Chapter 7

All the characters with screen time in this are mine. So this much, at least, I do own.

Most of The Empire's settlements had been created by the same natural forces that had created its forests, mountains and rivers. Dras-Leona, for example, had been forged by the stone of the great peaks of the Helgrind. It had been a small town until deposits of iron were found under the mountains, at which point it been swelled by miners and craftsmen until it became the industrial capital of The Empire, and what had been simple veneration for the source of their livelihoods had become a fanatic religion.

Terim, on the other hand, had been formed by the flow of the river and the gentle lapping of the ocean. It's calm waters and hidden bay had drawn the first settlements of smugglers and pirates, and then their comrades, who opened bars and brothels, and then the merchants and artisans the burgeoning community had needed, until the criminals had become merchants themselves.

Even Urû'baen was built on the ruins of an Elven city, and it's sheer cliffs had made it a natural fortress for the first ragged hunters who stumbled across it, and their ancestors had dwelled their ever since, using the nearby river to conduct trade, and the valuable farmland around it to become rich.

Beletona was the only city in The Empire shaped by pure, unadulterated politics. It guarded no mountain pass, no rich farmland, no religion found relevance in it and only one, almost irrelevant trade route passed through it.

The city had been built when Surda had been declared part of the Broddring kingdom, as a place on fairly neutral ground where the lords and king of the time could meet. It was out of the way, and sparsely populated, but this was good, as none of them trusted the others not to bring an army. Eventually, when this was no longer a necessary precaution, the city sat empty, relatively purposeless until it had been rebuilt as a vast prison to store undesirables a century before the fall of the Riders. Now? It was the keep where Galbatorix kept the majority of his Southern garrison, and the watch-post for Surda.

It was built atop a flat-topped hill, surrounded by nothing but blasted stone and wasted soil, so thin that the bedrock could be felt beneath it. From the city you could see for miles around, a tactic of the old empire: never let anyone sneak up on you. It watched the skies above as well as the ground below.

Along the rugged hills surrounding it trotted a retinue of knights, each mounted on proud white horses, high-fettled and glossy-maned, their flanks grey with the grime and dust of the road, coating the steel barding of archaic design. Their riders were equally impressive, each tall and broad shouldered, in full plate-armor and long cloaks, their long, ashen spears slung low at their horses sides, long blades of folded steel on their hips.

Most distinctive of all was the steel masks they all wore, totally featureless save for the eyeslits. Each of the knights had a bearing that suggested total confidence and pride, and many who happened to see them as they passed by touched wood or salt to ward off bad omen. They were the Domiavard, the kings personal soldiers. They had no identities, no families. They could not be bribed, or threatened, and feared only failing their master. They did not seem to have names. They even looked identical. Many of the more superstitious breathed that they weren't men at all, but demons the King had summoned from some twisted abyss with sorcery too dark to mention.

But even they did not have quite the presence of their fearsome leader, who rode a great coal-black charger, the finest of imperial stock, that champed and whinnied as it moved, seeming oddly tireless. The rider himself was enormous, his every movement as easy and graceful as a lion stalking it's prey. His armor was gilt and decorated, but thick enough to turn away a direct sword-stroke, and he disdained a helmet, allowing his black, square-cut mane to stream in the wind like a pendant.

All of them felt worn out to the ends of endurance, fatigue taking a toll, but none of them let it show. They had made the ride from Urû'baen in just under two weeks, changing horses at every garrison and sleeping in the saddle, eating only a few bites when strictly necessary, and never stopping for more then a few moments, to ensure they got to their destination in time. And now, looking over the city, they felt a flutter of triumph in their chests.

Meric smiled as he looked down at the city that had become a fortress. This would do very nicely. Belatona was only a city in terms of population and density of structures. It was more of a permanent military camp, the buildings devoted entirely to defense. The city had a Hexagonal shaped outer wall more then forty feet high, that was wide enough for a troop of soldiers to march six abreast along it's length. Each corner of the wall was further fortified into a fortress itself, containing it's own barracks, armory and storerooms. The cities two gates were likewise fortified with imposing gatehouses that could rain death on any attempt to break through their iron-banded doors. As his retinue drew closer to the gates, a horn sounded mournfully and the massive portals swung open.

Within minutes Meric was riding beneath the arch of the southwest gate and into a narrow tunnel. Heavy stone blocks seemed to press in from either side, and he made out narrow arrow-slits and murder holes on each side. After ten yards the passage narrowed sharply to the right, then back to the left again. Unlike most cities, the streets were laid out in neat, orderly lines. Making good time he made his way to the fortress, ignoring the stares he attracted on the way.

A troop of soldiers kept watch at the drawbridge that led to the castle, their faces impassive and their wicked looking halberds held ready.

