RORAN counted sixteen mounted men.
Sigils he did not recognize colored battered shields. Unkempt horses snorted as they bobbed their heads side to side, thick white manes waving over their strong necks. The men themselves wore pointed half helms, with boiled leather and fur cloaks. They were armed with various weapons.
Spears and swords, but Roran also saw men with quivers of arrows and bows strung across their chests. He held his own sword out before him, just as the rest of his party did.
"Who are you?" One of the mounted men asked, pointing his spear at Roran and his companions from his high seat. Yoslan stepped forward, not lowering his weapon.
"We mean no harm." He said cautiously. There was a contemptuous laugh from the mounted men.
The man with the spear pointed at Yoslan's blade as he spoke.
"You are armed, which means you may or may not mean at least some harm."
"These are dangerous parts. We have to carry weapons, in order for us to protect our own." Yoslan answered carefully.
Roran resisted the urge to turn and look to Katrina, who was huddled underneath a cape that Roran convinced Holde to give to her. He couldn't, not now, not without knowing who these men were. He didn't think they were Imperial . . . which means that they could just as easily be brigands.
"I agree with you, these are dark times. That is why we patrol our Lord's lands, keeping them free from those who would disrupt his peace. And what kind of men are you? Peaceful? Or are you raiders?"
Yoslan lowered his sword slightly.
"We are peaceable men. For that we give you our word." One of the mounted men spat at Yoslan's feet.
"A few days past there was a group of men who vowed peace. They continued to go on and ravage a village close to our boarders . . . dozens killed. Women carried off. Grains and other foods stolen. All done in the name of peace."
Another soldier interjected.
"Men with banners have some honor, but a bannerless man's got none. We should just kill them and be done with it. Better to end them here, then leave em' to chance." A few of the horsemen agreed, and the man with the spear raised it slightly, thinking.
"We mean no harm! We are sorry for your losses . . . our own village was sacked. We are the only survivors. The Empire attacked us, people under the King's protection." Yoslan said quickly.
The mounted man with the spear stirred in his seat.
"So you're refugees..."
"Captain, Even if they are telling true, we have no means to provide for so many." A soldier said as their leader looked at Roran, Yoslan, and the others.
"How many are you?" The captain asked.
"Eight. Seven fighting men and one woman." Yoslan answered.
Roran tensed.
He had wished Yoslan had not mentioned Katrina... but there was nothing he could say.
"We shall bring them to Lord Pike." The captain announced to the protest of one of his mean.
"You cannot be serious- we have no room-"
"That is for our Lord to decide." The captain replied, and the man stood down. He turned his attention to Yoslan.
"Our Hold is not far from here. Inside, you will find Lord Pike, who will decide your fate. Men, move out."
The horses whinnied as they circled Roran's group and then trotted past. They were lead through a misty haze of fog, passing over damp logs and stones, heavy rains washing old snow off of them the night before.
They moved in utter silence, the only sound coming from the slither of cold clothing and the heavy plods of hooves. Roran had no idea where they were – down from the North, surely? He couldn't say. They were all disorientated, and had lost their bearings a few days past.
The lack of food, exposure to the weather, and other factors caused them to falter in their sense of direction, and in a way, it was a blessing that the men had come to find them . . . It would only be a matter of time before they all succumbed to sickness if they had remained in the wild . . . and then there was Katrina.
Roran looked at her.
She walked huddled against him. Her hair was matted and dirty, her eyes dusky and her face hollow. Her mouth hung open, and she was whiter than the snow that surrounded them. He looked up, eying the imposing men that had captured them.
They were silent, stern-faced underneath their armor. Their horses were intimidating too: large and wild with shaggy hair on their necks and legs.
Katrina coughed, thick saliva dribbling from her frail mouth. Roran noticed the captain was riding near him, and believing the man to be the most civil of their captors, asked him how far Pike's hold was.
"Not far. It lies over this hill ahead of us. You will see it once we travel over it. It lies low in the valley, surrounded by trees and a large tower that stands vigil at the center of the Hold."
