Roran and Prestov quickly looked at each other. Prestov simply lifted his shoulders, empathizing the fact that he walked the same uncharted grounds as Roran did. Without asking any question, Roran made a motion with his hand and took a step back, allowing Prestov to be the first to enter the cottage.
"Yaaa dis be tha' men me was speakin' 'bout, ch'wmen! Cap'tans, an' stron' ones too!" came a loud shout which made Roran shudder in surprise as soon as he found himself inside.
Mistaking the heartening shout for something else, Roran took a quick look around. The cheerful words that shook the cabin not a moment ago couldn't inspire anyone but those who were present as crewmen this man was speaking about were nowhere to be found. The cottage, which was large enough to house a dozen soldiers was only occupied by three men: the young soldier who greeted them in his own, strange way, and a middle aged, black-bearded man who was comfortably leaning into an old chair, mug in hand. The last person who completed the trio was a warrior not much older than Roran. However, what stood out in this particular man was the fine polished armor he wore. Every piece of it –from the shining breastplate to the protective greaves that covered his calves- was very similar to those given by the merchants in Feinster.
"Maybe you should think about their leading skills instead of staring at their muscles," said the young soldier, motioning for the two captains to come closer.
"Something is amiss, Prestov. I've walked through the Varden's ranks countless times, ate and drank with the men, led them into battles… and I know when I'm seeing a familiar figure, but these men… this is my first time to catch a glimpse of them," whispered Roran, leaning close enough to Prestov to pass on the message while being subtle enough to avoid any suspicions.
"Put your suspicions aside and keep your thoughts to yourself, or you'll find yourself in the midst of a battle of words you cannot win."
Roran remained silent. Unlike him, Prestov easily managed to conceal his uneasiness. Yet, it was not hard to tell that the man's mind was burdened with various thoughts. His eyes – which agilely moved from place to place – betrayed him.
Suddenly, the silence was broken. With a swift flick of his hand, the short bearded man slammed his mug into the arm of his chair.
"Ehey, ey! Don' be speakin' in silent wo'ods ove theh like two cutthoughs who is plottin' somethin'. Come hee and speak out wha' you haa' ta say on loud voice!"
The aged wood split in two uneven pieces under the massive force of the hit. Splinters flew in the air, landing on the man's bulged belly and adding on the stained, ragged cloth that covered his body from neck to waist.
"Control yourself, Mug," intervened the one who warmly welcomed the two captains inside the hospitable cottage.
Grunting disapprovingly, Mug leaned back on his chair, his angry gaze never leaving the prized possession he carried in his right hand.
"And you two, just don't sit right there like two worthless peasants on the lookout of other respectable citizens that would take pity on you and lend a few coins."
"I thought we were to depart as soon as we arrived here," Roran cut in.
To be on the roads again without even resting his legs was not a pleasing prospect, but staying in the presence of these fine subordinates was even worse, something which Roran acknowledged without a doubt.
"You're right," the same man responded, raising his head. "I only thought that a short pause to rest your legs and a chance to get to know the rest of the team would be what you desired."
Matching his arrogant stare, Roran mockingly frowned his eyebrows in denial.
The man's lip twitched nervously. "We've agreed then," he said, motioning for his companions to stand up. Taking his eyes off Roran, the man went to a small table with several belongings on it and picked only a small pouch which he squeezed in his hand.
Roran said nothing and waited for the trio to walk past the front door. The burly man called Mug went first, followed by his armored companion whose metal plates clanged annoyingly as his body moved.
The last to exit the wooden cabin was the person which Roran despised the most and, as luck would have it, he stopped dead in his tracks right at the door.
"You look at us with spite, but know that the feeling is mutual. I wouldn't like to know more details about a lowly commander." He smiled. "You can only imagine what I felt when your inferior mind commanded that filthy mouth of yours to order us to depart with the same arrogance as that filthy Galbatorix."
And he walked past by, bumping intentionally into Roran's shoulder while throwing him a look of pity as if apologizing for the discomfort he caused.
With great effort Roran managed to subdue the instant rage that overcame his being. Like the rapids of a waterfall, the fire of rage raced through his mind, his limbs, his fists… urging him to take action.
But he took none.
