Chapter three: The Liquid Brooch
They were three days into the Belatona march, and Roran felt an overwhelming tiredness as obstacle after obstacle seemed to be thrown into the Varden's path.
Leaving Feinster, hours after Eragon himself had departed, had not been easy. Despite their victory and efforts to clear the mess, the cities people still bore a pulsing, unhealthy mistrust of the Varden, and, in the pit of his heart, Roran understood why.
Of course, taking the city had been necessary. Without it, the Varden would have been open to an Empire attack from both sides, and another city under control meant more supplies for them, and less for Uru'baen. However the siege had left a bitter taste in Roran's mouth, and, he believed, the mouths of most of his men. Feinster was the enemy, and the enemy had to be crushed by any means necessary, for the greater good, but sometimes that old soldier's argument didn't seem enough justification to him.
Still, they had done the best they could. They had left the city cleared of corpses and with plenty of remaining supplies, no doubt more than Galbatorix would have offered to a conquered Surdan settlement. Not all of the people bore hatred; he had seen understanding and had received accepting nods from many of the survivors, particularly when the Lady Lorna had been returned to her people, freed from Galbatorix's surprisingly lax bindings by Eragon's elven guardians.
Beyond any guilt he still felt over the city, however, was his worry over the Empire raids. Bands of soldiers bearing the dread kings banners, would assault the Varden's procession mercilessly, stealing or destroying precious supplies and cutting down as many soldiers as they could, before they themselves were vanquished, or could make good their escape.
A typical raid might consist of fifty to one hundred men, a mixture of berserkers (those who fought without pain) and general soldiers, and Roran knew that they had no intention of causing grievous harm to the Varden. Indeed, it seemed more likely to him that Galbatorix was merely intent on slowing their progress. Or perhaps it was a taunt, aimed to show the Varden the fruitlessness of their task, and the apparently limitless supply of men under the king's control.
The king's control… magic. Roran sighed as he felt frustration boil over. Without his magic Galbatorix could be smitten down in an instant, dragon or not, and yet somehow, the God's had seen fit to grant him seemingly limitless arcane powers, whilst Roran's attentions were still, painstakingly, fixed upon the art of lifting a simple, copper brown pebble.
When they had made camp on the third night, and Roran was settling on his rough mattress beside Katrina, the horns sounded.
With murmured reassurances he left the tent and sprinted towards the sound which echoed throughout the starless night, pulling a breastplate over his simple tunic and fastening his greaves as quickly as he could.
There was a mass of activity around the Eastern edge of the Varden's camp when he arrived, and Roran heard Nasuada's voice ringing out above the clamour.
"Silence Varden! And hold your positions. Captains report to me!"
As he forced his way through the throng he heard snatches of worried conversation, proclaiming treachery and bloodshed, a thousand strong force not ten miles away, and sightings of a vermillion red dragon, winging its way towards Belatona.
"My lady" he gasped as he reached the makeshift command point where the Vardens captains were assembled, glancing worriedly between one another.
"Varden, I have received worrying news." The young leader spoke out with authority. "Our scouts report the sighting of a beast in flight, fitting Thorn's appearance, making its way toward Belatona."
"So then the men speak true!?" an unsteady voice called out "and the host of Galbatorix intends to meet us at the city?"
"Pray let me finish" Nasuada replied, "The reports are unclear and unproven, however we have confirmed that an eight hundred strong contingent of Belatonan warriors, including the Earl Bela, are stationed some twelve miles from our camp."
"And they plan to engage?" Roran spoke out for the first time, turning his fierce gaze upon the rebel leader.
"We know not, but it would not do to tempt fate, therefore we shall march upon them tonight, revealing all."
As the captains spread out, ordering their soldiers into marching positions, Roran scratched his head wearily, searching the crowd for his lieutenants. The news was confusing indeed, an eight hundred strong party without walls, no matter how magically protected, could never hope to survive the night against the Varden.
A flurry of activity in which the tents were hauled down and forced back onto the packhorses followed Nasuada's orders, but then dissolved into the steady thump, thump of boots over grit, and the warbling screech of metal on metal; the sharpening of a thousand swords.
After two hours of marching the camp was reassembled with wearied sighs and the 'labourers' of the Varden returned gratefully to their sleep, whilst soldiers crammed at the fore of the tents, a steely determination in their eyes. Roran rode Snowfire down his immaculately positioned line of warriors and ground to a halt before King Orrin. Nasuada, still recovering from her wounds, was to remain at the camp with the urgals and dwarves, in case they were taken by surprise.
"My people. O'er yonder great hill, lies the Belatonan camp. We know not their reasons for leaving the fine city, and we know not whether this breeds ill or good fortune to us. The people of Belatona are renowned for their craftsmanship, and such fame stems from cunning and integrity in quantities as great, nay greater, than technique. Therefore I urge that we proceed with caution."
