Vel Du Vindr abr Wyrda

by whattoname

What if, in a slight change of fate, the Varden managed to wrestle two eggs from Galbatorix's grasp. How would this change the story? Stick around and find out.

7. Chapter 7

Roran trudged up the hill. He stopped and squinted at the sun through his shaggy hair. Five hours till sunset.

I won't be able to stay long.

With a sigh, he continued along the row of elm trees, each of which stood in a pool of uncut grass. This was his first visit to the farm since he, Horst, and six other men from Carvahall had removed everything worth salvaging from the destroyed house and burned barn. It had been nearly five months before he could consider returning.

Once on the hilltop, Roran halted and crossed his arms. Before him lay the remains of his childhood home. A corner of the house still stood- crumbling and charred- but the rest had been flattened and was already covered with grass and weeds. Nothing could be seen of the barn. The few acres they had managed to cultivate each year were now filled with dandelions, wild mustard, and more grass. Here and there, stray beets or turnips had survived, but that was all. Just beyond the farm, a thick belt of trees obscured the Anora River.

Roran clenched a fist, jaw muscles knotting painfully as he fought back a combination of rage and grief. He stayed rooted to the spot for many long minutes, trembling whenever a pleasant memory rushed through him. This place had been his entire life and more. It had been his past... and his future.

His father, Garrow, once said, "The land is a special thing. Care for it, and it'll care for you. Not many things will do that." Roran had intended to do exactly that up until the moment his world was ruptured by a quiet message from Baldor. With a groan, he spun away and stalked back toward the road.

The shock of that moment still resonated within him. Having everyone he loved torn away in an instant was a soul-changing event from which he would never recover. It had seeped into every aspect of his behavior and outlook

. It also forced Roran to think more than ever before. It was as if bands had been cinched around his mind, and those bands had snapped, allowing him to ponder ideas that were previously unimaginable. Such as the fact that he might not become a farmer, or that justice- the greatest standby in songs and legends- had little hold in reality. At times these thoughts filled his consciousness to the point where he could barely rise in the morning, feeling bloated with their heaviness.

Turning on the road, he headed north through Palancar Valley, back to Carvahall. The notched mountains on either side were laden with snow, despite the spring greenery that had crept over the valley floor in past weeks. Overhead, a single gray cloud drifted toward the peaks. Roran ran a hand across his chin, feeling the stubble.

Eragon caused all this—him and his blasted curiosity—by bringing those stones out of the Spine.

It had taken Roran weeks to reach that conclusion. He had listened to everyone's accounts. Several times he had Gertrude, the town healer, read aloud the letter Brom had left him. And there was no other explanation. Whatever that stones were, they must have attracted the strangers. For that alone, he blamed Garrow's death on Eragon, though not in anger; he knew that Eragon had intended no harm.

No, what roused his fury was that Eragon had left Garrow unburied and fled Palancar Valley, abandoning his responsibilities to gallop off with the old storyteller on some harebrained journey. How could Eragon have so little regard for those left behind? Did he run because he felt guilty? Afraid? Did Brom mislead him with wild tales of adventure? And why would Eragon listen to such things at a time like that?

I don't even know if he's dead or alive right now.

Roran scowled and rolled his shoulders, trying to clear his mind. Brom's letter... Bah!

He had never heard a more ridiculous collection of insinuations and ominous hints. The only thing it made clear was to avoid the strangers, which was common sense to begin with.

The old man was crazy, he decided. A flicker of movement caused Roran to turn, and he saw twelve deer- including a young buck with velvet horns- trotting back into the trees. He made sure to note their location so he could find them tomorrow. He was proud that he could hunt well enough to support himself in Horst's house, though he had never been as skilled as Eragon.

As he walked, he continued to order his thoughts. After Garrow's death, Roran had abandoned his job at Dempton's mill in Therinsford and returned to Carvahall. Horst had agreed to house him and, in the following months, had provided him with work in the forge. Grief had delayed Roran's decisions about the future until two days ago, when he finally settled upon a course of action.

He wanted to marry Katrina, the butcher's daughter. The reason he went to Therinsford in the first place was to earn money to ensure a smooth beginning to their life together. But now, without a farm, a home, or means to support her, Roran could not in good conscience ask for Katrina's hand. His pride would not allow it. Nor did Roran think Sloan, her father, would tolerate a suitor with such poor prospects.

Even under the best of circumstances, Roran had expected to have a hard time convincing Sloan to give up Katrina; the two of them had never been friendly. And it was impossible for Roran to wed Katrina without her father's consent, not unless they wished to divide her family, anger the village by defying tradition, and, most likely, start a blood feud with Sloan.

Considering the situation, it seemed to Roran that the only option available to him was to rebuild his farm, even if he had to raise the house and barn himself. It would be hard, starting from nothing, but once his position was secured, he could approach Sloan with his head held high.

Next spring is the soonest we might talk, thought Roran, grimacing. He knew Katrina would wait- for a time, at least. He continued at a steady pace until evening, when the village came into view. Within the small huddle of buildings, wash hung on lines strung from window to window. Men filed back toward the houses from surrounding fields thick with winter wheat. Behind Carvahall, the half mile-high Igualda Falls gleamed in the sunset as it tumbled down the Spine into the Anora. The sight warmed Roran because it was so ordinary. Nothing was more comforting than having everything where it should be.

Leaving the road, he made his way up the rise to where Horst's house sat with a view of the Spine. The door was already open. Roran tromped inside, following the sounds of conversation into the kitchen. Horst was there, leaning on the rough table pushed into one corner of the room, his arms bare to the elbow. Next to him was his wife, Elain, who was nearly five months pregnant and smiling with quiet contentment. Their sons, Albriech and Baldor, faced them. As Roran entered, Albriech said, "... and I still hadn't left the forge yet! Thane swears he saw me, but I was on the other side of town."

"What's going on?" asked Roran, slipping off his pack.

Elain exchanged a glance with Horst. "Here, let me get you something to eat." She set bread and a bowl of cold stew before him. Then she looked him in the eye, as if searching for a particular expression. "How was it?"

Roran shrugged. "All of the wood is either burnt or rotting- nothing worth using. The well is still intact, and that's something to be grateful for, I suppose. I'll have to cut timber for the house as soon as possible if I'm going to have a roof over my head by planting season. Now tell me, what's happened?"

"Ha!" exclaimed Horst. "There's been quite a row, there has. Thane is missing a scythe and he thinks Albriech took it."

"He probably dropped it in the grass and forgot where he left it," snorted Albriech.

"Probably," agreed Horst, smiling. Roran bit into the bread. "It doesn't make much sense, accusing you. If you needed a scythe, you could just forge one."

"I know," said Albriech, dropping into a chair, "but instead of looking for his, he starts grousing that he saw someone leaving his field and that it looked a bit like me... and since no one else looks like me, I must have stolen the scythe." It was true that no one looked like him. Albriech had inherited both his father's size and Elain's honey blond hair, which made him an oddity in Carvahall, where brown was the predominant hair color. In contrast, Baldor was both thinner and dark haired.

"I'm sure it'll turn up," said Baldor quietly. "Try not to get too angry over it in the meantime."

"Easy for you to say."

As Roran finished the last of the bread and started on the stew, he asked Horst, "Do you need me for anything tomorrow?"

"Not especially. I'll just be working on Quimby's wagon. The blasted frame still won't sit square."

Roran nodded, pleased. "Good. Then I'll take the day and go hunting. There are a few deer farther down the valley that don't look too scrawny. Their ribs weren't showing, at least."

Baldor suddenly brightened. "Do you want some company?"

"Sure. We can leave at dawn."

When he finished eating, Roran scrubbed his face and hands clean, then wandered outside to clear his head. Stretching leisurely, he strolled toward the center of town. Halfway there, the chatter of excited voices outside the Seven Sheaves caught his attention. He turned, curious, and made his way to the tavern, where an odd sight met him.

Sitting on the porch was a middle-aged man draped in a patchwork leather coat. Beside him was a pack festooned with the steel jaws of the trappers' trade. Several dozen villagers listened as he gestured expansively and said, "So when I arrived at Therinsford, I went to this man, Neil. Good, honest man; I help in his fields during the spring and summer."

Roran nodded. Trappers spent the winter squirreled away in the mountains, returning in the spring to sell their skins to tanners like Gedric and then to take up work, usually as farmhands. Since Carvahall was the northernmost village in the Spine, many trappers passed through it, which was one of the reasons Carvahall had its own tavern, blacksmith, and tanner.

"After a few steins of ale- to lubricate my speaking, you understand, after a 'alf year with nary a word uttered, except perhaps for blaspheming the world and all beyond when losing a bear biter- I come to Neil, the froth still fresh on my beard, and start exchanging gossip. As our transaction proceeds, I ask him all gregarious-like, what news of the Empire or the king- may he rot with gangrene and trench mouth. Was anyone born or died or banished that I should know of? And then guess what? Neil leaned forward, going all serious 'bout the mouth, and said that word is going around, there is, from Dras-Leona and Gil'ead of strange happenings here, there, and everywhere in Alagaësia."

"The Urgals have fair disappeared from civilized lands, and good riddance, but not one man can tell why or where. 'Alf the trade in the Empire has dried up as a result of raids and attacks and, from what I heard, it isn't the work of mere brigands, for the attacks are too widespread, too calculated. No goods are stolen, only burned or soiled. But that's not the end of it, oh no, not by the tip of your blessed grandmother's whiskers."