Attendants and servants hurried from an adjoining stable as his escort slipped heavily from their stables. Meric remained motionless, moving only to check the long object strapped to the saddle wrapped in layers of cloth. Running a possessive hand over it, he was sorely tempted to remove it and buckle it to his belt. But he resisted. Not yet. Wit a deep sigh he instead removed the axe from a loop in his stallions saddle and clutched in his right hand. As he did so there was a clatter of steps as a young noble dashed from the tower towards him, stopping up short a few spear lengths away.

Meric could well imagine the thoughts going through the youth's head. His armor shone like silver and was filigreed with gold, and his retinue were Galbatorix's personal guard. Yet he wore no livery or crest and held no banner to identify himself. Instead he clutched the hilt of a well-worn battle-axe, scarred and pitted from use. The boy probably thinks I'm Galbatorix's own executioner, come to dispense the king's justice, Meric thought, then chuckled. In that, he's almost correct.

"Where is Duke Almar and his General?" Meric asked curtly, his voice giving no hint of the strain the weeks hard riding had caused.

The young nobles widened slightly. "I…he… that is they, the council are in session-"

"Excellent. Take me there." He replied, his eyes narrowing alarmingly.

The young noble looked slightly ashen. "But nobody… That is, perhaps you would care for some refreshment first?"

"Did I ask for refreshment?" He snapped, dismounting and handing his reigns to one of the knights. He held the axe loosely in his hands. "Take me to your master, now."

The noble nodded weakly. Turning on his heel he strode to the tower occasionally glancing over his shoulder at Meric. Smiling wolfishly the big man followed, the axe still clutched in his fist. The knights dismounted and followed silently behind.

Duke Almar's council chambers lay very near the top of the keep, which did nothing to improve Meric's mood. The climb, up narrow, twisting stairways and dimly lit, bustling corridors seemed to last for hours. By the time the noble finally led Meric to the top of the stairs he was entirely out of patience. Pushing the noble out of the way he came to the imposing double doors he put his boot against the oak and kicked for all he was worth.

The oaken doors swung open, rebounding off the wall with a thunderous bang. Everyone present in the room beyond leapt to their feet, with startled shouts and curses. Meric strode in, catching the recoiling door with the hilt of his axe and stopping it with a hollow clang.

The chamber was surprisingly small and cramped, dominated by a broad table covered with a layer of maps, notes, wine goblets and half eaten meals. Two dozen men dressed in comfortable clothes with soft hands stared up at his intrusion, and four more guards moved towards him, stepping carefully around the nobles, the spearheads of their halberds aimed for his throat.

Duke Almar stared at Meric with small, bright black eyes. His long face was marked with dozens of minor pockmarks, and scraggly dark hairs forming a crude approximation of a beard. He had all the military bearing of a weasel, and a petulant turn to his lips that put Meric in mind of a sulking child. At his right hand stood a towering, lanky figure in chainmail, with a crest marked out over his chest, above the heart. He was older then Meric, but not so old as to leave service in search of a quieter life. His skin was darkened by years of exposure from campaigning in the field, and his long curved sword was studded with gems. He was bald as an egg, his right ear had been torn off completely, and his left cheek was scarred and crumpled, lending his features a horrid, unbalanced cast.

"What is your name?" The general snarled. "I want to know what to write on your gravestone!"

"I am Meric of the Iron Keep." Meric replied coldly, adjusting his grip on the axe. Behind him his escort fanned out, their mailed gloves beginning to draw their swords. The guards took a threatening step forward, but suddenly seemed a lot less sure of themselves.

"Kialandí's bastard?" The man exclaimed, drawing a shocked gasp from all those present. "The kinslayer?"

Meric nodded once. "Galbatorix's champion." He said, as though correcting a mistake, and walked past the guards, who had hurriedly backed off at the general's pronouncement. "Our glorious majesty has seen fit to put my well-known talents to good use in organizing our defense here."

The duke scoffed, but no one joined him. "Let me be the judge of that." He said darkly. "How do I know the king has truly entrusted you? I suppose he has provided you with a writ detailing your responsibilities as proof of you claims."

Meric eyed the man. He was small, not fat so much as soft round the edges, with thinning hair and poor posture. His eyes squinted painfully, and he moved with all the grace and finesse of an arthritic grandfather. The general ran things, and he knew it. His one source of power was paperwork, which he took very seriously. The Duke should have been born a clerk, not a ruler, or even better, died a spoiled child.

Reaching into a pouch at his belt, he withdrew a small, iron object that glinted dully as he threw it across the table, until it came to rest before the duke. Picking it up he examined it, and then gasped. It was an iron ring inlaid with a stylized sword. The kings signet ring.

"Still, this proves…" He began weakly, and then was brought up short as Meric took the axe and slammed it into the table with a thunderous crack, making the assembled councilors gasp. The table jumped violently, then settled, now with a long, deep crack running through it, the axe solidly imbedded in the table, it's vibrating handle giving off a faint humming noise, until Meric stilled it with his open hand. Dead silence.

