Chapter 12: Nameless Warrior

The cold night wind blew across the city, sending the many standards and flags flapping in the darkness. The clouds were thick and heavy, covering the stars and moon above, and the only sources of illumination came from the torches held by numerous guards. The flames flickered and danced in the gusts.

And of course, the firelight from the Varden, which army surrounded their city from all sides. Even from here Gerreld could see the steel and metal that flashed occasionally, reflecting the images of the flames.

His grip on his spear tightened.

Rebellious dogs… why did they have to do this? Why stand against the Empire? Why force him away from his wife, his children, the only warmth he ever had?

A hand patted him on his back and he turned around.

"So, any movement?" The other soldier asked casually as he joined him on the wall. In his hands was a wineskin.

"No. Nothing has really happened tonight. Which I am thankful for." Gerreld replied, taking the offered wineskin. "No more Varden scum trying to sneak up the wall, or try burying those exploding devices. It gets tiring, Vor, to try and keep up with those bastards."

The man chuckled. "Aye, aye. Oh, and have you heard? The lord had gathered the captains today and told them that he was certain that we would survive this particular tempest. Seems that our recent success had given him confidence."

Gerreld frowned. "What recent success? You mean our victory over the blue rider?"

Vor shook his head. "Victory? I'd say we were the ones who lost. You saw how the red rider was when he left."

Gerreld nodded slowly. The writhing figure clutched between the claws of Thorn as the dragon flew, anguish marring his handsome features and the pitiful moans that came from the depths of his throat…

"But I have to say that their duel shocked me." Vor sighed as he looked upwards into the inky blackness. "The blue rider, falling from such an absurd height and still managing to fight… The two dragons… it felt like I had intruded upon a realm of gods that I was not supposed to enter."

Gerreld nodded in agreement as he sipped the wine and let it flow down his parched throat. It was vile, but at least it washed away the dryness.

"But enough of that. You do know what I mean by our success, do you?" Vor walked towards the edge of the wall and looked towards the Varden. "The news has been going around in town for nearly an entire day."

Gerreld snorted. "And I stood here for nearly an entire day. Alone, I must add."

His companion turned around, surprised. "So you haven't heard anything?"

"What was I supposed to hear?" replied Gerreld in an irritated tone. He downed the last of the rancid liquid and tried not to choke.

Vor sighed in exasperation and scratched his head. With his helmet off, the brown hair on his head seemed to go in every direction. "You really don't know anything? Anything at all?"

"I was never one for gossip." Muttered Gerreld rather crossly. "To the point, if you please."

Vor sighed one last time and looked at him in the eye.

"We captured Roran Stronghammer. And it was Captain Juri who did it."

Gerreld coughed and spluttered, the wine spurting from his mouth. Vor had wisely stepped away beforehand, and tried to hide a grin.

"That was my exact reaction as well when I heard of it. And yet, it is true. I have heard it from numerous trustworthy sources. He and seventy-four of his men were defeated and captured as they attempted to scout around the city."

"The Roran Stronghammer? The one rumored to have the blood of a rider, strength of a demon and will of a god?" Gerreld shook his head. "That is simply not possible! Wasn't there that rumor about him single-handedly slaying nearly two hundred men—"

"And to think that the Captain Juri managed to capture him. The blundering noble idiot who got his position through more bribes than I can count." Vor chortled. "But he did it. The good Captain must have more tricks up his sleeve than we thought."

"I still don't believe it." Growled Gerreld, crossing his arms. "Either it is false, or too much of the fame surrounding Stronghammer is fake. Either one, or maybe both."

Vor shrugged. "Well, the most important thing is that we've got one of their best men in the dungeons. Rumors have it that the lord has already made a plan based on the information we extracted from them. Hopefully this means that we can end this soon."

"Based on what luck we've had these few years, I doubt it." Said Gerreld dryly. "But, as you've said, it's something to hope for."

"Then hope for it. Maybe you'll even be able to see her and your children before the end of the year."

His breath caught in his throat. Their delighted faces appeared before him, full of laughter and merriment. And the soft lips of Mariel… a taste he had almost forgotten.