There were others that would be the victims of his rage, and Roran knew better than to stir unnecessary trouble. This man was no better than any soldier who willingly obeyed the orders of Galbatorix, but he was still on the Varden's side. Flaws or no flaws, he was an ally.
Flexing his fingers a little, Roran realized how close he was to beat that man senseless.
Is this war altering my personality to such extent? I was not like this before, not so eager to impart judgment upon others when hearing the acrid words of mockery, yet now I stood like a savage beast ready to rip open its prey, mused Roran while exercising his aching fingers.
"Let us follow them and see this mission fulfilled."
Patting Roran's shoulder reassuringly, Prestov took the lead with Roran following closely.
The two groups took on the path that stretched all the way from the wooden cottage up to the surrounding forest, where the shadow and the vegetation appeared to swallow it.
Other than the chirping of the sky dwellers who busily saw to their own needs, only the sound of boots touching the dry soil disturbed the permeating silence.
Being on unfriendly terms since the beginning, the men preferred to walk besides those who they knew while taking the proper distance from the others. That seemed to work until the burly man broke from his group and deliberately remained behind, waiting for Roran and Prestov to catch up with him.
Roran eyed the man warily, then turned his eyes towards Prestov. Serious as always, the aged captain kept his eyes fixed on the path ahead without allowing any disturbances to distract him. It was an obvious hint that he wasn't in the necessary disposition to speak, and Roran didn't press his luck.
Looking yet again towards Mug –whose ugly features were accentuated by a wide, yet stupid grin—Roran paid no attention to him and continued walking.
That worked well, until Mug placed his large arm around his neck, pulling him closer to his body like a friend would with a dear comrade.
"Don' be tha' upset fo' wha' happen't, capt'n," he said in his usual voice which closely resembled that of an honorable man drenched in alcohol. " I can lift ya spi'its, o' betta, my mug can," he said, bringing the mug closer to Roran's face.
"If it is was filled, tha' is."
The man's clothing reeked of sweat mixed with other pungent odor. The cloth, however, did little in protecting his skin from the same treatment it was put under. On the surface of the man's skin, a layer of dirt mixed itself with the moisture of the sweat, forming a gross and unbearable smelly substance that was sticking to whatever it came in contact with.
That was enough of a reason for Roran to struggle and break free of the man's grip in such way that it wouldn't require the use of violence.
"Is that why you are carrying that mug with you?" He asked in a desperate attempt to distract the man.
"Naa, dat not tha' 'eason fo' why I ca'y dis mug. It a long story."
Finally, after what seemed hours of smelly torture, the grip faltered. Taking this long awaited opportunity, Roran pulled away from Mug and breathed in the fresh air. His right side bore a part of Mug's filth, but that was not as bad as it would have been if his face suffered the same treatment.
"I'll tell you what happened."
The voice that suddenly cut in was one which Roran wished he would never hear again. Still, the words were spoken in the absence of hatred, and Roran was not one who wouldn't be reasonable – even with those who didn't deserve it.
"I would like to hear what you have to say," replied Roran, masking any traces of contempt in his voice.
Like before, the man beckoned for him to join and stand beside him.
"I would have preferred not to waste my time with silly history lessons, but you gained Mug's favor, something which is not earned quite easily..."
"I only-" Roran began.
"Be silent and listen to what I have to say. And most of all, don't interrupt me," the man intervened.
Roran nodded.
"Hmpff," he sighed.
Roran glanced at the man with the corner of his eye. He seemed not to be so sure of himself now when his mind was forced to dig up and unveil the remnants of the past. He couldn't be fully trusted – Roran knew it from their very first meeting—and his story could be a bottomless abyss of well woven lies where not even a drop of truth resided, similar to Mug's empty mug…
"To begin with, Mug's story is far from being similar to that of any other man," he said, looking over his shoulder. "The man wasn't always like this, you know, but a certain incident forced the change upon him as the weather does upon the crops."
A shiver ran down Roran's spine, and it was not the melancholic voice of this man that made him feel uneasy. The fault resided in his words, and that brief mention of crops.
He must have been informed of my past, thought Roran. A cloud of uncertainty loomed over him, threatening to disrupt his very being with bangs of misfortune and a downpour of worries.
