way he was supposed to go, before regaining his sense of direction and heading to the front lines again. Horst would have an even harder time regaining his position, as he was now at the back, but Roran soon found himself at the head again, as both armies strove against one another, neither Empire men nor Surdan men giving any ground. Every man there knew that the conflict, although such a small one in the grand history of the day, yet involving so many people, was going to come to a close only when the last man on the losing side fell, and all their efforts were needed to ensure victory. Any edge would tip the battle.

Then, that edge came. The spearmen that had been fighting against the cavalry force had finally prevailed, a hundred or so survivors attacking the rear of the Surdan forces and taking them almost entirely by surprise, so much so that fifty or more men fell before the main amount of them were even aware enough to strike back. By then, it was too late. Distracted and stabbed from both sides, the remainder of the Surdan cavalry was crushed, destroyed, and dismembered by the forces of the Empire. Roran himself pulverised skulls as they turned to face the new threat, forgetting about the old, and his forces easily eliminated the last of the distracted, confused soldiers. But it had come at a great price.

Surveying his forces, Roran could tell that not a single one had escaped injury. Some of the spearmen, who had been fighting defensively for the majority of the battle, had escaped unharmed. But no cavalryman of Roran's would leave that fight without a scar. And how many had left the fight mostly whole anyway?

A mere hundred of his cavalry remained, and about sixty or seventy of the spearmen still lived and breathed. From a force numbering in the thousands.

Remembering Arnet's words, Roran glanced around for a magician to contact Eragon. He couldn't see Fiark, or any other magicians he knew, and he glanced despairingly around the battlefield in search of any. There were bodies spread across it, all of it, Surdans and Imperials injured and dead, just lying on the ground. He heard a noise to the left, and a weak voice calling his mane, quickly turning to see Fiark.

The man had a spear impaled in his belly and was collapsed on the floor, bleeding heavily. Roran trotted up to him and dismounted his horse. I need to give it a name, as Arnet asked. He knelt next to the man, who smiled a grim smile.

"I can't heal myself, and I can't heal you, but I just wanted to say, Stronghammer, that this victory is yours, and well done. Without you, the world would be worse off." Roran nodded in acknowledgement of his words.

"Can you cast any magic? I'm sorry if it seems rude and inconsiderate, but I need to contact my cousin, now. The world is not exactly better off yet." Fiark grinned slightly.

"Can you see a mirror anywhere? Roran, this is a battlefield. I personally don't expect to find one." Roran cursed, but thought back to when Eragon had scried before. The first time, he had simply filled a bowl with liquid of some sort and scried from that. He glanced around for a bowl or container, but was forced to resort to removing his helmet and pouring some water from his waterskin into it. He passed it to Fiark, who quietly intoned the spell, before sinking backwards, even more tired than before. Roran stared at the water, willing it to reveal his cousin, but of course it simply showed the contents of his bag.

"Eragon! Quick, you fool! This is urgent!" Many of his men, he could tell, glanced at him and around the skies hopefully, but seeing nothing, they simply looked at him again, questioningly. But his focus was entirely on the water in the helmet.

Soon, the mirror was withdrawn from the saddlebag, and Eragon's face appeared on Saphira's back, after a few glimpses of wings, sky, and a green dragon and Rider in the background. Roran cut straight to the point.

"Surda has made its move. Our camp has been attacked with great force. My cavalry have defended one flank from an immense amount of troops, but at great cost, and this is but a fraction of the force which surely assaults the camp head-on, not to mention at the other side. Two dragons and Riders are above the camp and the soldiers, raining down fire on our tents and troops. We need support now, Eragon! Where are you?!" A gasp came from Eragon, and he peered lower, at the ground below. Fear lit his face.

"We are not yet over Gil'ead, much less Ilirea! How many men do you have?"

"I'd show you myself if I wasn't using water in my helmet to tell you this! One hundred cavalry and sixty spearmen, if even that. We need you now, Eragon! I don't care what it costs, just get yourself, your elf (pun intended), and your dragons here now!" Eragon closed his eyes, seemingly despairing, but when he opened them, they were full of determination and fear. His voice, as he spoke, was grim.

"I'll see what I can do. It might kill us all, but I'll see what I can do. No promises. Stay safe." The image vanished, and Roran sighed, before glancing at Fiark.

The man was dead, out of energy. So that was why the image had vanished. Roran nodded his head in respect to his fallen comrade, then mounted his horse again, running through tactics, plans, and names for the animal in his head as he did so. As he rode through the ranks of his men, few, battered and bruised as they were, every one of them muttered, 'Stronghammer,' as he went past, every one of them held his head high, and yet they were all silently grieving their dead comrades. And at that moment, he knew exactly what to call the horse.

Arnet.

And he led them back into the fires of war.