Roran saw the hill, and already he felt himself going up on an incline. As they walked, Katrina held on him for support, and he held her.
She felt as fragile as glass to his touch.
"What kind of man is Pike?" Roran asked.
"Cold. Stern. He may let you live, he may not. He is a man of practicality, not of empathy. He is nothing like his late father, taking after the Ghost Men he descended from. " The Captain seemed to shudder at the thought, but Roran was intrigued.
"Ghost Men?"
"A race of man that crossed the Dragon Sea. Some say that they came from Vroengard, fleeing Dragons. Others say that they came from Hylos, and others still maintain that they came from Hell itself. Whatever you believe, the Ghost Men arrived by ship thousands of years ago, after the First Walkers but before The Riders. They conquered most of the North, under the leadership of their King, Murdoc Pike. They established a moderately powerful Empire in the North, the members of House Pike having powerful magic in their blood, able to control animals and blood. When the Riders Rose, Murdoc's descendant, Aife Pike, bent his knee, disbanding his Kingdom in favor of the Dragon-Rider supported House Langfeld. House Pike became a noble holding in the Empire, but through treaties, marriages, and laws of succession, Pike lands were encroached and taken, until all that remained was Pike's Hold. "
Roran was wide-eyed. He had never experienced anything outside Caravhall . . . to know the world was so vast, so old, and yet had lingered on for ages amazed him. The Captain turned his head at Roran with a wry smile.
"Of course, such tales are most likely beyond your understanding. Look, the fog obscures it somewhat, but you can see it now." The Captain pointed ahead.
Roran realized they were ontop of the hill. He was right- a white haze settled on the valley . . . but he could see hints of old, gray stone. Held by the partially obscured walls were whispers of turrets and the brown wood of a large gate. Above all of that, however, a fire wavered in the fog, orange and dull, but still burning.
"That is Pike's Tower." The Captain announced.
Roran looked up at the construction, taller than the mist and all of the trees he had seen so far. It seemed to rise beyond the sky, growing thinner and thinner as it grew in altitude, but even then, its height alone made it fearsome. A feeling of unease crept over Roran when he looked at it . . . it was as if . . .
"You can feel it, can't you? That's magic. Members of House Pike are watching you with their scrying tools. No doubt Mhampir will be alerted soon."
"Mhampir. Mhampir Pike, I'm guessing?"
the captain chuckled, dimly amused. "You guessed correctly."
They were lead down into the valley, walking over damp grass that seemed to glow white, as opposed to the bright greens they had seen covered by snow moments earlier. A few trees littered the yard, but they were missing their leaves, and what may have been beautiful in summer looked foreboding in early winter. As they marched, Pike's Hold seemed to grow in size, and the closer Roran came, the colder he felt. Katrina pressed against his chest as they walked, while Glann swore to himself as they approached the gate.
"Bad omens from this place, bad omens." He muttered. If the captain heard him, he did not respond.
The gates were opened, and within Pike's Hold Roran saw a shrouded man before him, with two guards carrying heavy iron axes. Their faces were painted, and they wore pale plate armor that seemed to shine despite the fog that had settled around them.
"Aerion. My uncle demands to know why you have brought these . . . people into his Keep."
the captain spoke, and Roran surmised his name was Aerion.
"They claim they are refugees. They are no friends of the Empire. I thought that Mhampir may have use for them."
The shrouded man raised his head, removing his hood. His face was painted as well, but with more intricate designs.
Whites and blacks and blues until no natural color of his own showed. His hair was white, but despite his coloring Roran could tell the man was young. He had strange eyes, dusky yet bright, and they seemed to see everything before they happened.
"We shall discern that for ourselves." He said finally, glaring at Roran. He turned away.