The trapper shook his head and took a sip from his wineskin before continuing.

"There be mutterings of a Shade haunting the northern territories. He's been seen along the edge of Du Weldenvarden and near Gil'ead. They say his teeth are filed to points, his eyes are as red as wine, and his hair is as red as the blood he drinks. Worse, something seems to have gotten our fine, mad monarch's dander up, so it has. Five days past, a juggler from the south stopped in Therinsford on his lonesome way to Ceunon, and he said that troops have been moving and gathering, though for what was beyond him."

He shrugged. "As my pap taught me when I was a suckling babe, where there's smoke, there's fire. Perhaps it's the Varden. They've caused old Iron Bones enough pain in the arse over the years. Or perhaps Galbatorix finally decided he's had enough of tolerating Surda. At least he knows where to find it, unlike those rebels. He'll crush Surda like a bear crushes an ant, he will."

Roran blinked as a babble of questions exploded around the trapper. He was inclined to doubt the report of a Shade- it sounded too much like a story a drunk woodsman might invent- but the rest of it all sounded bad enough to be true.

Surda...

Little information reached Carvahall about that distant country, but Roran at least knew that, although Surda and the Empire were ostensibly at peace, Surdans lived in constant fear that their more powerful neighbor to the north would invade them. For that reason, it was said that Orrin, their king, supported the Varden.

If the trapper was right about Galbatorix, then it could mean ugly war crouched in the future, accompanied by the hardships of increased taxes and forced conscription.

I would rather live in an age devoid of momentous events. Upheaval makes already difficult lives, such as ours, nigh impossible.

"What's more, there have even been tales of..." Here the trapper paused and, with a knowing expression, tapped the side of his nose with his forefinger. "a new Rider in Alagaësia." He laughed then, a big, hearty laugh, slapping his belly as he rocked back on the porch.

Roran laughed as well. Stories of Riders appeared every few years. They had excited his interest the first two or three times, but he soon learned not to trust such accounts, for they all came to naught. The rumors were nothing more than wishful thinking on the part of those who longed for a brighter future.

He was about to head off when he noticed Katrina standing by the corner of the tavern, garbed in a long russet dress decorated with green ribbon. She gazed at him with the same intensity with which he gazed at her. Going over, he touched her on the shoulder and, together, they slipped away. They walked to the edge of Carvahall, where they stood looking at the stars. The heavens were brilliant, shimmering with thousands of celestial fires. And arching above them, from north to south, was the glorious pearly band that streamed from horizon to horizon, like diamond dust tossed from a pitcher.

Without looking at him, Katrina rested her head on Roran's shoulder and asked, "How was your day?"

"I returned home."

He felt her stiffen against him. "What was it like?"

"Terrible." His voice caught and he fell silent, holding her tightly. The scent of her copper hair on his cheek was like an elixir of wine and spice and perfume. It seeped deep inside him, warm and comforting. "The house, the barn, the fields, they're all being overrun... I wouldn't have found them if I didn't know where to look."

She finally turned to face him, stars flashing in her eyes, sorrow on her face. "Oh, Roran." She kissed him, lips brushing his for a brief moment. "You have endured so much loss, and yet your strength has never failed you. Will you return to your farm now?"

"Aye. Farming is all I know."

"And what shall become of me?"

He hesitated. From the moment he began to court her, an unspoken assumption that they would marry had existed between them. There had been no need to discuss his intentions; they were as plain as the day was long, and so her question unsettled him. It also felt improper to address the issue in such an open manner when he was not ready to tender an offer. It was his place to make the overtures- first to Sloan and then to Katrina- not hers. Still, he had to deal with her concern now that it had been expressed.

"Katrina... I cannot approach your father as I had planned. He would laugh at me, and rightly so. We have to wait. Once I have a place for us to live and I've collected my first harvest, then he will listen to me."

She faced the sky once more and whispered something so faint, he could not make it out.

"What?"

"I said, are you afraid of him?"

"Of course not! I-"

"Then you must get his permission, tomorrow, and set the engagement. Make him understand that, though you have nothing now, you will give me a good home and be a son-in-law he can be proud of. There's no reason we should waste our years living apart when we feel like this."

"I can't do that," he said with a note of despair, willing her to understand. "I can't provide for you, I can't-"

"Don't you understand ?" She stepped away, her voice strained with urgency. "I love you, Roran, and I want to be with you, but Father has other plans for me. There are far more eligible men than you, and the longer you delay, the more he presses me to consent to a match of which he approves. He fears I will become an old maid, and I fear that too. I have only so much time or choice in Carvahall... If I must take another, I will." Tears glistened in her eyes as she gave him a searching glance, waiting for his response, then gathered up her dress and rushed back to the houses.

Roran stood there, motionless with shock. Her absence was as acute for him as losing the farm- the world suddenly gone cold and unfriendly. It was as if part of himself had been torn away. It was hours before he could return to Horst's and slip into bed.

Dirt crunched under Roran's boots as he led the way down the valley, which was cool and pale in the early hours of the overcast morning. Baldor followed close behind, both of them carrying strung bows. Neither spoke as they studied their surroundings for signs of the deer.

"There," said Baldor in a low voice, pointing at a set of tracks leading toward a bramble on the edge of the Anora.

Roran nodded and started after the spoor. It looked about a day old, so he risked speaking. "Could I have your advice, Baldor? You seem to have a good understanding of people."

"Of course. What is it?"

For a long time, the pad of their feet was the only noise.

"Sloan wants to marry off Katrina, and not to me. Every day that passes increases the chance he will arrange a union to his liking."

"What does Katrina say of this?"

Roran shrugged. "He is her father. She cannot continue to defy his will when no one she does want has stepped forward to claim her."

"That is, you."

"Aye."

"And that's why you were up so early."

It was no question. In fact, Roran had been too worried to sleep at all. He had spent the entire night thinking about Katrina, trying to find a solution to their predicament. "I can't bear to lose her. But I don't think Sloan will give us his blessing, what with my position and all."

"No, I don't think he would," agreed Baldor. He glanced at Roran out of the corner of his eye. "What is it you want my advice on, though?" A snort of laughter escaped Roran. "How can I convince Sloan otherwise? How can I resolve this dilemma without starting a blood feud?" He threw his hands up. "What should I do?"

"Have you no ideas?"

"I do, but not of a sort I find pleasing. It occurred to me that Katrina and I could simply announce we were engaged- not that we are yet- and hang the consequences. That would force Sloan to accept our betrothal."

A frown creased Baldor's brow. He said carefully, "Maybe, but it would also create a slew of bad feelings throughout Carvahall. Few would approve of your actions. Nor would it be wise to force Katrina to choose between you or her family; she might resent you for it in years to come."

"I know, but what alternative do I have?"

"Before you take such a drastic step, I recommend you try to win Sloan over as an ally. There's a chance you might succeed, after all, if it's made clear to him that no one else will want to marry an angry Katrina. Especially when you're around to cuckold the husband."

Roran grimaced and kept his gaze on the ground.

Baldor laughed. "If you fail, well then, you can proceed with confidence, knowing that you have indeed exhausted all other routes. And people will be less likely to spit upon you for breaking tradition and more likely to say Sloan's bullheaded ways brought it upon himself."

"Neither course is easy."

"You knew that to begin with." Baldor grew somber again. "No doubt there'll be harsh words if you challenge Sloan, but things will settle down in the end- perhaps not comfortably, but at least bearably. Aside from Sloan, the only people you'll really offend are prudes like Quimby, though how Quimby can brew such a hale drink yet be so starched and bitter himself is beyond me."

Roran nodded, understanding. Grudges could simmer for years in Carvahall. "I'm glad we could talk. It's been..."

He faltered, thinking of all the discussions he and Eragon used to share. They had been, as Eragon once said, brothers in all but blood. It had been deeply comforting to know that someone existed who would listen to him, no matter the time or circumstances. And to know that person would always help him, no matter the cost. The absence of such a bond left Roran feeling empty.

Baldor did not press him to finish his sentence, but instead stopped to drink from his waterskin.

Roran continued for a few yards, then halted as a scent intruded on his thoughts. It was the heavy odor of seared meat and charred pine boughs.

Who would be here besides us?

Breathing deeply, he turned in a circle, trying to determine the source of the fire. A slight gust brushed past him from farther down the road, carrying a hot, smoky wave. The aroma of food was intense enough to make his mouth water. He beckoned to Baldor, who hurried to his side.

"Smell that?"

Baldor nodded. Together they returned to the road and followed it south. About a hundred feet away, it bent around a copse of cottonwoods and curved out of view. As they approached the turn, the rise and fall of voices reached them, muffled by the thick layer of morning fog over the valley. At the copse's fringe, Roran slowed to a stop.

It was foolish to surprise people when they too might be out hunting. Still, something bothered him. Perhaps it was the number of voices; the group seemed bigger than any family in the valley. Without thinking, he stepped off the road and slipped behind the underbrush lining the copse.

"What are you doing?" whispered Baldor.

Roran put a finger to his lips, then crept along, parallel to the road, keeping his footsteps as quiet as possible. As they rounded the bend, he froze. On the grass by the road was a camp of soldiers. Thirty helmets gleamed in a shaft of morning light as their owners devoured fowl and stew cooked over several fires. The men were mud splattered and travel stained, but Galbatorix's symbol was still visible on their red tunics, a twisting flame outlined in gold thread. Underneath the tunics, they wore leather brigandines- heavy with riveted squares of steel- mail shirts, and then padded gambesons. Most of the soldiers bore broadswords, though half a dozen were archers and another half dozen carried wicked looking halberds.