Vor clasped him on the back and grinned before returning down the stairway, leaving Gerreld to his own thoughts.

His lips softened into a smile.

"Watch out!" Someone screamed.

Out of pure reflex, Gerreld ducked immediately and felt an arrow whistle above him. Missing its intended target, the bolt sank into the stone beside him, quivering.

"What in the blazes—" he started to yell, but stopped. He had just realized something.

The arrow had come from inside the city. Not outside it. And its accuracy was too great to be a simple slip from an archer's fingers.

A band of soldiers, more than fifty but less than a hundred, moved through the streets cutting down any guard that stood in their way. Bowmen shot at any man in sight, their bowstrings singing in a continuous whine. The bloody blades flashed and shone in the torchlight, and any peace that Gerreld had originally felt was shattered into pieces.

Drawing his own sword and putting down the spear he originally held, he started to run down from his position on the wall. He needed to help. Caught by surprise, the patrolling soldiers below were being slaughtered like lambs and it was only a matter of time until the men reached the gates.

His eyes widened. The gates. They intended to let the Varden in!

Sprinting now, he jumped down the rest of the stairs and raced towards the band of men. At their lead was a man in a simple tunic, wearing neither armor nor helmet. In his hands was a carpenter's hammer.

Gerreld narrowed his eyes.

Roran Stronghammer.

More and more guards were alerted of the trouble, and soldiers gathered by the dozens to stop them. Amidst the screams and yells, hope grew in Gerreld heart once more; for now, they outnumber them five to one—

But they did not halt in their steps. Their pace did not break. Continuing to move on, anyone in their way had only one fate. Death.

Arrows whizzed through the air, shot by the various archers stationed on rooftops or on the wall. But it was futile. The projectiles fell the moment they touched their skin, protected by an invisible force.

"There is magician among their ranks!" Someone shouted.

Gritting his teeth, Gerreld continued to draw near the band of men. If he could take the head of their leader, then this would be over. If they succeeded in opening the gates, then Beletona would fall. The soldiers stationed inside the city were nothing compared to the Varden. The difference in numbers would be enough alone.

When did the outcome of this battle be decided on such a small skirmish?

Sorcerers rained spells onto the group, and yet every time proved useless. They continued on without difficulty, without any sign of hesitation. It seemed as if they were closed off from the world, and only when a guard drew near would they suddenly act and slash down with a crimson sword.

They had reached the gates. Their men spread out, clearly going to protect this suicidal plan with their lives. Stronghammer and a few spellcasters beside him climbed up to the guard tower, where the gears to the gates were kept.

Fools. That little option had been destroyed for a long time.

Ever since the siege began, they had sealed off the main gates, hearing of the way Feinster fell. The opening gears were jammed and blocked, and the gates were reinforced repeatedly by heavy chains.

Covered by layers upon layers of thick enchantments, the iron chains were nearly indestructible through normal or magical means. It would buy them time, but even if Stronghammer broke it at the last moment it would mean the Varden's victory.

Shouts of alarm emanated from on top of the wall, where a few soldiers still stood. Even from a distance, Gerreld could make out what they were saying.

The Varden were coming.

The Varden were coming.

Roran emerged from the guard tower, scowling fiercely. With a few shouted orders, the magicians bowed and started to reach their sorcery into the thick chains, seeking to destroy them.

There isn't enough time! Gerrald thought desperately.

Alarms sounded, horns blared, and more and more soldiers poured out into the streets. Cold steel and sharpened metal were unsheathed and held in readied hands, and the quietness was replaced with a chaotic frenzy.

The spellcasters next to Stronghammer were chanting in unison, while the chains glowed dimly in the darkness. Roran seemed to be impatient, and was looking towards the outside of the city. His hammer was dripping scarlet onto the ground.

"Gerreld!" Vor shouted to him. He turned around, and saw his friend carrying a bow and a quiver of arrows.

"The magicians enchanted them." He said breathelessly, tossing the items towards Gerreld. "If we're lucky, they might pierce through the wards that those people've erected around themselves. That's what our captain said."