Aerion dropped from his saddle while his men trotted off to the stables. Aerion himself guided Roran and his party into Pike's inner bowels, following the shrouded man and his painted warriors. Roran had never seen a structure so big. They passed numerous buildings, sounds filling his ears: Laughter, cries of anger, barking, children screaming and anvils banging. He smelt things too- fresh bread, searing meat, and sweet bakeries that reminded Roran how hungry he was. They passed training squares, with seasoned men teaching young boys the art of warfare. Flags waved in the center of the hold, where the base of the tower was found. The flag displayed an eye on a black field, open and haunting. Aerion led them to the tower, past two guards and into the building itself.
Inside, warmth instantly met Roran, and for that he was grateful. Other than the warmth, the room was anything but inviting. It was dark, not in lighting but in color, with bleak walls and carpets. Stone statues of regal men lined the path all the way to the throne, where a man sat. He had long hair, color of night, with white streaks coming down from his eyes and black lines crossing them. As Roran was led closer, he saw the man's eyes- a haunting green, murky and dark like a summer swamp. Beside him, a sage stood with a strange staff in his hands, wearing a face painted with brutal artistry.
"Uncle, I present to you Aerion, Captain of the Guard, and his captives." The shrouded youth knelt.
Mhampir nodded at the young man.
"Very well, Lorgainn." Mhampir said, and Roran had to strain his ears to hear him. Lorgainn bowed, leaving the throne room. Mhampir looked at Aerion, and then Roran and Yoslan and the others of his party.
"I see you have picked up some friends."
"My lord, they run from Galbatorix's wrath. They say there were pillaged. They had no clear destination. I thought that I should bring them to you."
"I see that they are armed."
"I saw no need to disarm them, my Lord."
Mhampir seemed to smile at that.
"Very well."
It was at that point that Roran realized Mhampir was not old at all. He was perhaps twenty three or twenty one summers, no less than that. Yet he carried himself with an air of not only superiority but also wisdom, a fearful trait for one so young. He was not much older than Roran, but he might as well have been one hundred years old in comparison to him.
"What should be done with them?" Aerion inquired. Mhampir seemed to have been waiting for the question.
"They are to be re-dressed and fed. Have the woman join the others in the kitchens, and have the men trained for three days before they are deployed with my uncle Newlyn to reinforce my grandfather as he assaults Gil'ead. We need to secure the North before The Varden marches from the Dwarf Mountains, with or without their support. Now be gone."
Aerion bowed, and led them from the Tower. It was on that day Roran's new life began.
He found himself conscripted into Mhampir's army. The promised three days of training came and went. Roran was placed within Newlyn's regiment, finding himself shoulder to shoulder with the Pike foot soldiers.
He wished it wasn't so wet. The handle of his sword seemed to be slipping from his grip.
He winced, the heavy wooden shield he wore bit into his skin with metal bindings.
He was dressed in boiled leather and trousers with a thick pelt across his shoulders, halfway molded. On his shield the colors of House Pike were found, white and red. Behind and in front of him, the rest of his new allies marched in silence. The night was full of darkness, every step he took he felt himself dig deeper into the murky earth.
Above the hundreds of pointed helms, Roran spied Newlyn Pike, a full-helm crafted from bleached bone covering his face as he rode a massive warsteed. He learned that the Ghost Men wore the skeletons of their forebears, enchanting them with magic so that they were more powerful. Roran did not believe in magic, not truly, but he mused that there must be some reality to it if a man could confidently ride into battle wearing the frail bones of his family's deceased. Not far from Newlyn, Lorgainn pike rode behind, him and his party. They were blood mages, as one of the Pike soldiers had told him before. Again, Roran found himself hesitant to believe the statement. At the yard, where the soldier had told him of Lorgainn two days past, Roran had scoffed.
"Tricks and smoke. That is what a mage is." Roran said with a smile. The Pike soldier's face was aghast.
"You must never say such things!" He warned. Roran fell silent, but kept his smile all the same.
Now he wasn't so sure. They seemed to glow in the night, their faces covered in bones. Their horses were painted as well, and behind the procession, animals stalked. Wolves and dogs and forest-cats padded, their eyes as red as the blood that bleached their bone-armor. It was said that Pikes could control beasts in battle . . . Roran would find out the truth of that soon enough.