But the soldiers were hardly worthy of notice. No, what chilled Roran's blood was the giant orange lizard with wings that lay curled up behind the encampment. It's eyes were closed and save for the rise and fall of it's breathing it appeared to be asleep, but Roran still felt like bolting like a frightened rabbit.

And hunched in the midst of the soldiers were two twisted black forms that Roran recognized from the numerous descriptions the villagers provided upon his return from Therinsford: the strangers who had destroyed his farm.

They're servants of the Empire!

Burning hot anger replaced cold fluid fear, and he began to step forward, fingers already reaching for an arrow, when Baldor grabbed his jerkin and dragged him to the ground. "Don't. You'll get us both killed."

Roran glared at them, then whispered, snarling, "That's... they're the bastards..." He stopped, noticing that his hands were shaking. "They've returned!"

"Roran," whispered Baldor intently, "you can't do anything. You'd bring disaster on Carvahall. Think, Roran! That's a dragon!"

"What do they want? What can they want?"

There's only one reason for a rider to be here. Why did Galbatorix order my father's torture?

"If they didn't get what they needed from Garrow, and Eragon fled with Brom, then they must want you." Baldor paused, letting the words sink in. "We have to get back and warn everyone. Then you have to hide. The strangers are the only ones with horses. We can get there first if we run."

Roran stared through the brush at the oblivious soldiers. His heart pounded fiercely, both out of fear and for revenge, clamoring to attack and fight, to see those two agents of misfortune pierced with arrows and brought to their own justice. It mattered not that he would die as long as he could wash clean his pain and sorrow in one fell moment. All he had to do was break cover. The rest would take care of itself. Just one small step.

With a choked sob, he clenched his fist and dropped his head.

I can't leave Katrina.

He remained rigid- eyes squeezed shut- then with agonizing slowness dragged himself back. "Home then."

Without waiting for Baldor's reaction, Roran slipped through the trees as fast as he dared. Once the camp was out of sight, he broke out onto the road and ran down the dirt track, channeling his frustration, anger, and even fear into speed. Baldor scrambled behind him, gaining on the open stretches. Roran slowed to a comfortable trot and waited for him to draw level before saying, "You spread the word. I'll talk with Horst."

Baldor nodded, and they pushed on. After two miles, they stopped to drink and rest briefly. When their panting subsided, they continued through the low hills preceding Carvahall. The rolling ground slowed them considerably, but even so, the village soon burst into view. Roran immediately broke for the forge, leaving Baldor to make his way to the center of town. As he pounded past the houses, Roran wildly considered schemes to evade or kill the strangers without incurring the wrath of the Empire.

He burst into the forge to catch Horst tapping a peg into the side of Quimby's wagon, singing:

Hey O!

And a ringing and a dinging

Rang from old iron!

Wily old iron.

With a beat and a bang on the bones of the land

I conquered wily old iron!

Horst stopped his mallet in midblow when he saw Roran. "What's the matter, lad? Is Baldor hurt?" Roran shook his head and leaned over, gasping for air. In short bursts, he reiterated all they had seen and its possible implications, most importantly that it was now clear the strangers were agents of the Empire.

His face pale, Horst fingered his beard. "You have to leave Carvahall. Fetch some food from the house, then take my mare- Ivor's pulling stumps with her- and ride into the foothills. Once we know what the soldiers want, I'll send Albriech or Baldor with word."

"What will you say if they ask for me?"

"That you're out hunting and we don't know when you'll return. It's true enough, and I doubt they'll chance blundering around in the trees for fear of missing you. Assuming it's you they're really after."

Roran nodded, then turned and ran to Horst's house. Inside, he grabbed the mare's tack and bags from the wall, quickly tied turnips, beets, jerky, and a loaf of bread in a knot of blankets, snatched up a tin pot, and dashed out, pausing only long enough to explain the situation to Elain.

The supplies were an awkward bundle in his arms as he jogged east from Carvahall to Ivor's farm. Ivor himself stood behind the farmhouse, flicking the mare with a willow wand as she strained to tear the hairy roots of an elm tree from the ground. "Come on now!" shouted the farmer. "Put your back into it!"

The horse shuddered with effort, her bit lathered, then with a final surge tilted the stump on its side so the roots reached toward the sky like a cluster of gnarled fingers. Ivor stopped her exertion with a twitch of the reins and patted her good-naturedly. "All right... There we go."

Roran hailed him from a distance and, when they were close, pointed to the horse. "I need to borrow her." He gave his reasons. Ivor swore and began unhitching the mare, grumbling, "Always the moment I get a bit of work done, that's when the interruption comes. Never before." He crossed his arms and frowned as Roran cinched the saddle, intent on his work.

When he was ready, Roran swung onto the horse, bow in hand. "I am sorry for the trouble, but it can't be helped."

"Well, don't worry about it. Just make sure you aren't caught."

"I'll do that." As he set heels to the mare's sides, Roran heard Ivor call, "And don't be hiding up my creek!"

Roran grinned and shook his head, bending low over the horse's neck. He soon reached the foothills of the Spine and worked his way up to the mountains that formed the north end of Palancar Valley. From there he climbed to a point on the mountainside where he could observe Carvahall without being seen. Then he picketed his steed and settled down to wait.

Roran shivered, eyeing the dark pines. He disliked being this close to the Spine. Hardly anyone from Carvahall dared set foot in the mountain range, and those who did often failed to return. Before long Roran saw the soldiers march up the road in a double line, two ominous black figures at their head. The dragon was no where to be seen.

They were stopped at the edge of Carvahall by a ragged group of men, some of them with picks in hand. The two sides spoke, then simply faced each other, like growling dogs waiting to see who would strike first. After a long moment, the men of Carvahall moved aside and let the intruders pass.

What happens now? wondered Roran, rocking back on his heels.

By evening the soldiers had set up camp in a field adjacent to the village. Their tents formed a low gray block that flickered with weird shadows as sentries patrolled the perimeter. In the center of the block, a large fire sent billows of smoke into the air. Roran had made his own camp, and now he simply watched and thought. He always assumed that when the strangers destroyed his home, they got what they wanted, which was the stones Eragon brought from the Spine.

They must not have found them, he decided. Perhaps Eragon managed to escape with the stones... Perhaps he felt that he had to leave in order to protect them.

He frowned. That would go a long way toward explaining why Eragon fled, but it still seemed far-fetched to Roran. Whatever the reason, those stones must be a fantastic treasure for the king to send so many men to retrieve it, not to mention a dragon! I can't understand what would make them so valuable. Maybe it's magic.

He breathed deeply of the cool air, listening to the hoot of an owl. A flicker of movement caught his attention. Glancing down the mountain, he saw a man approaching in the forest below. Roran ducked behind a boulder, bow drawn. He waited until he was sure it was Albriech, then whistled softly.

Albriech soon arrived at the boulder. On his back was an overfull pack, which he dropped to the ground with a grunt. "I thought I'd never find you."

"I'm surprised you did."

"Can't say I enjoyed wandering through the forest after sundown. I kept expecting to walk into a bear or worse. The Spine isn't a fit place for men, if you ask me."

Roran looked back out at Carvahall. "So why are they here?"

"To take you into custody. They're willing to wait as long as they have to for you to return from 'hunting.' "

Roran sat with a hard thump, his gut clenched with cold anticipation. "Did they give a reason? Did they mention the stone?"

Albriech shook his head. "All they would say is that it's the king's business. The whole day they've been asking questions about you and Eragon- it's all they're interested in." He hesitated. "I'd stay, but they'll notice if I am missing tomorrow. I brought plenty of food and blankets, plus some of Gertrude's salves in case you injure yourself. You should be fine up here."

Summoning his energy, Roran smiled. "Thanks for the help."

"Anyone would do it," said Albriech with an embarrassed shrug. He started to leave, then tossed over his shoulder, "By the way, the two strangers... they're called the Ra'zac."

Three days after the Empire's arrival, Roran found himself pacing uncontrollably along the edge of his camp in the Spine. He had heard nothing since Albriech's visit, nor was it possible to glean information by observing Carvahall. He glared at the distant tents where the soldiers slept, then continued pacing. At midday Roran had a small, dry lunch. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he wondered, How long is the Empire willing to wait? If it was a test of patience, he was determined to win.

To pass the time, he practiced his archery on a rotting log, stopping only when an arrow shattered on a rock embedded in the trunk. After that nothing else remained to do, except to resume striding back and forth along the bare track that stretched from a boulder to where he slept. He was still pacing when footsteps sounded in the forest below. Grabbing his bow, Roran hid and waited. Relief rushed through him when Baldor's face bobbed into view. Roran waved him over.

As they sat, Roran asked, "Why hasn't anyone come?"

"We couldn't," said Baldor, wiping sweat off his brow. "The soldiers have been watching us too closely. This was the first opportunity we had to get away. I can't stay long either." He turned his face toward the peak above them and shuddered. "You're braver than I, staying here. Have you had any trouble with wolves, bears, mountain cats?"

"No, no, I'm fine. Did the soldiers say anything new?"

"One of them bragged to Morn last night that their squad was handpicked for this mission."

