Fear…impending attacks from the empire… I know them too well, he mused, thinking about the fateful day when he and the rest of the villagers were forced to abandon their homes and crops so they could live another, uncertain day.
"You are right… their lives are more uncertain than the future of the new crops during a freezing autumn day."
Prestov looked at him strangely for a short while before opening his mouth yet again.
"What other information did you learn?"
"The other merchants that have camped around the edges of the marketplace are part of the same group as the cook. In his words, 'they are fair people that travel together to provide the Varden soldiers with everything they need to defend us against the oppressor king'," answered Roran quickly, his mind still clinging to the remnants of the past which were briefly awakened.
Prestov slowly moved his hand up, forming a fist that was placed just below his chin. "That is very noble of them, too noble during these harsh times. Last time we received this kind of help was when…" his voice slowly trailed off.
Roran said nothing, watching blankly as Prestov slowly moved his fingers up and down around his chin as he was lost in his thoughts.
"I cannot remember after all I've been through," he lamented on an edgy voice, "but I know that these occurrences were pretty rare. After all, these men risk too much for the welfare of some strangers they probably never met."
"Aye, I feel the same thing," said Roran, rising his head,"but pondering about does no good unless we find something of relevance."
Both of the men were silent until Roran voiced out his thoughts. "It would do no harm to check the other camps and see what the merchants have to say."
Prestov frowned, his eyebrows trembling slightly. "This will delay our arrival even further but… I agree with you," he sighed, walking towards Roran. "Maybe I will get myself something as well from these kind hearted merchants."
"I mean no offense, but a man of your age should have everything he needs," said Roran on a slightly amused tone as the two of them started moving towards the other camps.
Prestov laughed lightly. "Maybe that's true, but you cannot know until we see what they have to offer. An object, no matter how good it is, ages the same way we do, eventually becoming useless. You will see that when you will reach my age," he chuckled, laying a hand on Roran's shoulder.
There will be a time when the use of these objects will not be needed anymore… thought Roran, placing his hand on his hammer as he imagined how it would be once the war would come to an end.
The two captains walked quickly past the boisterous atmosphere to avoid any unnecessary problems. However, their worries were unjustified as praises and gratitude filled voices rang through the crowd of people as one by one they dispersed away, carrying either a bowl of stew or a piece of meat wrapped in a piece of cloth.
"It seems that we lost the chance at a fine meal," said Prestov, nudging Roran's arm as he looked at the departing citizens.
"Maybe…" he answered, taking a long look at the merchant who was moving from place to place frantically as he tried to take care of his meals and serve the demanding citizens with the promised meals. "There is a cost for everything, and this merchant, as willing as he is to help others, must get something in exchange for the food he brought here."
Prestov smiled wryly. "Want to try and voice your concerns with the rest of them?" he laughed, gesturing at the large crowd.
Roran sketched a simple smile and said nothing, focusing his attention on the nearby merchant camp. With each step he took, he could discern with greater accuracy the mass of brown, tan and black objects that were carefully placed on a medium sized table.
With both his mind and his sight laying elsewhere, Roran jolted in surprise as a passing man clasped his shoulder in a powerful grip. " It's about time when you decided to get a proper armor for yourself!" he shouted.
Although his voice was mighty, the friendly tone immediately made Roran realize who the man was without even looking at him.
"H-Horst? What are you doing here?" he asked, choosing the first words that entered his surprised mind.
The man eyed Prestov briefly and smiled. "I should ask the same thing of you, Roran…"
he answered, analyzing him briefly. "I'm glad to see that you are still alive and strong as a mighty boar after that incident," Horst flinched, his voice laced with a small fraction of the terror which gripped the city of Feinster after Galbatorix's arrival and the massacre that took place shortly after.
"I am… something which cannot be said for the ones that charged forward to confront him… Galbatorix was no fool to come to this city. I fear that his plans are more ominous than his reputation."
Roran's eyebrows met in a slight frown as a sparkle of light reflecting off a shiny surface distracted him from the veiling mist of his thoughts.
"That is a fine craft, Horst, probably the best I have seen from you."
The man laughed and took the metal breastplate he carried on his shoulder, presenting it to the two captains.
"It doesn't belong to me. All my life I have been crafting tools and objects that are meant for farming, not fighting. My hands, although sturdy and precise, cannot give the fine shape and the rock-like resistance of a fine armor such as this one. And this is not all!" he said excitedly, his eyes widening in delight as he quickly pulled out a small, round shield from behind the armor, "I got this one as well!"
Roran shared nothing of Horst's enthusiasm as he looked at the two metal objects emptily, his eyes devoid of any positive emotion.
"Was that merchant kind enough to ask for nothing in exchange?"
Horst shifted briefly. "Yes… yes he told me that all he requires is that I make good use of these armors to protect the Varden."