"Me?"

"Of course you." Said Vor impatiently. "You were always a better shot than me. Now make haste! We do not have much time!"

Nodding, Gerreld sheathed his sword, fitted an arrow to the bowstring and tested the wind. Focusing every bit of concentration he had, he pulled back and aimed the metal point towards Stronghammer.

Satisfied, he breathed in deeply, and fired.

None of them should have noticed it. But as Roran whirled around, one of the spellcasters looked up, and simply plucked the arrow out of the air.

His dark hair shifted, and Gerreld's sharp eyes could see pointed ears concealed underneath.

Hellfire! Elves!

Vor seemed to have seen it to, for his face turned an ashen pale. "Elves… why didn't the men who examined them find out about it! This is impossible!"

The elf glanced silently their way, but strangely, chose to ignore them and continued on unraveling the spellwork that surrounded the chains. The iron grew brighter each passing moment, now taking a silver sheen.

Gerreld growled and began to run forwards. Vor hesitated, then followed swiftly after.

"With how things are progressing, we will never make it. Those dogs have already removed half the enchantments on the chain, on my reckoning." Vor shouted as they ran. "And once they finish, we'd quicker dig our own graves."

Gerreld said nothing in response, only tearing off his helmet to lessen the weight. His pace quickened.

At the base of the gate, a fierce battle was being fought. Though almost impossibly skilled, Roran's men could not hold off long in face of such a tremendous number. But the time that they gained would be more than enough for the gates to be opened.

Nodding his head to a silent order, one of the spellcasters stood up smoothly where he had kneeled. Turning away from his companions, he drew a long, rapier like blade and jumped straight down from the wall.

He's an elf as well. Thought Gerreld.

Landing in a graceful crouch, the elf's sudden appearance surprised the guards. Using their momentary weakness, the elf did not waste a second.

Blood and entrails splattered onto the ground as six guards fell in a single strike. No… six slashes, each faster than the human eye could follow. Expressionless, the elf leapt away, leaving a trail of carnage wherever he dashed.

"Monsters, the lot of 'em." Muttered Vor.

Gerreld could not agree more with his words.

But it seemed that they were winning. The guards had slain more than half of Stronghammer's men, and were edging ever closer to where the elves were casting their spells. Roran had a furious scowl on his face, and the hand clutching his hammer was shaking. It was obvious that he knew that his men had little time as well.

Then, it all changed. In one single moment.

A flash of pure blue struck down from the heavens like a thunderbolt, ramming itself deep into the stone below. Shards of heated metal and stone were thrown around like leaves in a hurricane, and the elves were forced to back away from the powerful blast.

The magical strength… even for one completely uneducated in the magical arts, it was there to feel… and to fear.

A deathly silence spread across the soldiers. Still hissing with power, a brilliant sapphire blade had sunk to the hilt in the stone before the gates, shearing apart all the chains that stood in its way. It meant only one thing.

There was a roar of triumph, and a majestic beast parted the clouds, its powerful wingbeats scattering the haze around it. In that moment, the skies seem to clear, any shred of gloom being dispelled by the blasts of wind. The moon shone brilliantly once more, a full disk bright in the sky.

Gracefully, the almost puny looking figure on her back jumped off without a word, landing beside his blade. Grasping the hilt, he pulled out the sword with little effort and pointed its tip towards the men of Belatona.

Gerreld's blood ran cold. The rider was here. After just a few days, the Shur'tugal had nearly completely recovered from fatal wounds and was standing before them. And now Murtagh wasn't at their side to combat his abilities.

The dragon landed on top of the city walls, thin crack marks appearing where it had sank its claws. It growled threateningly, and tongues of fire danced between its teeth.

"Lay down your arms and surrender!" The rider shouted out. Though it was the tender voice of a young man, the dignity and authority inside was unmistakable.

"As if we would surrender to a half breed elf like you!" a soldier screamed, and rushed out with his sword drawn, paying no heed to the cries of his companions.