Who is this man? Roran asked himself. It was the same question that bothered him during their first acquaintance, where the man's knowledge seemed to brave the same unknown fields as Roran's did.
Was he deceiving me when he questioned my position as a captain? Roran asked himself again. Lost in his musings, he almost stumbled over when a bump in the ground threatened to unite his body with the dried soil.
With two large steps, he managed to regain his balance and prevent an embarrassing moment from happening.
"Cae'ful de'e, capt'n," Mug said, gripping his now steady body with his brutish arms.
Throwing him a reassuring look to empathize the fact that he was alright, Roran opened his mouth to speak.
"I apologize… my mind was focused on the past."
His shallow excuse caused the two men to chuckle loudly, but their amusement was short lived as the arrogant man opened his mouth, eager to continue what he left unfinished.
"You should be grateful that you don't have to burden your mind and tire your mouth with this, Mug."
Mug grunted in disapproval. Displease was visible on his face, and any man with a clear mind would flee from him. However, he took no other actions except passing his fingers through his messy beard.
"Which is unfortunate," the man whispered , leaning over to Roran's ear. "Even the squeals of a pig are easier to understand than the tortured words spoken by that man."
Roran was silent. Although it was said that talking is the food that nurtures the mind during long travels, Roran preferred that he would be alone, with only the sounds of nature reaching his ears. If he would not travel in the presence of a more deserving company, silence would put his mind at east.
"It all happened during a night, long before the world knew the name of Eragon and Saphira."
"We were simple men back then, working only to feed ourselves and keep us sheltered. We didn't know each other, of course, until a certain incident that made that happen …"
Roar of thunders and bold flashes of lightning threatened to part the sky into pieces while the heavy clouds unleashed their burden upon the land with unmatched ferocity. It was if a beast was set loose from the celestial prison of puffy vapors that contained it, releasing its rage and fury upon those bounded to the earth realm.
Everyone took shelter in the confines of their own homes, save for a handful of men that were locked in two battles at once: a battle of will and the battle against the elements.
"Ge' tha' crate be moving faster, ye scoundrel! I ain't no wait for tha' ship be sinking and crates go with it to bottom water!"
"I'm trying-"came an audible complain that shortly turned into a cry of panic. There was something odd about the rain, like misfortune itself was present in the drops of cold water which splashed with such force on the unprotected humans to the point it hurt.
A misplaced step, the endless rocking of the ship which was at the mercy of the raging waters, or a forgotten object which previously seemed insignificant… the causes were many, but they eventually led to the same outcome. A single outcome that preceded the string of events which were about to happen next.
It all happened during the blink of an eye. Due to an unknown cause, the one who gave voice to his tumultuous feelings slipped on the water-drenched wood. The stuffed crate he was carrying no longer bore the same value of an ordinary item. After it fell on top of his chest, with the sharp edge piercing his belly, it acquired a completely new significance.
"ARGHHH!"
The muffled scream of the man was barely audible amidst the savage pouring of the rain. As it had not caused enough damage already, the crate also drew the breath out of his lungs, sealing his fate in an instant.
"Tha' crate must was last one. With me come to house an' be drinkin' tha coin in our pocket we was got for tha job!"
His mighty shout summoned the attention of two other men. Together with the one that was handing out the orders, they left the unsteady wooden boards of the ship, replacing them with the stone pavement of the dark alleys of the city once their feet touched the hard stone and carried them into the darkness.
The three who just left – four with the one who was left lifeless on the deck—however, were not the only souls abroad. Deep in the bowels of the ship, a single man was enjoying his evening meal. He was safely protected from the wrath of the elements and the darkness of the night, a luxury not afforded by the unlucky souls that braved the streets in search for shelter and food. Although it was not much, the small cabin he took residence in ever since he accepted to work as a crewman on the ship fulfilled the needs any other house could.
"What a deal…" he mumbled in between his breaths, his mouth greedily munching on the hunk of bread and the tough piece of meat he had in his hands. "Food is definitely better than drink, mhm, mhm…"
The man continued to feast on the scarce variety of food which made up his meal, undisturbed even by the movements of the ship which could throw any lesser experienced citizen off balance.
"Mhmm, mhmmm," he hummed. The meat was almost as hard as a wooden stick, but that didn't stop him from chewing it with a vengeance.
