Roran gazed out over Dras-Leona's gate, behind which the Varden were arranged, as well as on the wall to either side of him. After Eragon's capture, they had been forced backwards by the oncoming Empire troops, and into the city had been their only retreat. Fortunately for them, the Empire had been too distracted to search the camp properly, and Eragon's elven guards had escaped the released trap and returned, fighting now as magicians would, on the front lines, wherever they might be.
All eleven of them now stood in a line, to Roran's right, bove the gate. Like him, they looked out at the camp, now occupied by the Empire, which had held a majority of the Varden's supplies, and a good deal of their weapons. Only the men who were equipped to fight were defending the city, meaning that they were outnumbered by about five thousand men.
The Empire's army was now arranged in front of the gate, ready, it seemed, to begin a seige. No messages or preliminary declarations had been sent; this was warfare, pure and simple. One army attacking a city, another defending it. There were no unnecessary attatchments, just two foes, about to fight. Silence and suspense were the prevalent features of the atmosphere.
Roran took deep breaths to steady himself, but could not steady his inner imbalance. The capture of Eragon, despite the best efforts of twelve of the best elven spellcasters-counting Arya-as well as his dragon, not to mention Eragon himself, had left Roran shocked. Such an event as the removal of his cousin was something he had not expected until Uru'baen, or until Galbatorix himself flew forth.
Indeed, such situations would be less embarassing than this. Their one hope had been captured; not in one last stand at the gate of the enemy's castle, nor in an epic clash between two Riders, each a symbol of his own side, each a leader, both deciding the fate of a nation. Nay, the Rider of the great blue dragon had been taken by surprise and overwhelmed by an unwilling servant with a mere fraction of the power available to the one true target.
But the Varden defied Galbatorix still. Their flag flew over Dras-Leona, their troops raised sword and spear still, and as they had before even the birth of Eragon, they denied Galbatorix's rule. The show of rousing pride heartened Roran, but not overmuch. He felt that he had failed to even be there when his cousin had been rather publically defeated, and that weighed greatly on his conscience.
But that was not for the here, that was not for the now. A battle was to be fought, and Roran would be fighting, and thoughts of defeated heroes were 'as much use as trying to use a needle to kill a fly; highly unnecessary, extremely tedious, and more likely to get yourself hurt than your enemy,' as Angela had remarked to him once. The witch, he saw, was amongst the Urgal warriors, who were all fighting-they never left their weapons behind-and they seemed to be swapping tales with each other, though Roran couldn't understand the Urgal tounge.
Yarbog was one of them, and it seemed that he was demonstrating what had happened in his fight against Roran; his hands were on his horns, his head shaking from side to side.
Showing her own tale, it seemed, Angela then did something Roran didn't quite understand. She reached upwards, as if to grab something hovering in the sky. One hand grabbed at something, then went to her mouth and swallowed, then again and again, until the entire imaginary thing was devoured, and the Urgals nodded, the name or title 'Uluthrek' rang through the night.
Roran never knew quite what to make of the herbalist, nor anything she said, so he turned back to surveying the army that seemed ready to assault the gate. They were in well-assembled ranks, archers at the front now, but with channels through the groups for the soldiers to run through.
They had little seige equipment, and their battering ran had obviously been cut and shaped the day before. The end was ragged, and it was quite small, but it might still be able to break through the weaker northern gate. While that which the Varden had besieged was strong enough to hold them, without control of the lake or the land to that side they had been unable to attack the weaker gate, and had instead relied upon Eragon opening the stronger one from within. But the Empire were perfectly able to assault the weaker gate, which meant that they would likely break in.
Roran's commpany were at the forefront of the army within the gate, as were the Urgals. The dwarves with the Varden had chosen to stay away from the Urgals, and instead took positions on the wall, where they had a height advantage, and could also utilise the power of their bows, which Orik had told Roran were made out of Urgal horn.
It struck Roran that that fact was one of the reasons that they chose to remain away from the eight-foot Kull, quite apart from the size difference.
A single arrow came from the ranks of the Empire, as if a test. It clattered off the wall below the archers opposinig the Empire.
Roran pointed to one of the dwarves that stood to the side, who nodded, and fired an arrow towards the ranks of the Empire.
It struck a commander's horse in the neck, and the beast whinnied in pain before collapsing to the ground, the rider jumping off and uttering a foul curse. Roran noticed that the battlefield had now fallen eerily quiet, as if the world, suddenly unsurre of itself, had frozen in panic.
Somewhere behind him, someone tested a bowstring. It 'twang'ed loudly, the sound oddly satisfying. There was a scraping sound as a sword was drawn out of its sheath. Roran lifted his hammer, already out. The calm was almost supernatural, as the two armies simply stared at one another.
Then, commands rang through the morning air. Horns sounded, war cries were raised, and the Empire's army ran forwards, as a volley of arrows soared towards the walls. In answer, Roran called for the archers to fire, and the dwarven bows released their projectiles, tearing through many of the first ranks of the attacking army, even as the archers ducked down and arrows clattered across the stones around them and before them. The dwarf Roran had told to fire was struck in the rear as he bent.
But Roran did not wait to see more. "Fire as soon as you're ready! Show these Empire scum how to use a bow!" He was already hurrying to the tower at the side of the gate, and he heard an answering yell from the archers as he began to descend.
At the bottom, he advanced to the forefront of the army there, nodding to Angela and Yarbog on the way. Angela waved, Yarbog bared his throat, and Roran passed the two, going towards his own company.
Once he reached the head, Nar Garzhvog, the Urgal leader, was already there. They bared their throats to each other, as Roran had learnt was custom between leaders, and stood side by side, facing the gate and ready to fight the attackers.
In Roran's previous four seiges-Fenister, Belatona, Auroghs, Dras-Leona-in that order-he had always been part of the attacking force. There was a distinctively different atmosphere whilst defending; you weren't in a hurry, but your enemies were. He disliked that fact, prefering action, but he would have to deal with it.
Okay people, so sorry about this, but this is where Capture ends. I've lost inspiration for it. I'll go back to posting the chapters of Ebrithilar up on here, then start on the sequel to that.
Hate to be one of those people that quits a story, but sometimes you have to. It's a dissapointment to myself, but hey. What am I supposed to do? Act like I care? That'd be lying to myself. And I don't do that if I can help it, so yeah. Goodbye from this story! It wasn't too brilliant, and that's my final word.