They came to a halt suddenly, and there was a booming horn that cracked through the air. It shattered the night silence.
Newlyn trotted around his men, and then to Lorgainn. They spoke softly.
Then Newlyn reigned his horse around, returning to the head of his army. Roran knew the plan well enough. They were to wait until Mhampir's grandfather, Deligan Pike had engaged the forces of Gil'ead. Roran had learned much in his time with the Pikes, and he knew that if they took Gil'ead, they would undermine Imperial influence in the North. Many Northern houses had not declared for this new King, but they would at least follow House Pike's example in war against the Empire if they unseated the King's northernmost holding.
"Men, my father Deligan has engaged Gil'ead. We will pass through the town, and assault the back of the fortress as Deligan's forces take the front. With this victory, we will assure the protection of the Northern Houses. We attack now." Newlyn's voice carried above the heads of his men, and they marched anew.
Roran kept on with them, not tiring as they moved across muddied fields and small trees. Gil'ead was the gateway to the North, and from there, it was the portal to the South. Any fool could see the strategic advantage of the area.
The rain began anew, heavier and faster, thrumming on Roran's helmet like a series of beating drums. He could not see the town from behind the walls of men but he heard the sounds of battle in the distance; screams, shots, roars and crashes.
The telltale clang of blades and the splatter of blood.
He noticed eyes upon him, and turned his head as he marched, finding Lorgainn starting at him, eyes darkened by the skull he wore over his face. The Pike averted his gaze, urging his horse into the outskirts of the town, his blood mages trailing behind him, and their animals at their feet like silent ghosts.
"FOR PIKE!" Newlyn cried, charging after Lorgainn.
His cavalry thundered past, throwing up muck and dirt that flew into the shields of the infantry. They heard a warning horn sound, trumpeting from the village that lied behind the fort of Gil'ead. He then saw Newlyn and the cavalry retreat- remembering the plan. Newlyn would draw out Imperial forces sent to guard the rear- and send them charging into the shields of his soldiers.
The plan worked.
The first line crashed before Roran, ducking behind his shield as his ears were assaulted by the sound of battle. His feet were slippery in the increasing voracious rain, men screaming and bellowing and crying. All Roran could do was wait until their first line faltered, retreating or opening space so that his enemies could slink through. He gripped the short-bladed weapon in his right hand, his helmet dripping water into his eyes.
The battle met him then.
An imperial warrior broke through the first rank, moving forward and allowing his allies a foothold. He wielded a shining long sword, both hands on the ornate hilt as a steel shield protected his back. He charged directly at Roran, who feebly raised his own shield as the massive sword came crashing down.
The shield splintered like old wood, Roran spinning away as he tried to shake the defensive tool off of his arm. The man cut a Pike soldier from neck to groin as he advanced on Roran, striking at Roran's thighs. Roran jumped backwards, slipping on mud and falling to the earth. Another body fell to his right, dead eyes staring at him as blood poured from a sunken chest. The Imperial stood over Roran then, his sword raised to deliver the killing blow- until the point of a spear poked the man's neck. Blood spilled from the wound as Newlyn rode past, his horsemen close behind him. The man he stabbed stood for a moment, and then fell over. Roran rose quickly, gathering his bearings as he looked about him.
Pike colors rushed past as orders were barked but not understood. They all ran into the village surrounding the fort, which was now a battleground. Roran followed, stepping over dead and dying men as they cried for help and gods. He brushed past a company of longbowmen, standing at the borders of the town as they loosed arrow after arrow into the mass of soldiers further down. The arrows hissed as they left deft fingers.
Roran hoped they were as accurate as they looked.