Roran frowned.

"They haven't been too quiet... At least two or three of them get drunk each night. A group of them tore up Morn's common room the first day."

"Did they pay for the damage?"

"'Course not."

Roran shifted, staring down at the village. "I still have trouble believing that the Empire would go to these lengths to capture me. What could I give them? What do they think I can give them?"

Baldor followed his gaze. "The Ra'zac questioned Katrina today. Someone mentioned that the two of you are close, and the Ra'zac were curious if she knew where you'd gone."

Roran refocused on Baldor's open face. "Is she all right?"

"It would take more than those two to scare her," reassured Baldor. His next sentence was cautious and probing. "Perhaps you should consider turning yourself in."

"I'd sooner hang myself and them with me!" Roran started up and stalked over his usual route, still tapping his leg. "How can you say that, knowing how they tortured my father?"

Catching his arm, Baldor said, "What happens if you remain in hiding and the soldiers don't give up and leave? They'll assume we lied to help you escape. The Empire doesn't forgive traitors."

Roran shrugged off Baldor. He spun around, tapping his leg, then abruptly sat. If don't show myself, the Ra'zac will blame the people at hand. If I attempt to lead the Ra'zac away... Roran was not a skilled enough woodsman to evade thirty men and the Ra'zac. Eragon could do it, but not me. Still, unless the situation changed, it might be the only choice available to him. He looked at Baldor.

"I don't want anyone to be hurt on my behalf. I'll wait for now, and if the Ra'zac grow impatient and threaten someone... Well then, I'll think of something else to do."

"It's a nasty situation all around," offered Baldor.

"One I intend to survive."

Baldor departed soon afterward, leaving Roran alone with his thoughts on his endless path. He covered mile after mile, grinding a rut into the earth under the weight of his ruminations. Just as the waxing moon rose and subsumed the night shadows in beams of marble light, Roran noticed a disturbance in Carvahall. Scores of lanterns bobbed through the darkened village, winking in and out as they floated behind houses. The yellow specks clustered in the center of Carvahall, like a cloud of fireflies, then streamed haphazardly toward the edge of town, where they were met by a hard line of torches from the soldiers' camp. For two hours, Roran watched the opposing sides face each other- the agitated lanterns milling helplessly against the stolid torches. Finally, the lambent dispersed and filtered back into the tents and houses.

When nothing else of interest occurred, Roran untied his bedroll and slipped under the blankets. Throughout the next day, Carvahall was consumed with unusual activity. Figures strode between houses and even, Roran was surprised to see, rode out into Palancar Valley toward various farms. At noon he saw two men enter the soldiers' camp and disappear into the Ra'zac's tent for almost an hour.

So involved was he with the proceedings, Roran barely moved the entire day. He was in the middle of dinner when, as he had hoped, Baldor reappeared.

"Hungry?" asked Roran, gesturing.

Baldor shook his head and sat with an air of exhaustion. Dark lines under his eyes made his skin look thin and bruised. "Quimby's dead."

Roran's bowl clattered as it struck the ground. He cursed, wiping cold stew off his leg, then asked, "How?"

"A couple of soldiers started bothering Tara last night."

Tara was Morn's wife.

"She didn't really mind, except the men got in a fight over who she was supposed to serve next. Quimby was there- checking a cask Morn said had turned- and he tried to break them up."

Roran nodded. That was Quimby, always interfering to make sure others behaved properly.

"Only thing is, a soldier threw a pitcher and hit him on the temple. Killed him instantly."

Roran stared at the ground with his hands on his hips, struggling to regain control over his ragged breathing. He felt as if Baldor had knocked the wind out of him. It doesn't seem possible... Quimby, gone? The farmer and part time brewer was as much a part of the landscape as the mountains surrounding Carvahall, an unquestioned presence that shaped the fabric of the village.

"Will the men be punished?"

Baldor held up his hand. "Right after Quimby died, the Ra'zac stole his body from the tavern and hauled it out to their tents. We tried to get it back last night, but they wouldn't talk with us."

"I saw."

Baldor grunted, rubbing his face. "Dad and Loring met with the Ra'zac today and managed to convince them to release the body. The soldiers, however, won't face any consequences." He paused. "I was about to leave when Quimby was handed over. You know what his wife got? Bones."

"Bones!"

"Every one of them was nibbled clean- you could see the bite marks- and most had been cracked open for the marrow."

Disgust gripped Roran, as well as profound horror for Quimby's fate. It was well known that a person's spirit could never rest until his body was given a proper burial. Revolted by the desecration, he asked, "What, who, ate him then?"

"The soldiers were just as appalled. It must have been the Ra'zac."

"Why? To what end?"

"I don't think," said Baldor, "that the Ra'zac are human. You've never seen them up close, but their breath is foul, and they always cover their faces with black scarves. Their backs are humped and twisted, and they speak to each other with clicks. Even their men seem to fear them."

"If they aren't human, then what kind of creatures can they be?" demanded Roran. "They're not Urgals."

"Who knows?"

Fear now joined Roran's revulsion- fear of the supernatural. He saw it echoed on Baldor's face as the young man clasped his hands. For all the stories of Galbatorix's misdeeds, it was still a shock to have the king's evil roosted among their homes. A sense of history settled on Roran as he realized he was involved with forces he had previously been acquainted with only through songs and stories. "Something should be done," he muttered.

"What's more", Baldor said, drawing Roran's attention once more, "Their commander is a woman."

"A woman!"

"Aye. She's the only one that'll go anywhere near that beast of a lizard. It doesn't seem to like the soldiers, much less the Ra'zac."

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The air grew warmer through the night, until by afternoon Palancar Valley shimmered and sweltered with the unexpected spring heat. Carvahall looked peaceful under the bald blue sky, yet Roran could feel the sour resentment that clenched its inhabitants with malicious intensity. The calm was like a sheet stretched taut in the wind. Despite the aura of expectation, the day proved to be utterly boring; Roran spent most of his time brushing Horst's mare. At last he lay to sleep, looking up past the towering pines at the haze of stars that adorned the night sky. They seemed so close, it felt as if he hurtled among them, falling toward the blackest void.

The moon was setting when Roran woke, his throat raw from smoke. He coughed and rolled upright, blinking as his eyes burned and watered. The noxious fumes made it difficult to breathe. Roran grabbed his blankets and saddled the frightened mare, then spurred her farther up the mountain, hoping to find clear air. It quickly became apparent that the smoke was ascending with him, so he turned and cut sideways through the forest. After several minutes spent maneuvering in the dark, they finally broke free and rode onto a ledge swept clean by a breeze. Purging his lungs with long breaths, Roran scanned the valley for the fire. He spotted it in an instant.

Carvahall's hay barn glowed white in a cyclone of flames, transforming its precious contents into a fountain of amber motes. Roran trembled as he watched the destruction of the town's feed. He wanted to scream and run through the forest to help with the bucket brigade, yet he could not force himself to abandon his own safety. Now a molten spark landed on Delwin's house. Within seconds, the thatched roof exploded in a wave of fire.

Roran cursed and tore his hair, tears streaming down his face. This was why mishandling fire was a hanging offense in Carvahall. Was it an accident? Was it that dragon? Was it the soldiers? Are the Ra'zac punishing the villagers for shielding me?... Am I somehow responsible for this?

Fisk's house joined the conflagration next. Aghast, Roran could only avert his face, hating himself for his cowardice. By dawn all the fires had been extinguished or burned out on their own. Only sheer luck and a calm night saved the rest of Carvahall from being consumed. Roran waited until he was sure of the outcome, then retreated to his old camp and threw himself down to rest.

From morning through evening, he was oblivious to the world, except through the lens of his troubled dreams. Upon his return to awareness, Roran simply waited for the visitor he was sure would appear. This time it was Albriech. He arrived at dusk with a grim, worn expression. "Come with me," he said.

Roran tensed. "Why?" Have they decided to give me up?

If he was the cause of the fire, he could understand the villagers wanting him gone. He might even agree it was necessary. It was unreasonable to expect everyone in Carvahall to sacrifice themselves for him. Still, that did not mean he would allow them to just hand him over to the Ra'zac. After what the two monsters had done to Quimby, Roran would fight to the death to avoid being their prisoner.

"Because," said Albriech, clenching his jaw muscles, "it was the soldiers who started the fire. Morn banned them from the Seven Sheaves, but they still got drunk on their own beer. One of them dropped a torch against the hay barn on his way to bed."

"Was anyone hurt?" asked Roran.

"A few burns. Gertrude was able to handle them. We tried to negotiate with the Ra'zac. They spat on our requests that the Empire replace our losses and the guilty face justice. They even refused to confine the soldiers to the tents."

"So why should I return?"

Albriech chuckled hollowly. "For hammer and tongs. We need your help to...remove the Ra'zac."

"You would do that for me?"

"We're not risking ourselves for your sake alone. This concerns the entire village now. At least come talk to Father and the others and hear their thoughts... I'd think you would be glad to get out of these cursed mountains."

Roran considered Albriech's proposition long and hard before deciding to accompany him. It's this or run for it, and I can always run later.

He fetched the mare, tied his bags to the saddle, then followed Albriech toward the valley floor. Their progress slowed as they neared Carvahall, using trees and brush for cover. Slipping behind a rain barrel, Albriech checked to see if the streets were clear, then signaled to Roran. Together they crept from shadow to shade, constantly on guard for the Empire's servants. At Horst's forge, Albriech opened one of the double doors just far enough for Roran and the mare to quietly enter.