"If you have anything further to add, save it for the king when he gets here." Meric said shortly, ignoring the gasps that sounded from around the room. Turning his attention to the general, whose hand was once more wrapped around the hilt of his sword, Meric's eyes narrowed still further. "You would be Kaul?" Meric asked, his green eyes fixing on the generals blue ones.

The general nodded. "Bramar Kaul."

"Well, Kaul, I have come a long way in a short time to pass on a message." Meric replied, as worried murmurs began spreading around the room. Kaul straightened at the news, the muscles bulging at the sides of his scarred jaws. Whatever his failings, the general was not a coward. "Very well." The general replied. "Lets hear it then."

Meric nodded formerly, the first respect to convention he'd given since his arrival, and continued. "As you wish. Your lord and master has watched your efforts in repelling the Varden, and he is most displeased with what he has heard and seen. More then that, he is disappointed."

The murmurs that had been present since Meric's arrival intensified, and the duke gasped. The general, however, went white with rage. "And what would Galbatorix have me do?" he cried. "Meet them on the field and leave Belatona undefended?" He snatched a pile of parchments and threw them at Meric, who didn't so much as blink. "Has he read my scouts reports? Has he heard what happened in Feinstar? You expect us to rank up on the open field and try to defeat them? We would be completely over run! They outnumber us more then five to one! Our only hope of victory is to let them break against our walls."

The assembled councilors listened and nodded, casting uneasy glances between the two of them, but Meric was unimpressed. "Feinstar. I understand that you had knowledge of the Varden's offensive two weeks before the city fell. And yet you made no attempt to lift the siege. No, you cowered in you rabbit-hole while they slaughtered hundreds of troops who manned the walls expecting reinforcements that never arrived. You trembled here to preserve your own skin, making excuses for your cowardice, and will now leave us open to the Varden's offensive, and Surdan raids for years to come."

"The Varden must overcome us if they want to advance any further into the Empire." Kaul shot back. "Here we are in a position of strength!"

"Are you? I recall that almost a third of your standing garrison is made up of cavalry. What use will they be in a protracted siege, unless you want to send the cavalrymen to the walls and their mounts to the kitchens." Meric replied, remaining calm despite the generals fury. "You have a powerful, and above all, mobile force at your command, Kaul, but you lack the courage to put it to the test against a bunch of farmers, savages and thugs. You hoped to tremble behind these walls and wait for the king to come and save you. That is not how we fight. We are the Empire, our enemies fear us, not the other way around. This is our country, and we make invaders pay for every painful step they take onto our soil. That is how the state responds when animals trespass on our domain."

A muscle twitched above Kaul's eye. "You dare call me a coward?" He shouted, slamming his fist against the table. "I've commanded legions for thirty years, I've led more raids then I can count, I've bled for the Empire, and I know what we are capable of. If you had an ounce of sense you'd see that this fortress was built to resist such an attack as they're planning. The only sensible course of action is to conserve our forces and prepare for the coming onslaught."

Meric shook his head. "Kaul, I call you nothing. I speak with the King's voice, and he calls you nothing more then a failure. You are not fit for your command. But I am choosing to believe that you are merely a fool, and not a traitor. You should be grateful. You're going to survive."

Kaul drew his sword with a roar, but was interrupted by the four guards, who could see which way the wind was blowing. "You now answer to me. Your army is placed under my command, the cities resources are mine to distribute. The duke can consider himself temporarily relieved while this situation is put under control." Meric said, his eyes making it very clear that this would be permanent, but the Duke couldn't find the courage to voice his complaints. Interbred little coward. "Kaul, consider yourself under house arrest until I've decided what to do with you." Meric finished disinterestedly, his fierce eyes settling upon the nobles who were exchanging shocked glances. He felt he'd made his impression.

Kaul snarled, but Meric was unmoved. "I could have you whipped within an inch of your life." He observed dryly, as the guards escorted him out. "Even executed. But I won't. I can be cruel, but I try to be fair. Everyone should have an opportunity to make up for past mistakes. Don't you agree gentlemen?" He directed the final point to the assembled nobles, who hastily nodded as though he was being magnanimous, and at that moment Meric knew they wouldn't dare give him any trouble.

For a moment he savored the silence that hung over the room, and he picked up a half finished goblet and gulped it down. Wiping his mouth with the back of an armored greave, he stared at the surrounding councilors and cocked his head. The knights fanned out further still until they surrounded everyone present, their masks impassive, but threatening.

"Now as my first official command I want a bottle of good wine brought out. Then you can tell me who you all are and what it is you do. " He said, smiled wolfishly and rested his chin on his fist.

Well there we go. The plot is finally moving along. Thank you to the people who have reviewed. Now, I'm trying to write a battle scene you'll be getting in a few weeks. If anyone has any advice on how to do it please tell me as I am struggling with getting it right and by helping you'll get a better standard of end result.