ERAGON

FLAMES licked the air. Barking shouts filled the streets of Pulin, interposed by the sound of massive slabs of stone that crashed into the city's urban flats. Far in the distance Pulin's legendary walls crumbled, punctured by meteor-like missles streaking across the sky like falling stars.

Bodies were scattered about- some moaning and near death- others horrifically charred as they failed to escape grasping fires that sprouted from hastily evacuated homes.

Pulin's own forces mobilized along with the Varden's troops, setting up a perimeter around Orrin's estate. The King himself, astride his warhorse, stood before a small assembly of generals as they devised plans of defense.

"This wasn't the meeting I had in mind," Orrin said to himself with a wry smile, face half obscured by a golden warhelm. His keep rumbled, heavy stones crashing against ancient architecture. With each strike screams exploded from within Pulin's proper, leaving a wake of death that lingered behind cackling flames.

They were facing what Orrin's mages called a Shade.

Orrin swallowed heavily, ash painting tired lungs. He was aware of magic- taught by his father how to defend against it. He was not blessed by mana- a quality that Orrin's father had verbally lashed him for as a boy- almost as if it was Orrin's own doing.

The young King looked up to the sky, bright eyes catching more volleys of stone as they climbed across a darkening mosaic of clouds, and into the city below.

This Shade was not alone. With it was an Urgal horde, numbering no less than six thousand. His mages had also discovered beasts among the army, corrupted by dark mana. Orrin shivered, recalling the horrifying images he had been shown within a wavering scrying pool.

Greatwolves yipped and barked between Urgal legs, blood dripping from onyx fangs. Shadowlions lurked within the horde beside them, quiet while eyes rolled in silent frenzy.

It was within this madness that a Shade lurked- a monstrosity of death and cursed mana. The few Elves that had defected to the Varden sensed magic beyond what was possible for a Shade- and it wasn't long before they were able to deduce this attack was the work of the Empire.

So this is how you fight your battles, Galbatorix.

Orrin winced, covering his eyes as smoke passed over his head- the aftermath of yet another blast of flaming rock crashing into crumbling homes.

"My Lord," an armored man strode to Orrin's horse, stilling it as it stomped in agitation at the smog surrounding them.

Orrin's warhelm gleamed as he looked down upon one of his most loyal generals.

"Kēomyr," Orrin rasped.

Kēomyr saluted, gripping a silver hilt as he did so.

"The Shade has begun its advance. Urgals have finally breached the walls. Even when the horde reaches the city limits, I doubt the Shade will cease its artillery until all of us are dead."

Orrin winced as his ears were met with another volley of horrified cries. Behind him a plume of black smoke erupted. He couldn't see the deaths directly, but he knew that the Shade was directing stones into masses of fleeing Pulinites, trampling over each other as they were herded into Tronjheim below.

"It knows we are trying to escape to our allies." Orrin said over the screams.

Kēomyr nodded, dusky blonde hair specked by ash.

"If we are to ensure the lives of the people, we will need to leave a legion to slow the Urgal advance. That may give the rest of our men time to evacuate the city."

Orrin laughed almost incredulously.

"So that is the grand strategy you've surmised with the rest of my generals? You speak as if the legion chosen won't be left to their deaths." Orrin spat.

Kēomyr held his gaze, unaffected by Orrin's words.

"As is such in war, my King. My legions are prepared to die if need be. It is in times like these that their sacrifice is necessary."

"Have you spoken with my father?" Orrin asked.

Kēomyr answered instantly.

"He has offered to stay with the Thirdion legion, and vanguard the Varden's retreat. Our allies are mounting defenses below- if we can lead this Shade-"

Orrin scoffed bitterly.

Of course Killian would choose the path wrought with blood.

He knew his father was challenging him.

"My King?" Kēomyr questioned.

Orrin smiled down at the man.

"I will be joining with Thirdion, along with Killian. The both of us will lead the defense as you flee with the rest of the army." Orrin spoke with bravery, but within himself he felt that those boastful declarations rang hollow.

Kēomyr knew instantly- Orrin's fear licked the veteran's ears like falling rain. Kēomyr looked at Orrin with a face that was bordering on pity.

"My King- with all due respect you should retreat with the others- the battle will follow us into Tronjheim, you will have your chance for glory." Kēomyr offered a small smile.

Orrin saw Murtagh's sneer within his mind's eye. He felt silly then- comparing his courage to that of a child's. But at the same time he knew that Murtagh would fight to save others- something that Orrin had never done.

The King pulled a jeweled sword free from its scabbard, allowing the blade to taste bloodied air. He heard a pounding in the far distance- a horrifying sound accompanied by howls that shattered his ears.

The Urgals were close.

"This isn't about glory. It's about duty. I thank you for your service Kēomyr. I want you to follow the others into Tronjheim. Ensure the boy and his friends are escorted as well. They will be needed." Orrin spoke haltingly as he lowered his warhelm's visor.

Orrin could tell that Kēomyr wanted to argue, but the man said nothing. He simply nodded as he backed away, cape billowing before him.

Orrin reached for his belt, pulling a small warhorn from his waist. He touched dry lips to the cold instrument, releasing a screeching cry into the wind.

Within moments his personal guard, a mounted infantry unit comprised of hand picked men, circled around him, horses nickering in excitement and fear.