"Just as I suspected," said Prestov silently so only Roran could hear.
Horst narrowed his eyes at the older captain, but quickly looked back at Roran who came closer, extending his hand.
"I'm no blacksmith but this…" he said as he ran his hand across the breastplate," …this is not made from mediocre scraps of metal."
"Oh, but that's why I accepted it," laughed Horst, patting Roran on his shoulder. "The quality of this armor is much better than I expected, and when I heard that the merchant does not want anything in exchange I began to doubt my hearing!" Then, he came closer to Roran's ear, whispering, "You should one for yourself before they are given away! And get one for Katrina as well! There's no telling when you need solid protection." He chuckled as he quickly drew back.
Roran remained silent as Horst quickly placed his armor on his shoulder, readying himself for departure. "Fortune alone can not protect you for long. Stay strong, Roran!" said Horst quickly as he turned his back towards him and moved with quick steps towards the same place they had come from.
"He's right you know," Prestov interrupted the silence, causing Roran to flinch slightly.
"As much as I like my armor, the mighty blows dented it in certain places."
"It makes for a good tale to impress the novices, at least," chuckled Roran, patting Prestov on his shoulder with amusement before he looked up ahead. Rows of people started to form as various men, citizens and soldiers alike, appeared from different parts of the city, either using the shortcuts provided by the narrow corridors between the houses or hastily making their way through the main crowd, passing by the others like enraged bulls.
The small and animated clusters of people placed themselves chaotically, despite a short man's cries that requested order and discipline. With the merchants vanishing from his sight due to the sheer number of people, Roran looked backwards at Prestov whose firm gaze and serious expression offered him the sought answer.
After making their way slowly and almost stealthy through the masses of people that seemed fascinated by the different clothing and armor displayed on the booths, Roran lifted a single hand in the air, signaling Prestov to wait while he would make his way towards the stout man with shaggy hair and clean, appealing tan leather tunic that was smiling politely to each individual that approached him.
"Not this time, Roran," Prestov added mischievously, moving towards the booth where the heavy armor sparkled with dazzling beauty under the sun's warm tough. A smile stretched across Roran's face. At least this unpleasant interrogation would soon come to an end, he would fulfill his mission and return to Katrina's tender arms and warm embrace.
Gulping emptily, he advanced steadfastly through the outer edges of the crowd, trying his best to ignore the people's insults and threats. The first thing he noticed when he reached the wide booth was the pungent smell of cured leather mixed with dust. Contrary to his first impression, another merchant with short hair and trimmed beard appeared besides the one he already noticed. He was probably there to deal with the big number of requests coming from the greedy men who nodded wholeheartedly and with joy after receiving their new tunics and leggings. Ravenous like wolves, they were, their hands fixing on the equipment like claws, never wanting to let it go.
Suddenly, a powerful force coalesced with his left arm, the impact almost sending him tumbling on the cobblestone road.
"Bugger off, pipsqueak," a tall, muscled man shouted with revulsion, making a rude gesture at him before his face lightened in delight as his gaze switched towards the merchant who placed a friendly hand on his shoulder while his other arm hovered across his goods, excitedly showing the man his stock.
Roran's fists tightened, his teeth gritted against one another, but his rational side triumphed in the end. Approaching the first merchant from the side, where no man dwelled, he greeted him curtly.
"Relax, my friend, everyone will wear my fine armor," he said on a honey laced voice, kindness forcefully trying to cover his deep voice.
"You will have to talk to Zilan." The man whistled loudly in the direction of the several wagons covered with cloth placed right behind the booth. Presumably, they were filled with various goods, ranging from tunics to armor, to equip as many people as possible. Roran found it strange that these people could carry so many goods, but what really baffled him was the source of their supplies. However, he didn't have time to think, as a young fellow with brown hair, brown eyes and a merry look on his face appeared before him, his hand extended for a greeting that failed to come from Roran.
"Quite the impatient one, are you?" he asked, beckoning Roran to follow him. "There are many like you, soldiers that are in a hurry yet they feel embarrassed about the ragged clothing, torn leggings and dented, rusty armor they receive from the barracks."
Roran couldn't help but accept the truth in his words. Because of the lack of resources, many of the new recruits were required to wear obsolete equipment and worn out swords that could put their lives at peril. That was the cost of this campaign, and the price was paid in blood and sacrifices.
"This is not fair…" Zilan complained on a low voice, trudging his feet towards the caravan which was only a few feet away. "These brave souls fight an almost invincible force with unfaltering courage, yet they don't look better than beggars due to their filthy and torn clothes and armor made of scrap metal.
Roran said nothing, staring blankly at a wagon in front of him. Although this young lad had a point, an odd and eerie feeling slowly crept inside him, yet his musings were quickly interrupted by the same saddened voice.