Inside, the workshop was lit by a single candle, which cast a trembling glow over the ring of faces that hovered about it in the surrounding darkness. Horst was there- his thick beard protruded like a shelf into the light- flanked by the hard visages of Delwin, Gedric, and then Loring. The rest of the group was composed of younger men: Baldor, Loring's three sons, Parr, and Quimby's boy, Nolfavrell, who was only thirteen. They all turned to look as Roran entered the assembly.

Horst said, "Ah, you made it. You escaped misfortune while in the Spine?"

"I was lucky."

"Then we can proceed."

"With what, exactly?" Roran hitched the mare to an anvil as he spoke.

Loring answered, the shoemaker's parchment face a mass of contorting lines and grooves. "We have attempted reason with these Ra'zac... these invaders. " He stopped, his thin frame racked with an unpleasant, metallic wheeze deep in his chest. "They have refused reason. They have endangered us all with no sign of remorse or contrition. " He made a noise in his throat, then said with pronounced deliberation, "They... must... go. Such creatures- "

"No," said Roran. "Not creatures. Desecrators."

The faces scowled and bobbed in agreement. Delwin picked up the thread of conversation: "The point is, everyone's life is at stake. If that fire had spread any farther, dozens of people would have been killed and those who escaped would have lost everything they own. As a result, we've agreed to drive the Ra'zac away from Carvahall. Will you join us?"

Roran hesitated. "What if they return or send for reinforcements? We can't defeat the entire Empire."

"No," said Horst, grave and solemn, "but neither can we stand silent and allow the soldiers to kill us and to destroy our property. A man can endure only so much abuse before he must strike back."

"And the dragon? Will it truly sit by while we attack those men? We'll be slaughtered in droves!"

Horst shook his head, his neck knotted with muscles. "It hasn't been in the camp the past two days. No, if we are to strike, we should do so now."

Roran scowled. Fighting the Ra'zac is one thing, but a dragon? Even if it is gone. It will be back soon enough.

"Are you certain? Do not misunderstand; I am as eager as you to strike against these desecrators. But if that dragon were to return it would mean our doom. The king will not be lenient. And there's a rider to boot."

The men in the room looked at each other, then nodded.

Roran followed suite. "Fine then. If we are to strike, let us do so when the iron is hot."

Horst snorted.

Loring laughed, throwing back his head so the flame gilded the stumps of his teeth. "First we fortify," he whispered with glee, "then we fight. We'll make them regret they ever clapped their festering eyes on Carvahall! Ha ha!"

After Roran agreed to their plan, Horst began distributing shovels, pitchforks, flails- anything that could be used to beat the soldiers and the Ra'zac away. They refrained from mentioning the dragon and it's rider.

It's for the best, I suppose. Nothing we can do if it returns.

Roran hefted a pick, then set it aside. Though he had never cared for Brom's stories, one of them, the "Song of Gerand," resonated with him whenever he heard it. It told of Gerand, the greatest warrior of his time, who relinquished his sword for a wife and farm. He found no peace, however, as a jealous lord initiated a blood feud against Gerand's family, which forced Gerand to kill once more. Yet he did not fight with his blade, but with a simple hammer.

Going to the wall, Roran removed a medium-sized hammer with a long handle and a rounded blade on one side of the head. He tossed it from hand to hand, then went to Horst and asked, "May I have this?"

Horst eyed the tool and Roran. "Use it wisely." Then he said to the rest of the group, "Listen. We want to scare, not kill. Break a few bones if you want, but don't get carried away. And whatever you do, don't stand and fight. No matter how brave or heroic you feel, remember that they are trained soldiers."

When everyone was equipped, they left the forge and wound their way through Carvahall to the edge of the Ra'zac's camp. The soldiers had already gone to bed, except for four sentries who patrolled the perimeter of the gray tents. The Ra'zac's two horses were picketed by a smoldering fire. Horst quietly issued orders, sending Albriech and Delwin to ambush two of the sentries, and Parr and Roran to ambush the other two.

Roran held his breath as he stalked the oblivious soldier. His heart began to shudder as energy spiked through his limbs. He hid behind the corner of a house, quivering, and waited for Horst's signal. Wait. Wait.

With a roar, Horst burst from hiding, leading the charge into the tents. Roran darted forward and swung his hammer, catching the sentry on the shoulder with a grisly crunch.

The man howled and dropped his halberd. He staggered as Roran struck his ribs and back.

Roran raised the hammer again and the man retreated, screaming for help. Roran ran after him, shouting incoherently. He knocked in the side of a wool tent, trampling whatever was inside, then smashed the top of a helmet he saw emerging from another tent. The metal rang like a bell. Roran barely noticed as Loring danced past- he old man cackled and hooted in the night as he jabbed the soldiers with a pitchfork. Everywhere was a confusion of struggling bodies. Whirling around, Roran saw a soldier attempting to string his bow. He rushed forward and hit the back of the bow with his steel mallet, breaking the wood in two. The soldier fled.

The Ra'zac scrambled free of their tent with terrible screeches, swords in hand. Before they could attack, Baldor untethered the horses and sent them galloping toward the two scarecrow figures. The Ra'zac separated, then regrouped, only to be swept away as the soldiers' morale broke and they ran. Then it was over.

Roran panted in the silence, his hand cramped around the hammer's handle. After a moment, he picked his way through the crumpled mounds of tents and blankets to Horst.

The smith was grinning under his beard. "That's the best brawl I've had in years."

Behind them, Carvahall jumped to life as people tried to discover the source of the commotion. Roran watched lamps flare up behind shuttered windows, then turned as he heard soft sobbing. The boy, Nolfavrell, was kneeling by the body of a soldier, methodically stabbing him in the chest as tears slid down his chin. Gedric and Albriech hurried over and pulled Nolfavrell away from the corpse.

"He shouldn't have come," said Roran.

Horst shrugged. "It was his right."

All the same, killing one of the Ra'zac's men will only make it harder to rid ourselves of the desecrators.

"We should barricade the road and between the houses so they won't catch us by surprise." Studying the men for any injuries, Roran saw that Delwin had received a long cut on his forearm, which the farmer bandaged with a strip torn from his ruined shirt.

With a few shouts, Horst organized their group. He dispatched Albriech and Baldor to retrieve Quimby's wagon from the forge and had Loring's sons and Parr scour Carvahall for items that could be used to secure the village. Even as he spoke, people congregated on the edge of the field, staring at what was left of the Ra'zac's camp and the dead soldier.

"What happened?" cried Fisk.

Loring scuttled forward and stared the carpenter in the eye. "What happened? I'll tell you what happened. We routed the dung beardlings... caught them with their boots off and whipped them like dogs!"

"I am glad." The strong voice came from Birgit, an auburn haired woman who clasped Nolfavrell against her bosom, ignoring the blood smeared across his face. "They deserve to die like cowards for my husband's death."

The villagers murmured in agreement, but then Thane spoke: "Have you gone mad, Horst? Even if you frightened off the Ra'zac and their soldiers, Galbatorix will just send more men. And what about that dragon? It'll be back soon. The Empire will never give up until they get Roran."

"We should hand him over," snarled Sloan.

Horst raised his hands. "I agree; no one is worth more than all of Carvahall. But if we surrender Roran, do you really think Galbatorix will let us escape punishment for our resistance? In his eyes, we're no better than the Varden."

"Then why did you attack?" demanded Thane. "Who gave you the authority to make this decision? You've doomed us all!"

This time Birgit answered. "Would you let them kill your wife?" She pressed her hands on either side of her son's face, then showed Thane her bloody palms, like an accusation. "Would you let them burn us?... Where is your manhood, loam breaker?"

He lowered his gaze, unable to face her stark expression.

"They burned my farm," said Roran, "devoured Quimby, and nearly destroyed Carvahall. Such crimes cannot go unpunished. Are we frightened rabbits to cower down and accept our fate? No! We have a right to defend ourselves."

He stopped as Albriech and Baldor trudged up the street, dragging the wagon. "We can debate later. Now we have to prepare. Who will help us?"

Forty or more men volunteered. Together they set about the difficult task of making Carvahall impenetrable. Roran worked incessantly, nailing fence slats between houses, piling barrels full of rocks for makeshift walls, and dragging logs across the main road, which they blocked with two wagons tipped on their sides.

As Roran hurried from one chore to another, Katrina waylaid him in an alley. She hugged him, then said, "I'm glad you're back, and that you're safe."

He kissed her lightly. "Katrina... I have to speak with you as soon as we're finished."

She smiled uncertainly, but with a spark of hope.

"You were right; it was foolish of me to delay. Every moment we spend together is precious, and I have no desire to squander what time we have when a whim of fate could tear us apart." Roran was tossing water on the thatching of Kiselt's house- so it could not catch fire- when Parr shouted, "Ra'zac!"

Dropping the bucket, Roran ran to the wagons, where he had left his hammer. As he grabbed the weapon, he saw a single Ra'zac sitting on a horse far down the road, almost out of bowshot. The creature was illuminated by a torch in its left hand, while its right was drawn back, as if to throw something.