"Cavalry battalions Brightmane and Thunderhoof, each of three hundred men, shall ascend the hill looking o'er the camp, whilst Hawkeye and Wildcat, each of twelve hundred footmen, will traverse either side, so as to flank the enemy."
"Again, my brave soldiers, we have no immediate reason to initiate combat. After reaching the hill-top, captain Stronghammer of battalion Brightmane shall lead a team of ambassadors to camp Belatona, whence they shall demand reasons for the Earls presence so far from his castle walls. After which, we shall decide upon our course of action."
With the King's words, the massed ranks broke into segmented action like the bolts and cogs within a great, lumbering machine. Issuing a roar that was echoed by his men, Roran urged Snowfire forwards, and battalion Brightmane began its procession up the sloping banks of lush green hillside.
Roran had pictured the scene as they neared the top of the hill that overlooked the Belatonan's war camp. Upon seeing the six hundred strong lines of cavalry looming over them, and dreadful in the night air, cries of terror and despairing drum-beats would claw through the night, as their enemies raised spears with shaking hands, or else fled into the dark, from whence they had come.
The mighty roar of appreciation, then, left him baffled.
As screams of joy and salvation wormed through his skull he gripped the hammer tighter, unease lacing his tensed sinews. Such a jubilant reaction meant that the Belatonan's had allied themselves with the Varden, good tidings on the whole, but their presence so far from the city walls suggested all was not so well, in Belatona.
With four of his bravest men, he galloped towards the camps head, where a man donned in burgundy finery was waving his fist in the air.
"Earl Bela of the liquid brooch, the Varden wonders at your presence." The liquid brooch was a beautiful object said to have been crafted by an ancient elf, who had settled in the city, in generations past, and it hung proudly from the Earls neck.
"I might, then, put your mind at ease, for a time, and assure you that we come in peace, to serve your cause."
"I see you retain a wariness, which is understandable, yet you must know that my eight hundred ill prepared men stand little chance against the Varden's might. I would propose the good lady Nasuada allows her encampment to reside here, beside ours, for a time, whilst we discuss recent… happenings."
Earl Bela looked to be in his fifties, a round man with a small square head and sunken bloodshot eyes. His voice was slick with practiced diplomacy, and though Roran could not claim to like the man, he spoke sense.
"I shall relay your message to my superior," Roran replied, glancing at Orrins position at the head of battalion Thunderhoof, "I trust your men shall be unarmed, and will allow us safe passage on our return?"
"I can assure you it will be so."
And in a rush of dust, the five ambassadors turned and galloped back up the arduous hill.
A Day Later
As he tore strips of stringy meat from a glistening chicken leg, Roran relayed the day's events through his head, concluding with the council in which Earl Bela had spat out his bitter tale.
Upon hearing of Lady Lorna's betrayal by her closest advisors and the success with which Galbatorix's bindings had been removed from her, Bela had been filled with hope, and unease. On the one hand, he saw escape from a tyrants rule, whilst on the other, he worried for the loyalty of his own associates. After receiving confirmation of their treachery by several independently employed spies, Bela had ordered their public execution citing high treason, but had been outwitted and imprisoned in his own domain by Salius, his former second. Despite his faults, Bela had been a popular leader due to his flawless manipulation of the Alagaesian economy and responsibility for the cities steady accumulation of wealth, and his usurping had enraged the public, leading to a large-scale jail break.
The result was, on the face of it, a good eight hundred welcome new additions to the Varden, as well as the presence of a popular and wealthy ruler. So far as he knew, the elven spell casters were working on the Earls bindings as Roran ate, and word through the grapevine was that Galbatorix, in his arrogance had, once more, done an incomplete and repairable job.
The danger was in the unknown, and Roran was forced to wonder at what state the city would be in, once they arrived. Closing his eyes he recalled the Empires careless burning of the hay barn at Carvahall, and their own destruction of Feinster. Belatona, renowned for its laid-back ambiance, would probably already be in ruins by the time they got there.
Furthermore the Earls tale, though it had satisfied the council, seemed incomplete, and some how too… perfect, to him.
With troubled thoughts Roran finished his meal and paced towards his tent, where Katrina lay waiting. Though he often found Orrin as dull as the next soldier, the king's words slipped unbidden into his skull, where they sloshed around unnervingly;
"The people of Belatona are renowned for their craftsmanship, and such fame stems from cunning and integrity in quantities as great, nay greater, than technique"
The moon was full and seemed to bathe the camp in its eerie light, and the twittering of skylarks filled his ears, with the raven's long, low, caw.