Orrin looked at the eyes that stared at him as the courtyard emptied. Young faces, some scarred, bore wide eyes as they regarded their King.

Me.

Orrin reflected on what their lives must have been like- how many battles they survived. Situations that Orrin haplessly thrown them into. They followed him, survived with him, and now they very well may die with him.

The screams of the Urgals reached a new crescendo, curving from within Pulin's cramped streets. Hell was about to be released upon them- but despite that, Orrin smiled. For what felt like the first time, he believed that he deserved the crown he wore during droll meetings and signings of alliances.

"Today, we are all Kings!" Orrin bellowed as he urged his horse forward. The guard followed, shouting with doomed vigor as heavy hooves beat against ash covered ground. They tore from the estate gates, descending into the city's proper.

Orrin clung to the back of his horse as he rode, eyeing the streets ahead. Sure enough, the Thirdion legion waited near the city center, guarding a dwindling procession of citizens as they fled underground.

But beyond them- Urgals began to pour from Pulin's ruined walls. They were a grey and black mass that approached over yellow hills with terrifying speed.

Even astride a horse, Orrin could feel the Urgal's footfalls. He shook himself free of fear, zipping past a crumbling marketplace inhabited by corpses kissed by fire.

He shot his eyes to the Urgals in the distance. Beyond the backs of the Thirdion throng, the Urgals were massing within Pulin's proper. They were close now- close enough for Orrin to see the sharp points of their curved horns.

The Urgal horde carried thick iron blades that seemed to beg for soft flesh. Drumbeats called from within their disorganized mob, spelling a deepening doom for the Thirdion- and for Orrin.

Slightly behind the flattened market and to the left of Orrin, the line of Pulinites evolved from subdued fear to frenzied panic. They pushed and shoved at each other as Varden knights attempted to maintain a semblance of order.

I need to-

Orrin's thoughts blanked as a thrumming boom erased haphazard conjectures of strategy, borne from a young and inexperienced mind. His eyes leapt towards the heavens once more. A molten core, nearly the size of a trebuchet, hung in the air.

Tiny embers flew around the sphere like buzzing gnats, while rivers of flame sloshed between sharply cut rock.

Orrin opened his mouth to command the Thirdion legion to flee, to fall back so they could survive the impact and carry on the fight. But as the missile fell, it seemed to absorb all of the air carried on wicked winds.

Sound itself didn't meet Orrin's ears. He heard nothing, save for the tell-tale whistle of destruction as the sphere fell directly onto the Thirdion legion.

A wave of sickening wails reverberated throughout Orrin's bones. His body shook while white knuckled hands gripped at flipping reigns. He was buffeted by an ocean of darkened smoke that swam throughout Pulin, echoing from the epicenter of the Shade's fallen stone.

Sound returned to his ears as he urged his horse forward. Orange and black smog climbed beyond the flat roofs of surviving Pulinate homes while riderless horses drunkenly fled from beyond that opaque sheen of certain destruction.

Orrin forced his steed foreword. His men followed, silent as sobs and panting gasps surrounded them. The earth quaked violently from the Urgal's advance. Beastlike yawps hit the young King heavier than any blow.

But he continued.

Ash flavored the inside of his mouth and covered drooping eyelids.

He descended into chaos.

A long row of silhouettes were arranged before him, and Orrin could recognize the gleaming hawk of the Thirdion legion painted upon armored backs. They formed themselves into a shield wall, unbothered by the bodies of their comrades that had died not moments prior.

Orrin's horse trotted ahead, hooves splashing into pools of blood that shook with each step of the Urgals.

"You're not supposed to be here."

Killian's voice woke Orrin from a fear induced stupor. The man appeared at the center of the shieldwall, sword gripped in one hand while a small scepter was held in the other. Blood covered his father's mask with a painters artistry, giving Killian the appearance of a foreboding deity of war.

Before Orrin could answer, Killian turned.

The Urgals were upon them. Erupting from blackened smoke they cried, swords slashing and cutting into bodies and armor. Wolves dipped between pointed spears and bit at ankles, pulling down men individually as they were gored by horn or blade.

"Take the back alleys, and command your men to charge their advance from the sides!" Killian bellowed, his voice amplified by magic. Orrin nodded, but his eyes lingered on the scene of death before him.

Killian leapt into battle, sword twisting about his body while loosing spells of destruction into the Urgals.

Horned giants crumbled in plumes of glowing light, returning to Killian's scepter as the Urgal's life force was absorbed by Killian's unorthodox spellcraft.

"Now Orrin. Or I will command your mind and that of your men to follow my orders by force." Killian threatened as he cleaved a charging Urgal in two with a slight tap of his sword.

Orrin's horse whinnied as he reared it, raising his blade once more.

"To me!" He cried, rallying the surviving members of his guard. Orrin pounced to the back courtyards, horse galloping over tumbled structured warmed by curdling blood spilled from dead and dying.

The horrors of the Urgals filled his ears as he navigated around them. They chanted almost wickedly, unfettered by the resistance put up by Killian and the Thirdion men. Drumbeats originating from Urgal flanks seem to grow louder and more frenetic, pushing the creatures into new lows of savagery.

Orrin and his men circled the horde, poised to charge into the Urgals as they were locked in battle. Orrin pointed his sword forward, narrowing his eyes at the horns that awaited him.

He charged, and with him, the fate of Alagaesia followed.