Roran laughed. "Is he going to toss rocks at us? He's too far away to even hit—" He was cut off as the Ra'zac whipped down its arm and a glass vial arched across the distance between them and shattered against the wagon to his right. An instant later, a fireball launched the wagon into the air while a fist of burning air flung Roran against a wall. Dazed, he fell to his hands and knees, gasping for breath. Through the roaring in his ears came the so of gallopiundng horses. He forced himself upright and faced the sound, only to dive aside as the Ra'zac raced into Carvahall through the burning gap in the wagons. The Ra'zac reined in their steeds, blades flashing as they hacked at the people strewn around them. Roran saw three men die, then Horst and Loring reached the Ra'zac and began pressing them back with pitchforks. Before the villagers could rally, soldiers poured through the breach, killing indiscriminately in the darkness. At their front was a woman in plate mail, her armor shining in the light of the flames. And orange sword was in her left hand, and she cackled with glee as she cut men down left and right.

Roran knew they had to be stopped, else Carvahall would be taken. He jumped at a soldier, catching him by surprise, and hit him in the face with the hammer's blade. The soldier crumpled without a sound. As the man's compatriots rushed toward him, Roran wrestled the corpse's shield off his limp arm. He barely managed to get it free in time to block the first strike. Backstepping toward the Ra'zac, Roran parried a sword thrust, then swung his hammer up under the man's chin, sending him to the ground.

"To me!" shouted Roran. "Defend your homes!" He sidestepped a jab as five men attempted to encircle him. "To me!"

Baldor answered his call first, then Albriech. A few seconds later, Loring's sons joined him, followed by a score of others. From the side streets, women and children pelted the soldiers with rocks.

"Stay together," ordered Roran, standing his ground. "There are more of us." The soldiers halted as the line of villagers before them continued to thicken. With more than a hundred men at his back, Roran slowly advanced.

"Attack, you foolsss," screamed a Ra'zac, dodging Loring's pitchfork. A single arrow whizzed toward Roran. He caught it on his shield and laughed.

The woman with the orange sword stood behind the soldier's front line. She watched with an amused expression as the villagers and the soldiers pushed against each other, but she otherwise made no move to join the fray.

The Ra'zac were level with the soldiers now, hissing with frustration. They glared at the villagers from under their inky cowls. Suddenly Roran felt himself become lethargic and powerless to move; it was hard to even think. Fatigue seemed to chain his arms and legs in place. Then from farther in Carvahall, Roran heard a raw shout from Birgit. A second later, a rock hurtled over his head and bored toward the lead Ra'zac, who twitched with supernatural speed to avoid the missile. The distraction, slight though it was, freed Roran's mind from the influence.

Was that magic? he wondered. He dropped the shield, grasped his hammer with both hands, and raised it far above his head- just like Horst did when spreading metal. Roran went up on tiptoe, his entire body bowed backward, then whipped his arms down with a shout. The hammer cartwheeled through the air and bounced off the Ra'zac's shield, leaving a formidable dent. The two attacks were enough to disrupt the last of the Ra'zac's strange power.

They clicked rapidly to each other as the villagers roared and marched forward, then the Ra'zac yanked on their reins, wheeling around. "Retreat," they growled, riding past the soldiers. The crimson clad warriors sullenly backed out of Carvahall, stabbing at anyone who came too close. The woman was at the back of their ranks, smile firmly fixed upon her face. Of everyone there, she alone appeared to take pleasure in the bloodshed that had taken place. Her eyes danced with mirthful glee, and the blood on her blade seemed to clash with it's orange hue.

Roran sighed and retrieved his hammer, feeling the bruises on his side and back where he had hit the wall. He bowed his head as he saw that the explosion had killed Parr. Nine other men had died. Already wives and mothers rent the night with their wails of grief. How could this happen here?

"Everyone, come!" called Baldor. Roran blinked and stumbled to the middle of the road, where Baldor stood. Not fifty paces from the village's perimeter stood the woman Roran had spotted with the soldiers, her orange blade sheathed at her hip. She was dressed in plate armor, with an amber cape upon her back. Her hair was the same striking copper as Katrina's.

"What do you want?" he shouted. "Why are you here?"

"I am Vylka, Dutchess of the Broddring Empire, beholden only to our most glorious king, his highness Galbatorix." Her voice held a mocking tone to it, as if she did not fully believe what she had said. No, Roran realized. It's not that she doesn't believe it, it's that she doesn't care.

The woman locked eyes with Roran and smiled, as if amused by a joke. She glanced over her shoulder, where her companions had disappeared, then cried, "Release Roran Garrowson to my men and I shall use those of you that I wish for my fun." Her smile took on a lazy appearance, but her eyes danced with a mad light. She looked at the villagers as if they were livestock. "Those that remain shall be sold as slaves. Protect him, and we shall slaughter you all. I shall have your answer when next we come. Be sure it is the right one."

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The Empire has violated my home. So thought Roran as he listened to the anguished moans of the men injured during the previous night's battle with the Ra'zac and soldiers. Roran shuddered with fear and rage until his whole body was consumed with feverish chills that left his cheeks burning and his breath short. And he was sad, so very sad... as if the Ra'zac's deeds had destroyed the innocence of his childhood haunts.

Leaving the healer, Gertrude, tending to the wounded, Roran continued toward Horst's house, noting the makeshift barriers that filled the gaps between buildings: the boards, the barrels, the piles of rocks, and the splintered frames of the two wagons destroyed by the Ra'zac's explosives. It all seemed pitifully fragile. The few people who moved through Carvahall were glassy-eyed with shock, grief, and exhaustion.

Roran was tired too, more than he could ever remember being. He had not slept since the night before last, and his arms and back ached from the fighting. He entered Horst's house and saw Elain standing by the open doorway to the dining room, listening to the steady burn of conversation that emanated from within. She beckoned him over. After they had foiled the Ra'zac's counterattack, the prominent members of Carvahall had sequestered themselves in an attempt to decide what action the village should take and if Horst and his allies should be punished for initiating the hostilities. The group had been in deliberation most of the morning. Roran peeked into the room. Seated around the long table were Birgit, Loring, Sloan, Gedric, Delwin, Fisk, Morn, and a number of others. Horst presided at the head of the table.

"... and I say that it was stupid and reckless!" exclaimed Kiselt, propping himself upright on his bony elbows. "You had no cause to endanger—"

Morn waved a hand. "We've been over this before. Whether what has been done should have been done is beside the point. I happen to agree with it- Quimby was my friend as much as anyone's, and I shudder to think what those monsters would do with Roran- but... but what I want to know is how we can escape this predicament."

"Easy, kill the soldiers," barked Sloan.

"And then what? More men will follow until we drown in a sea of crimson tunics. Even if we surrender Roran, it'll do no good; you heard what the Ra'zac said- they'll kill us if we protect Roran and enslave us if we don't. You may feel differently, but, as for myself, I would rather die than spend my life as a slave." Morn shook his head, his mouth set in a flat grim line. "We cannot survive."

Fisk leaned forward. "We could leave."

"There's nowhere to go," retorted Kiselt. "We're backed against the Spine, the soldiers have blocked the road, and beyond them is the rest of the Empire."

"It's all your fault," cried Thane, stabbing a shaking finger at Horst. "They will torch our houses and murder our children because of you. You!"

Horst stood so quickly, his chair toppled over backward. "Where is your honor, man? Will you let them eat us without fighting back?"

"Yes, if it means suicide otherwise." Thane glared around the table, then stormed out past Roran. His face was contorted by pure, unadulterated fear.

Gedric spotted Roran then and waved him in. "Come, come, we've been waiting for you."

Roran clasped his hands in the small of his back as scores of hard eyes inspected him. "How can I help?"

"I think," said Gedric, "we've all agreed that it would accomplish nothing to give you to the Empire at this point. Whether we would if that wasn't the case is neither here nor there. The only thing we can do is prepare for another attack. Horst will make spearheads- and other weapons if he has time- and Fisk has agreed to construct shields. Fortunately, his carpentry shop didn't burn. And someone needs to oversee our defenses. We would like it to be you. You'll have plenty of assistance."

Roran nodded. "I'll do my best."

Beside Morn, Tara stood, towering over her husband. She was a large woman, with gray streaked black hair and strong hands that were just as capable of twisting off a chicken's head as separating a pair of brawlers. She said, "Make sure you do, Roran, else we'll have more funerals." Then she turned to Horst. "Before we go any further, there are men to bury. And there are children who should be sent to safety, maybe to Cawley's farm on Nost Creek. You should go as well, Elain."

"I won't leave Horst," said Elain calmly.

Tara bristled. "This is no place for a woman five months pregnant. You'll lose the child running around like you have."

"It would do me far more harm to worry in ignorance than remain here. I have borne my sons; I will stay, as I know you and every other wife in Carvahall will."

Horst came around the table and, with a tender expression, took Elain's hand. "Nor would I have you anywhere but at my side. The children should go, though. Cawley will care for them well, but we must make sure that the route to his farm is clear."

"Not only that," rasped Loring, "none of us, not one blasted man jack can have a thing to do with the families down the valley, 'side from Cawley, of course. They can't help us, and we don't want those desecrators to trouble 'em."

Everyone agreed that he was right, then the meeting ended and the attendees dispersed throughout Carvahall. Before long, however, they recongregated- along with most of the village- in the small cemetery behind Gertrude's house. Ten white swathed corpses were arranged beside their graves, a sprig of hemlock on each of their cold chests and a silver amulet around each of their necks.