"Hmh?" the man mumbled again. He lazily turned his head, taking a peek over his shoulder with the corner of his eye. Even with the relentless pounding of the rain, the wooden boards were screeching harder than usual – he knew it after he worked so long on this ship to the point where he favored the sea and the wooden cabins more than the stable ground the city was build upon.
"Hmm!"
Whatever the cause was, it didn't matter. Turning his attention to the food when another threatening thunder reverberated through the air, the man prepared to gobble up the remains of his meal.
BANG! The old door collapsed in an instant. The weak hinges posed little resistance against the great force that slammed against it, sending the door skidding across the floor.
The breaking sound was so loud and sudden that the man didn't even have time to turn around. Instead, his body jolted violently, an action which caused both the chair and his body to fall and meet the dirty wooden boards.
"Take everything you find," said one of them.
His henchmen immediately obeyed, their thumping steps causing the wooden boards to screech in annoyance.
Having trouble swallowing the food that was blocking his ability to speak, the crewman watched incredulously as his cabin was ransacked by a couple of ragged clothed bandits.
"Ye lookin' at what, ye fat fish-faced ugliness?" one of them teased as he took a hearty bite of the hunk of bread while stuffing the meat in his mouth.
"He's a soldier!" another one spoke on an edgy voice. "Armor and weapon, look!"
"Get those too," the one in command spoke as he watched the scene from the doorstep. "He won't need them anymore."
Transfixed by what was going on, the crewman could only watch silently how these thieves were taking all his possessions. Even worse, it all happened in front of his eyes, and he was helpless, unable to do anything…not even swallowing his food…
"I'll take ye bread, ye fish," the one near him said. "And the plate, if ye don' mind."
The crewman was about to gag in revulsion when a shrilling cry of pain erupted from one of the three men. Looking around the room in disbelief, the crewman's eyes widened when he saw Mug beating the leader of these bandits senseless, using his mug as a weapon. The others jumped to his aid, but they proved to be nothing more than mere nuisances as the Mug hit here and there, in the face and everywhere, depending on the wielding expertise of its owner. The bandits fell like helpless insects under the savage blows of the brutal mug which completely humiliated them, leaving the bandits in the same state as it would leave a man who would drink from its content.
The situation seemed to turn for the better until more steps could be heard coming down from the upper deck. Soon, several new bandits flooded the room, subduing the brave mug fighter and his companion by making use of their sharp, menacing blades.
Acknowledging total defeat, the two crewmen were laid on the ground, then beaten before all their possessions were taken from them. All, except the mug.
"… and that would be about it. Both of them told me the same story, obviously, as I couldn't come up with that kind of my story on my own," the man laughed, patting Mug's back.
The burly man grunted, lifting the mug into the air as if celebrating something.
"I guess fate simply doesn't favor us anymore, as if Galbatorix himself twisted it to his will," said Roran.
The man turned his head towards Roran and sketched a forced smile. "I cannot disagree with you on that matter," he said. "Few of us could live as we did before the usurper king proclaimed his dominance over the land."
Roran nodded, looking behind when the man's gaze lingered elsewhere. Prestov was walking slightly behind the group, either too tired or uninterested of the conversations held by the main group.
"You still didn't tell me how that unfortunate event left its mark on your companions," added Roran all of a sudden with the purpose of keeping the conversation going. It wasn't pleasant, but he saw the necessity in increasing the trust between him and these men. He was a commander, after all, and trust was one of the key elements of successfully leading a group of subordinates.
"Eager to know more, are you?" he teased with a slightly mocking voice. " Hmm, yes, I will tell you, but I'll keep it short."
"After that incident, the two of them were thrown off that ship, discarded like mere beggars. The captain wanted it this way, and his decision was not contested by anyone. 'Useless vermin that can't even stand against common bandits are no different than a dead fish except in smell' he said."
"Working on the ship was all these men knew, and that blow alone was harder than any other…."
The man looked towards Mug, "His mug might have been useful against a couple of bandits, but its true purpose is wash away the man's shame and dark thoughts with the drinks it is being filled with. Be it day or night, that mug never leaves his side"
Turning his attention to the armored man, he continued," There's a saying that you can never be too cautious, and this man truly acknowledged… no," he paused, "he devoted himself to the power of those words."