Eragon Shadeslayer looked at the approaching man with a calm gaze, his uncovered eye betraying no panic or alarm. Reaching out a hand, he grabbed the soldier's arm and twisted him to the ground with such ease it was terrifying.

Eyes rolling into the back of his head, the man lost conscious from the pain almost immediately. The Shur'tugal set him down gently.

There was a rustle among the streets of Belatona. No one wished to be the first to charge first, after seeing the obvious gap in power. And yet, everyone knew that with every second wasted the Varden neared the city even more.

"The Varden are almost at these gates." The rider yelled to all the men in front of him. "If you surrender, you will be spared and treated well. If you do not, death is your only fate. Why fight for the wrong cause and die, rather than make the right choice when one still can?"

"Who's to say our cause is the wrong one!" barked another man, who seemed to be a captain. "You are the rebels, not us! You are the side stirring up war, not us! I do not know what ugly lies you had fed to the people of the south, but it was since the Varden started the war—"

"You refuse to surrender then?" Eragon Shadeslayer interrupted calmly. "You are sure that yours is the right path?"

"Yes. And I will strike down any craven who kneels down to you myself." Growled the captain.

"I do not wish to kill." Eragon held out his sword before him. "But I will if I must. This is your last chance. I will guard these gates with my life until the Varden arrives, as will these men with me."

There was no reply. With a single gesture from their captain, the men behind him surged forwards with a raw throated battle cry. Steel clashed and screams of pain rang throughout the night as battle was joined. The handpicked warriors of the Varden, and the guards of Belatona. The torch flames flickered, and Gerreld heard the dragon roar as blue flames burned.

Slowly but steadily, the gates started to open. The elves had walked out of the tower with impassive faces, showing no sign of satisfaction or joy. Drawing their own respective weapons, they too leapt into the bloody battle that was underway before the entrance to the city.

It looked like a scene of hell, Gerrald decided. Like all the others he had seen. It had been a term long overused by bards and storytellers, but nothing else he thought of could fit the description so perfectly.

This was war. No glory, no bravery, no skill. Just a wild, barbaric dance in the firelight, a fight to the death between hordes of animals. If the bards had truly seen a battle, would they still sing of it so gleefully in front of village after village? Would they be able to wipe the nightmares out of their minds when they slept?

Seeking an enemy, he saw a Varden on the corner of the battlefield, pulling his sword out of man he had slain. Raising his own blade, Gerreld raced at him with a feral scream at his lips.

The thickness of the scent in the air was enough to make a grown man gag. The crimson liquid was everywhere. And every time Gerreld stepped forwards he could feel the cooling flesh under his boots. This… was a thing to be cursed, not to be sung about, or made into poetry.

Their blades met with a flash of sparks. The man he had just attacked seemed to be around twenty years of age, wearing an expression of defiance. Exactly like him, five years ago.

Why was war such a thing of beauty in lore or myth? Why was such a hell praised as heaven itself?

His opponent bashed at him with his shield, throwing him off balance. Stumbling, he stepped on a body that did not have a head.

A gleam of blue caught his eye.

Standing where he had stood from the beginning, Eragon Shadeslayer had not moved a step ever since the battle began. Around him was more bodies than one could count. The blade he held in his hand looked breathtaking, like a ray of the pure moon itself. Faster than a striking snake, with precision more horrifying than an eagle, his sword spun and slashed. Under the silver light, it seemed as if was made of mercury.

There it was. A legend brought to life once again, what the champions and kings of old represented. The pinnacle of one's achievements, worthy enough to be remembered for the centuries to come. A hero.

And Gerreld hated heroes.

Holding his sword tightly in his hand, he thrusted at his opponent. The soldier parried the jab and countered with a slash overhead.

Heroes represented the majestic side of war, with their nigh impossible feats, their charisma, their acts of kindness. They were a point all people strived for, the righteousness, power and divinity that was almost always hidden in humans. They were glory. They were triumph. They were what tales were made of.

Blocking the blow with difficulty, Gerreld made a clumsy feint to the left. The soldier fell for it the trick, to his surprise, but he did not hesitate in pulling out his dagger and piercing the man's torso.