Gertrude stood forth and recited the men's names: "Parr, Wyglif, Ged, Bardrick, Farold, Hale, Garner, Kelby, Melkolf, and Albem." She placed black pebbles over their eyes, then raised her arms, lifted her face to the sky, and began the quavering death lay. Tears seeped from the corners of her closed eyes as her voice rose and fell with the immemorial phrases, sighing and moaning with the village's sorrow. She sang of the earth and the night and of humanity's ageless sorrow from which none escape. After the last mournful note faded into silence, family members praised the feats and traits of those they had lost. Then the bodies were buried.

As Roran listened, his gaze lit upon the anonymous mound where the three soldiers had been interred. One killed by Nolfavrell, and two by me.

He could still feel the visceral shock of muscle and bone giving... crunching... pulping under his hammer. His bile rose and he had to struggle not to be sick in full view of the village. I am the one who destroyed them. Roran had never expected or wanted to kill, and yet he had taken more lives than anyone else in Carvahall. It felt as if his brow was marked with blood. He left as soon as possible- not even stopping to speak with Katrina- and climbed to a point where he could survey Carvahall and consider how best to protect it.

Unfortunately, the houses were too far apart to form a defensive perimeter by just fortifying the spaces between buildings. Nor did Roran think it would be a good idea to have soldiers fighting up against the walls of people's houses and trampling their gardens. The Anora River guards our western flank, he thought, but as for the rest of Carvahall, we couldn't even keep a child out of it... What can we build in a few hours that will be a strong enough barrier?

He jogged into the middle of the village and shouted, "I need everyone who is free to help cut down trees!" After a minute, men began to trickle out of the houses and through the streets. "Come on, more! We all have to help!" Roran waited as the group around him continued to grow.

One of Loring's sons, Darmmen, shouldered to his side. "What's your plan?"

Roran raised his voice so they could all hear. "We need a wall around Carvahall; the thicker the better. I figure if we get some big trees, lay them on their sides, and sharpen the branches, the Ra'zac will have a pretty hard time getting over them."

"How many trees do you think it'll take?" asked Orval.

Roran hesitated, trying to gauge Carvahall's circumference. "At least fifty. Maybe sixty to do it properly."

The men swore and began to argue.

"Wait!" Roran counted the number of people in the crowd. He arrived at forty-eight. "If you each fell a tree in the next hour, we'll be almost done. Can you do that?"

"What do you take us for?" retorted Orval. "The last time I took an hour on a tree, I was ten!"

Darmmen spoke up: "What about brambles? We could drape them over the trees. I don't know anyone who can climb through a knot of thorny vines."

Roran grinned. "That's a great idea. Also, those of you with sons, have them harness your horses so we can drag the trees back." The men agreed and scattered through Carvahall to gather axes and saws for the job.

Roran stopped Darmmen and said, "Make sure that the trees have branches all along the trunk or else they won't work."

"Where will you be?" asked Darmmen.

"Working on another line of defense."

Roran left him then and ran to Quimby's house, where he found Birgit busy boarding up the windows. "Yes?" she said, looking at him.

He quickly explained his plan with the trees. "I want to dig a trench inside the ring of trees, to slow down anyone who gets through. We could even put pointed stakes in the bottom of it and—"

"What is your point, Roran?"

"I'd like you to organize every woman and child, and everyone else you can, to dig. It's too much for me to handle by myself, and we don't have long..." Roran looked her straight in the eyes. "Please."

Birgit frowned. "Why ask me?"

"Because, like me, you hate the Ra'zac, and I know you will do everything possible to stop them."

"Aye," whispered Birgit, then clapped her hands briskly. "Very well, as you wish. But I will never forget, Roran Garrowsson, that it was you and your family who brought about my husband's doom."

She strode away before Roran could respond. He accepted her animosity with equanimity; it was to be expected, considering her loss. He was only lucky she had not started a blood feud. Then he shook himself and ran to where the main road entered Carvahall. It was the weakest spot in the village and had to be doubly protected. The Ra'zac can't be allowed to just blast their way in again.

Roran recruited Baldor, and together they began excavating a ditch across the road.

"I'll have to go soon," warned Baldor between strokes of his pickax. "Dad needs me in the forge."

Roran grunted an acknowledgment without looking up. As he worked, his mind once again filled with memories of the soldiers: how they had looked as he struck them, and the feeling, the horrible feeling of smashing a body as if it were a rotten stump. He paused, nauseated, and noted the commotion throughout Carvahall as people readied themselves for the next assault. After Baldor left, Roran completed the thigh-deep ditch himself, then went to Fisk's workshop. With the carpenter's permission, he had five logs from the stockpile of seasoned wood pulled by horses back to the main road. There Roran tipped the logs on end into the trench so that they formed an impenetrable barrier into Carvahall.

As he tamped down the earth around the logs, Darmmen trotted up. "We got the trees. They're just being put into place now." Roran accompanied him to Carvahall's northern edge, where twelve men wrestled four lush green pines into alignment while a team of draft horses under the whip of a young boy returned to the foothills. "Most of us are helping to retrieve the trees. The others got inspired; they seemed determined to chop down the rest of the forest when I left."

"Good, we can use the extra timber."

Darmmen pointed to a pile of dense brambles that sat on the edge of Kiselt's fields. "I cut those along the Anora. Use them however you want. I'm going to find more."

Roran clapped him on the arm, then turned toward the eastern side of Carvahall, where a long, curved line of women, children, and men labored in the dirt. He went to them and found Birgit issuing orders like a general and distributing water among the diggers. The trench was already five feet wide and two feet deep.

When Birgit paused for breath, he said, "I'm impressed."

She brushed back a lock of hair without looking at him. "We plowed the ground to begin with. It made things easier."

"Do you have a shovel I can use?" he asked.

Birgit pointed to a mound of tools at the other end of the trench.

As Roran walked toward it, he spied the copper gleam of Katrina's hair in the midst of the bobbing backs. Beside her, Sloan hacked at the soft loam with a furious, obsessive energy, as if he were attempting to tear open the earth's skin, to peel back its clay hide and expose the muscle beneath. His eyes were wild, and his teeth were bared in a knotted grimace, despite the flecks of dirt and filth that spotted his lips.

Roran shuddered at Sloan's expression and hurried past, averting his face so as to avoid meeting his bloodshot gaze. He grabbed a shovel and immediately plunged it into the soil, doing his best to forget his worries in the heat of physical exertion. The day progressed in a continuous rush of activity, without breaks for meals or rest. The trench grew longer and deeper, until it cupped two thirds of the village and reached the banks of the Anora River. All the loose dirt was piled on the inside edge of the trench in an attempt to prevent anyone from jumping over it... and to make it difficult to climb out.

The wall of trees was finished in early afternoon. Roran stopped digging then to help sharpen the innumerable branches- which were overlapped and interlocked as much as possible- and affix the nets of brambles. Occasionally, they had to pull out a tree so farmers like Ivor could drive their livestock into the safety of Carvahall. By evening the fortifications were stronger and more extensive than Roran had dared hope, though they still required several more hours of work to complete to his satisfaction. He sat on the ground, gnawing a hunk of sourdough bread and staring at the stars through a haze of exhaustion. A hand dropped on his shoulder, and he looked up to see Albriech.

"Here." Albriech extended a rough shield- made of sawed boards pegged together- and a six foot long spear. Roran accepted them gratefully, then Albriech proceeded onward, distributing spears and shields to whomever he encountered. Roran dragged himself upright, got his hammer from Horst's house, and thus armed, went to the entrance to the main road, where Baldor and two others kept watch.

"Wake me when you need to rest," Roran said, then lay on the soft grass underneath the eaves of a nearby house. He arranged his weapons so he could find them in the dark and closed his eyes in eager anticipation.

"Roran." The whisper came from by his right ear.

"Katrina?" He struggled into a sitting position, blinking as she unshuttered a lantern so a key of light struck his thigh.

"What are you doing here?"

"I wanted to see you." Her eyes, large and mysterious against her pale face, pooled with the night's shadows. She took his arm and led him to a deserted porch far out of earshot of Baldor and the other guards. There she placed her hands on his cheeks and softly kissed him, but he was too tired and troubled to respond to her affection. She drew away and studied him. "What is wrong, Roran?"

A bark of humorless laughter escaped him. "What's wrong? The world is wrong; it's as askew as a picture frame knocked on its side." He jammed his fist against his gut. "And I am wrong. Every time I allow myself to relax, I see the soldiers bleeding under my hammer. Men I killed, Katrina. And their eyes... their eyes ! They knew they were about to die and that they could nothing do about it." He trembled in the darkness. "They knew... I knew... and I still had to do it. It couldn't—" Words failed him as he felt hot tears roll down his cheeks.

Katrina cradled his head as Roran cried from the shock of the past few days. He wept for Garrow and Eragon; he wept for Parr, Quimby, and the other dead; he wept for himself; and he wept for the fate of Carvahall. He sobbed until his emotions ebbed and left him as dry and hollow as an old barley husk. Forcing himself to take a long breath, Roran looked at Katrina and noticed her own tears. He brushed them away with his thumb, like diamonds in the night. "Katrina... my love." He said it again, tasting the words: "My love. I have naught to give you but my love. Still... I must ask. Will you marry me?"

In the dim lantern light, he saw pure joy and wonder leap across her face. Then she hesitated and troubled doubt appeared. It was wrong for him to ask, or for her to accept, without Sloan's permission. But Roran no longer cared; he had to know now if he and Katrina would spend their lives together. Then, softly: "Yes, Roran, I will."