"Around here!" A man cried, his face covered by a fullhelm with blood painting his chestplate. He stood behind the last ranks of the Pike forces as they were locked in battle with Imperial soldiers. Roran followed the man, who led at least thirty others. They passed into the town, sloshing in ankle-deep mud and ignoring the rain that nearly blinded them. The fullhelm man led them into the side of the fighting Imperials, roaring as he cut down two men with his jeweled axe. He was then felled by a strike from a maul, falling over into the rain, his helmet dented on the side. Roran surged forward, his short-blade giving him mobility and speed. His cloak flew behind him like a cape of a hero from the old tales, forgetting the lessons he had learned in the drillyards, fighting purely on instinct.
He never saw more than the eyes of the men he killed, never even saw their faces. He saw their colors, and knew they were an enemy. Old and young, it made no difference. They died the same.
The ground was awash with blood when the last vestiges of the Imperial forces melted away. They retreated deeper into the village, arrows catching some running men as they turned their backs and abandoned rank. He gained a moments respite then, lifting his head to the distance and seeing the fort of Gil'ead. It was small, sharp-looking, and surprisingly formidable. Fires swam around it. Deligan Pike's forces were no doubt scaling the walls as he stood here.
"Forward! Forward!" Newlyn cried behind him, his warhorse trampling dead bodies as his forces galloped past. Roran followed, and the men behind him did as well.
They met another Imperial force, this one already engaged. Roran weaved between horses and entered the fray, swords flashing all around him. They pushed the Imperials back, slowly, red and brown ground grinding in between leather boots and metal sabatons. A savage club struck him at the corner of his mouth, and Roran bit down on his tongue as his helmet came flying off of his head. The club then came swinging into his side.
Roran fell over as blood filled his mouth.
His attack came into view- a man who looked no more than a peasant, but with large arms and shoulders. He struck at Roran again, the young man rolling away from the blow, unclasping his cloak and throwing it at his attacker. The man fell backwards as the heavy mud-laden cloak wrapped around him. Roran rushed forward, stabbing his short sword into the cloak until his arm grew tired.
"Scabahha gconai van nihil".
Roran saw a corpse erupt in blood, tendrils of the life giving fluid stabbing men in the eyes and slipping between the creases of their armor. He shied away, finally spotting a man waving his hands about him, eyes glowing within a face covered in bones.
Bloodmage.
Lorgainn's small force came from nowhere, speaking in strange tongues as they rode through. The animals they lead joined the battle.
Roran saw wolves and foxes and dogs nipping at heels and tearing throats as they jumped and barked.
They were winning.
Lorgainn's bloodmages made quick work of the remaining Imperial strength in the town.
The battle still raged ahead of them, however, Newlyn leading them deeper into the village and into the fort.
They marched up a steep incline, shouts of anger pouring over them. Arrows came flying at them from the battlements of the fort, Roran wincing as the shafts skimmed by, hitting men and killing them instantly or slowly, depending on where they landed. Newlyn was at the head of the assault, his sword waving ahead of him.
Arrows were fired at the man, but they shied off the last minute, veering away to either side of him as his horse shook its fearsome mane and chomped its teeth. They reached the wooden wall of the fort.
Lorgainn's bloodmages rode past them brusquely. They all began chanting, and a high-pitched hum took to the air. It loudened until it reached a note that was almost deaf to the human ear, and the wooden gate began to splinter and crack. Suddenly it exploded. Newlyn pointed his sword forward.
"Charge!" He cried. His men grunted in response, crashing through the ruined gates. Roran ran behind the mass, shielded by their bodies. As the first of the men passed underneath the gateway, black oil poured down on them, searing their skin and melting their eyes. They hesitated as their eager comrades coiled on the ground and burned, only to be blasted by bolts that came crashing from crossbows. The second line of men fell like sacks of vegetables, quarrels going through their leather armor like knives through butter.
"Shields! SHIELDS!" A man cried, and there was a grunt as shields were raised. Opposite from them, orders were bellowed from inside the Fort's courtyard.
"READY, AIM, FIRE!"
Thuds erupted from shields as another round of quarrels were released into them. This time, however, they were ready, and the bolts cracked open wooden shields and punctured arms, but for the most part they did not reach vital organs of the infantrymen.