Gurgling something unintelligible, the soldier fell to the ground, the defiance in those grey orbs fading like embers from a forgotten fire. Blood flowed onto the ground. Gerreld left him there, looking around for another person to duel.

And those heroic legends were utter trash. War did not have a majestic side. It was hell. And killing men, for no matter what cause, was nothing close to righteous.

A sword slashed at his side, and Gerreld barely noticed it in time. Turning around, he saw that it was a man who had obviously seen about as many winters as he had. And in the same way. Those eyes were empty.

Heroes, with their brilliance and fame, blinded the people into thinking war as a stage. A stage in which they could finally stand out, and become a legend. How many young fools have died for this illusion? Millions throughout the ages, and more to come. Tyrants or Urgals were nothing compared to them.

Gerreld hated them only the more when he found that he had fallen into this hell because he was once one of the fools as well.

After a few attacks, he saw an opening left untended for. His opponent was weary. Moving faster than the man expected, he drove his sword into the soldier's stomach.

As the man crumpled onto the ground, Gerreld had already pulled free his sword and moved even deeper into the battle.

The rider did not seem to be quite as dauntless as he had been during the start of the fight. Bloodstained and panting, he was standing in an awkward stance, as if one of his legs could not support his weight.

There was his chance.

He could feel his heart beating as he neared the Shur'tugal. Eragon Shadeslayer was battling four men at once, and was entirely concentrated on the duel. Roran Stronghammer was a bowshot away, struggling with the same number and unable to notice anything else. If he could manage to wound the already crippled rider…

Moving beyond the shadeslayer's vision, he readied his sword and began to run quietly.

There were twenty paces between them. If he could—

A roar shocked him out of his thoughts. Half a moment later he crashed into the hard rock of the wall, his chest armor completely dented and torn. He tried to breathe, but no air would come.

He tried to speak, but no words could be willed out. They stopped as his lips, and came out in only a whimper.

Ah, the dragon. How could he have forgotten? The dragon who was always circling above the rider, killing any that approached the gates.

Blood was trickling out of his mouth. It was like those nightmares he had after his first few battles. Dreams in which he passed over into the void, and no one noticed his going.

Hmm?

A figure was stooping over him. He forced his blurry vision to focus, but it refused to. But strangely enough, the more he relaxed his eyes the better the image came into clarity. The other objects disappeared from his view, and the only thing he could see was her.

It was Mariel.

She was amazingly beautiful, down to every detail he remembered. Like on the day of their wedding.

Unfamiliar sounds were at his ears. Something about the Varden, and frantic shouts of desperation. Someone saying that they had reached the gates.

What in hellfire they meant, Gerreld did not want to know. He only looked up at Mariel.

She bent over him with a small, sad smile, and gently pressed her lips against his.

As even she began to fade, an amusing thought reached his dimming mind.

That even in the end, he had been a fool.

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SIEGE OF BELATONA: COMPLETE (crosses it out from the "To-do" List)

Honestly, I had struggled many times on how I would present this chapter. Originally, it would be from Roran's perspective; but when I reached my seven hundredth word, I looked it over and thought:

This is utter BS.

My original version had groups of people around the city creating diversions and using Orrin's explosives to blow the walls to kingdom come. Hence the "burying exploding devices" reference.

Ok, laugh at me. I know I deserve it.

So I settled on using a soldier of the Empire as the perspective point. A true soldier, not one picked off the farms and handed a sword, but a professional (In a way…)

And of course…

I am terribly sorry! (Goes down on all fours and starts begging readers not use those baseball bats) I know it isn't an excuse, but a lot of things happened recently and delayed this story for… uh… a full month…

1. School anniversary.

2. Drama competition.

3. A serious cold.

4. And me playing World of Warcraft to relax instead of updating like a good author should.

So I'm very, very sorry, and I will update as soon as possible. And I hope that you'd enjoyed this chapter. Longest one I ever typed after all.

Please review!

P.S. And almost forgot… Happy New Year!