"What does that mean?" asked Roran, retaining a certain calm in his voice.
"What can that mean?" he questioned, looking at Roran briefly before a large smile stretched across his face. "I thought you were sharper than that, captain." Then, as a good friend would, he laid a hand on Roran's shoulder and continued. "It means that steel replaced the fabric of his usual clothes."
"That's what any soldier does when it values its life," Roran sighed.
The man burst into a short laughter. "Yes, my perceptive friend, but not all the soldiers sleep or tend to whatever work they have to do while clad in armor."
Roran tried his best not to follow the man's example and laugh as he did earlier. Instead, he suppressed his urge to laugh, his face acquiring a more pronounced nuance of red in the process.
"That must be uncomfortable."
"Oh, it is," the man replied. "But don't speak with him about that. If Mug and I couldn't, then no one could convince him otherwise."
The armored man suddenly stopped moving as his usual brisk pace came to a halt. Roran looked at him strangely. Ever since he met up with the group, this man didn't utter a single word. No matter what happened, his eyes were always pointed towards the ground, like his mind was lost in an endless labyrinth and no light to guide him out.
Roran's fixed stare shifted abruptly when the man he spoke with earlier turned his eyes towards him. Not wanting to be disrespectful, Roran brushed off any of the questions that nagged at his mind like pestering insects.
"He may not speak words, but he certainly hears them."
"I can see that," Roran remarked, looking over his shoulder. The armored man picked up his pace again, walking slightly behind Prestov.
"Is there a name I can call you by? I realized that-"
"MUG!" a shrilling voice suddenly called.
Alerted by the unknown voice, Roran prepared to turn around. He could not see behind – nor had he the time to do that – as the burly man swung his massive arm in an instant, smashing his mug into Roran's face. A slight crunch preceded the intense pain that followed when the fragile bones which held Roran's jaw in place snapped. Darkness mixed with strange lights flashed before his eyes, his mind unable to comprehend what happened. It was all so sudden…so sudden and so savage. Before he had the chance to recuperate even slightly from the horrific attack, another blow shook his skull, sending his already unstable body off balance.
The ground rushed to meet the dizzy human, and Roran embraced it wholeheartedly. Never he had experienced pain as intense as this one. His instinct was to scream, shout as loud as an enraged beast, but something stopped him from doing that. The muffled scream which was released from his throat was nothing like it used to be as it was quickly accompanied by spurts of blood when his mouth refused to open.
Horrified, Roran instinctively moved his arm to his damaged jaw. His fingers touched a warm, solid surface that was slimier and much tougher than skin. Only then Roran knew why his mouth refused to open: his lower jaw was shattered and detached from its usual place and fragments of bone pierced the side of his face. Disgusted beyond belief by the extent of the damage that was done to him, Roran tried to rise up and fight.
A huge weight pressed on top of his back, making him gag in the process.
"Don't take your time if the other one is dead! Come and finish this one off and then chop him as you'd like," said the arrogant man.
Roran felt his ribs crack under the pressure of the man's foot.
"Die shamefully, you rat!" he spat and kicked Roran in the spine.
A moment after, an intense pain overcame his being before everything went black.
"That went easier than I expected," the man sneered and gave the sword back to the armored man.
"I trust you killed the other one?" he asked.
The armored man simply nodded and moved his hand across his neck, then chest, emphasizing a certain shape.
"I didn't ask you how you did it," he sighed.
"The empi'eh betta be fillin' dis mug well, eith'a go killin' for a dh'ink!" Mug barged in.
"There will be a substantial reward, I assure you," the leader spoke on a tone full of arrogance. "Now let us leave and wash ourselves of blood in rivers of coin."
So that's it. The Roran chapters are officially over, and what an ending there is to them! This chapter is by far one of the best and funniest things I've ever written. Why, it's quite obvious. So, what did you think of Roran's mission and the council representative? More important, what's your opinion on Mug? He is more skilled than Roran himself! I mean, he defeated 3 bandits using a mug!
Please leave a review and show your appreciation for this excellent chapter. If not for the plot, do it for Mug! He'll probably be drinking in a pub by the time you post, so cheers!