"Charge! Into the fort!" Newlyn cried behind them.
Roran rushed through, the patter of boots echoing his own footsteps. A row of crossbowmen were before them, hastily reloading their weapons until finally they dropped them and ran up the staircases of the wall. The men then entered the keep itself, crashing doors open and killing any who were found inside. Over the wall, the sound of battle hummed, Deligan's forces winning the battle on the outside of the fortress.
"The battle is won." A man said with a smile. Roran returned it, and then he heard a crash coming from one of the many doors. The men in the courtyard turned, and the door opened, a bloodied man with frenzy in his eyes looking at them.
"Lorgainn! LORGAINN!" He cried.
Like a ghost, Lorgainn seemingly appeared behind Roran, and walked ahead of him.
"What is it?" He asked. His bone-armor was basked in blood, and a fox sniffed at his heels.
The man shook his head and stepped aside. Two more men appeared, carrying a third, his head down, dark brown hair covering his face. A fourth man brushed past him, and in his hands was a writhing baby dragon. Lorgainn's mouth tightened as he caught sight of it, hands curling into fists.
"What is this . . ." He began. One of his men picked up the head of their captive, putting a dagger to his neck.
"What should we do with him, sir?" He asked. Roran froze. Eragon looked at him in the eye, fear written over his face.
"Eragon!" Roran cried, and the Pike man threw Eragon down in surprise.
Roran rushed to his brother.
Durza bled on the cold floor. He could feel it, feel them, the hundreds of spirits within his body, writhing and fleeing. His wound bled profusely, blood staining the pale stone below him.
He was dying.
Caomhim. Durza wondered how the man survived . . . but he had no time for that now. The mages were gathered around him, culled from the battle so that he could do one last task . . . and maybe prolong his life. The humans called Sloan and Garrow, captured from the settlement of Carvahall, were seated before him, inside a circle drawn with ash, their bodies naked.
Durza raised himself, wincing as his wound stung him and as the sound of violence rang above. They were in the depths of Gil'ead, and he hoped he had enough time to do what he needed to do.
"Have you taken the necessary precautions?" Durza asked. One of his mages nodded.
"They are ready."
Durza smiled thinly.
"Good."
Durza projected himself into the man, leaving his body as he forced himself into the mage's. The man writhed and screamed, but Durza was too powerful. In the end, he opened his eyes, and saw the bleeding body of himself on the ground, lifeless and dying at the same time. He raised his hands, his new hands, before his new face, noting the largeness of them, noting how they quickly turned pale. He heard the whispering of his spirits as they adjusted to their new home.
"Summon the Ra'zac." He commanded.
The mages began, slashing the backs of Garrow and Sloan open and filling it with dirt that had been soaked in the ash of burnt wood. They screamed as their blood fell, and the circle began to glow as dark magic ebbed around them. Hands of shadow stretched over their faces, Durza watched impassively as the men turned.
The one called Sloan grew a snout like a wolf's, half decayed and pink, revealing black gums and yellow teeth. Roaches crawled over the face of this new creature, a tail growing from Sloan's back and his arms and legs became covered with stained fur.
The one named Garrow had a face similar to that of a raven's, and two wings sprouted from his back. Spiders fell from his beak like saliva, and he scratched at the stone with hands that ended with talon fingers.
The Ra'zac. Servants of the Dark Creed. Durza knew that by doing this he would awaken Him, but he had no choice. Caomhim . . . this new rider. . . they had to be stopped.
The wolf creature regarded him with yellow eyes, bugs skittering over its face.
"We are the night of the earth."
"The bane of creation."
The raven cawed, and spread its wings.
"The lords of the dead'
"Kings of the undying marches beyond the world," The wolf growled, "Stewards to Golhlobor."
Durza felt the spirits within him tense at the sound of that dark name.
Golhlobor. The creator of Dark Magic.
"I have a task for you." He started, and the Ra'zac listened with intelligent eyes that had been dead for over a millennia.