"We're nothing but merchants, yet…" Zilan interrupted and grabbed the cloth that covered the goods, removing it with force.
"We will do justice to these soldiers, and even if our travels were tedious and the creation of these goods has been significant, I will ensure that every soldier will walk tall among the Varden, proud of his rank and clothing."
Roran tried to say something, but the determination of this young man could not be swayed away that easily by some mere words. His loud voice immediately interrupted Roran.
"You will no longer be looked down upon, brave citizen, and when the war is over, you will tell stories of how the armor of some simple merchants saved your life."
"Maybe, but what I want to know…"
"Behold the results of the hard working people who ask for nothing in return," Zilan interrupted, his eyes scanning the tunics and leggings with great delight.
Roran gasped, impressed by the sheer numbers of tunics and leggings residing in this wagon. The pleasant smell of tanned leather entered his nostrils, and without second thoughts, his hand moved across a tunic, its soft yet resilient fabric providing an excellent body cover. Although their coloring was the same, a monotonous tan complemented by the black leggings, the fine craftsmanship was enough to make everyone overlook the little defects, if there was any.
"They are… that's impressive," Roran stuttered, trying to come up with a plan to drain some answers out of this man.
"They are yours!" Zilan exclaimed joyfully, picking a tunic and a pair of leggings with speed. "Put them to good use, brave citizen."
Roran hesitated for a moment, much to Zilan's displeasure, who was getting tired of holding the goods right before his nose.
"Before accepting your generous offer, I need to know…"
"What else we have?" Zilan cut in, smiling widely. "Although I'm pretty sure I picked the right size for you…"
Carefully, he placed the goods back in the wagon and circled it several times, his eyes moving from one tunic to another while his hands erratically grabbed something, only to let it slip away the next moment.
"You are very kind, but I don't think I would like—"
"What do you think about this one?" Zilan asked politely, interrupting Roran yet again. With a firm shake of his head, he obliterated the young man's mirth, whose face lost its previous mirth.
"But there has to be something you want!" Subtle, concealed desperation was being present in his loud voice. Roran was familiar with it, he had heard it before, and it seemed that Zilan's persuasive attitude had its own holes and vulnerabilities.
"What about leggings?" he said, offering him a clean pair of tanned leather leggings. Roran again shook his head. Disappointed, almost offended by his actions, Zilan placed the leggings back where they belonged and scuffed his head after running both of his hands through his short greasy hair.
"Then why have you wasted my time, stranger?" he almost shouted, his patience all but gone by now. Roran was instantly baffled by his attitude, mainly because he did nothing to wrong the man. A pat on his back caused him to shudder and twist around with inhuman speed. His reaction almost knocked down the merchant who summoned Zilan, only that he was now looking at him with narrow eyes and a forced smile.
"Perhaps you would like some armor?" said the man in a hurried voice as he revealed a pristine breastplate.
"This wonderful piece of armor was crafted by one of the most renowned blacksmiths in the region. Due to the quality of the metal and the expertise of his craft, it's said that these armors are tougher than dragon scales!" he continued enthusiastically, quickly brushing the breastplate with his other hand. "It's said that those who are privileged to wear these high quality armors rush into battle and come back with their skin unscathed. Here, try it!" he said quickly as he moved forward, trying to fit the breastplate onto Roran.
Roran backed away from the persistent merchant, but suddenly, he hit something.
"You really should put it on," Zilan said, refusing to move out of his way. Feeling cornered by these two very persistent merchants, Roran tried to reason with them.
"I don't need any armor. I have my own, and other soldiers might have a better use for it." Even he was impressed by the calm he displayed in his words, when his mind was about to turn into a raging volcano.
"But we have plenty of them," the merchant said on a very convincing and calm tone, hitting the breastplate with his fist.
"It would be a shame to be put at risk because of a lesser armor."
"Why are you insisting so much?" he asked dryly.
"Because we care about you," Zilan responded without second thoughts. "There are many people too ashamed to admit they need help."
Roran couldn't help but feel that something strange was going on, and the wily merchants had other intentions than just distributing their goods freely. Still, intuition alone was not enough to unveil this mystery, and until proven otherwise, these merchants were just people willing to help the Varden at their own accord.
"I can take care of myself," Roran responded before he broke into a sprint, sidestepping left to avoid the crowd which was probably staring at him like he was a freak of nature.
"May swords evade you," the merchant shouted from behind. In a way, Roran felt sorry for doubting them, but his timely reactions and intuition often saved him from trouble.
At first, both "Food" and "Armor" chapters were supposed to be a single chapter named "Food and Armor," but due to the amounts of information present in each of them, I decided to split them. So, Roran and Prestov visited the other merchants, and there are quite some similarities. What are those merchants doing here? Are they really doing what they claim? While the next chapter will not answer these questions, it will lead the way towards the conclusion of the Roran chapters.