That night it rained. Layer upon layer of pregnant clouds blanketed Palancar Valley, clinging to the mountains with tenacious arms and filling the air with heavy, cold mist. From inside, Roran watched as cords of gray water pelted the trees with their frothing leaves, muddied the trench around Carvahall, and scrabbled with blunt fingers against the thatched roofs and eaves as the clouds disgorged their load. Everything was streaked, blurred, and hidden behind the torrent's inexorable streamers. By midmorning the storm had abated, although a continuous drizzle still percolated through the mist. It quickly soaked Roran's hair and clothes when he took his watch at the barricade to the main road. He squatted by the upright logs, shook his cloak, then pulled the hood farther over his face and tried to ignore the cold.

Despite the weather, Roran soared and exulted with his joy at Katrina's acceptance. They were engaged! In his mind, it was as if a missing piece of the world had dropped into place, as if he had been granted the confidence of an invulnerable warrior. What did the soldiers matter, or the Ra'zac, or the dragon, or the Empire itself, before love such as theirs? They were nothing but tinder to the blaze.

For all his new bliss, however, his mind was entirely focused on what had become the most important conundrum of his existence: how to assure that Katrina would survive Galbatorix's wrath. He had thought of nothing else since waking.

The best thing would be for Katrina to go to Cawley's, he decided, staring down the hazy road, but she would never agree to leave... unless Sloan told her to. I might be able to convince him; I'm sure he wants her out of danger as much as I do.

As he considered ways to approach the butcher, the clouds thickened again and the rain renewed its assault on the village, arching down in stinging waves. Around Roran, the puddles jumped to life as pellets of water drummed their surfaces, bouncing back up like startled grasshoppers.

He froze then, as the clouds parted and the orange dragon appeared. It was somehow far more intimidating in te air, and a tight knot of anxiety clenched at his gut as he watched it fly circles around the village. A saddle made of white stained leather adorned the junction between it's neck and it's body, and a single person sat upon it, hair streaming in the wind.

After a while the dragon turned, and with a single flap of it's wings flew off towards the Empire's camp. We'll have to hope it doesn't attack. He remained vigilant for a while longer, afraid that it might return and start laying waste to Carvahal, but eventually relaxed when there was no further sign of it nor it's rider.

When Roran grew hungry, he passed his watch to Larne- Loring's youngest son- and went to find lunch, darting from the shelter of one eave to another.

As he rounded a corner, he was surprised to see Albriech on the house's porch, arguing violently with a group of men. Ridley shouted, "... you're blind—follow the cottonwoods and they'll never see! You took the addle-brain's route."

"Try it if you want," retorted Albriech.

"I will!"

"Then you can tell me how you like the taste of arrows."

"Maybe," said Thane, "we aren't as clubfooted as you are."

Albriech turned on him with a snarl. "Your words are as thick as your wits. I'm not stupid enough to risk my family on the cover of a few leaves that I've never seen before."

Thane's eyes bulged and his face turned a deep mottled crimson.

"What?" taunted Albriech. "Have you no tongue?"

Thane roared and struck Albriech on the cheek with his fist. Albriech laughed. "Your arm is as weak as a woman's." Then he grabbed Thane's shoulder and threw him off the porch and into the mud, where he lay on his side, stunned.

Holding his spear like a staff, Roran jumped beside Albriech, preventing Ridley and the others from laying hands on him. "No more," growled Roran, furious. "We have other enemies. An assembly can be called and arbitrators will decide whether compensation is due to either Albriech or Thane. But until then, we can't fight ourselves."

"Easy for you to say," spat Ridley. "You have no wife or children." Then he helped Thane to his feet and departed with the group of men

. Roran stared hard at Albriech and the purple bruise that was spreading beneath his right eye. "What started it?" he asked.

"I-" Albriech stopped with a grimace and felt his jaw. "I went scouting with Darmmen. The Ra'zac have posted soldiers on several hills. They can see across the Anora and up and down the valley. One or two of us might, might, be able to creep past them without notice, but we'll never get the children to Cawley without killing the soldiers, and then we might as well tell the Ra'zac where we're going."

Dread clutched at Roran, flooding like poison through his heart and veins. What can I do?

Sick with a sense of impending doom, he put an arm around Albriech's shoulders. "Come on; Gertrude should have a look at you."

"No," said Albriech, shrugging him off. "She has more pressing cases than me."

He took a preparatory breath- as if he were about to dive into a lake- and lumbered off through the downpour in the direction of the forge.

Roran watched him go, then shook his head and went inside. He found Elain sitting on the floor with a row of children, sharpening a pile of spearheads with files and whetstones. Roran gestured to Elain. Once they were in another room, he told her what had just occurred.

Elain swore harshly- startling him, for he had never heard her use such language- then asked, "Is there cause for Thane to declare a feud?"

"Possibly," admitted Roran. "They both insulted each other, but Albriech's oaths were the strongest... However, Thane did strike first. You could declare a feud yourself."

"Nonsense," asserted Elain, wrapping a shawl around her shoulders. "This is a dispute for arbitrators to resolve. If we must pay a fine, so be it, as long as bloodshed is avoided." She headed out the front door, a finished spear in hand. Troubled, Roran located bread and meat in the kitchen, then helped the children sharpen spearheads. Once Felda, one of the mothers, arrived, Roran left the children in her care and slogged back through Carvahall to the main road.

As he squatted in the mud, a shaft of sunlight burst underneath the clouds and illuminated the folds of rain so each drop flashed with crystalline fire. Roran stared, awestruck, ignoring the water streaming down his face. The rift in the clouds widened until a shelf of massive thunderheads hung over the western three-quarters of Palancar Valley, facing a strip of pure blue sky.

Because of the billowy roof above and the angle of the sun, the rain-drenched landscape was lit brilliantly on one side and painted with rich shadows on the other, giving the fields, bushes, trees, river, and mountains the most extraordinary colors. It was as if the entire world had been transformed into a sculpture of burnished metal.

Just then, movement caught Roran's eye, and he looked down to see a soldier standing on the road, his mail shining like ice. The man gaped with amazement at Carvahall's new fortifications, then turned and fled back into the golden mist.

"Soldiers!" shouted Roran, jolting to his feet. He wished that he had his bow, but he had left it inside to protect it from the elements. His only comfort was that the soldiers would have an even harder time keeping their weapons dry. Men and women ran from their houses, gathered along the trench, and peered out through the wall of overlapping pines. The long branches wept beads of moisture, translucent cabochons that reflected the rows of anxious eyes.

Roran found himself standing beside Sloan. The butcher held one of Fisk's makeshift shields in his left hand, and in his right a cleaver curved like a half-moon. His belt was festooned with at least a dozen knives, all of them large and honed to a razor edge. He and Roran exchanged brisk nods, then refocused on where the soldier had disappeared. Less than a minute later, the disembodied voice of a Ra'zac slithered out of the mist: "By continuing to defend Carvahall, you proclaim your choice and ssseal your doom. You ssshall die!"

Loring responded: "Show your maggot-riddled faces if you dare, you lily-livered, bandy-legged, snake-eyed wretches! We'll crack your skulls open and fatten our hogs on your blood!"

A dark shape floated toward them, followed by the dull thump of a spear embedding itself in a door an inch from Gedric's left arm.

"Take cover!" shouted Horst from the middle of the line. Roran knelt behind his shield and peered through a hairline gap between two of the boards. He was just in time, for a half dozen spears hurtled over the wall of trees and buried themselves among the cowering villagers. From somewhere in the mist came an agonized scream. Roran's heart jumped with a painful flutter. He panted for breath, though he had not moved, and his hands were slick with sweat. He heard the faint sound of shattering glass on the northern edge of Carvahall... then the bellow of an explosion and crashing timbers. Spinning around, he and Sloan sped through Carvahall, where they found a team of six soldiers dragging away the splintered remains of several trees. Beyond them, pale and wraithlike in the glittering shards of rain, sat the Ra'zac on their black horses.

Without slowing, Roran fell upon the first man, jabbing his spear. His first and second stabs were deflected by an upraised arm, then Roran caught the soldier on the hip, and when he stumbled, in his throat.

Sloan howled like an enraged beast, threw his cleaver, and split one of the men's helms, crushing his skull. Two soldiers charged him with drawn swords. Sloan sidestepped, laughing now, and blocked their attacks with his shield. One soldier swung so hard, his blade stuck in the shield's rim. Sloan yanked him closer and gored him through the eye with a carving knife from his belt. Drawing a second cleaver, the butcher circled his other opponent with a maniacal grin. "Shall I gut and hamstring you?" he demanded, almost prancing with a terrible, bloody glee.

Roran lost his spear to the next two men he faced. He barely managed to drag out his hammer in time to stop a sword from shearing off his leg. The soldier who had torn the spear from Roran's grip now cast the weapon at him, aiming for his breast.

Roran dropped his hammer, caught the shaft in midair—which astounded him as much as the soldiers—spun it around, and drove the spear through the armor and ribs of the man who had launched it.

Left weaponless, Roran was forced to retreat before the remaining soldier. He stumbled over a corpse, cutting his calf on a sword as he fell, and rolled to avoid a two handed blow from the soldier, scrabbling frantically in the ankle deep mud for something, anything he could use for a weapon. A hilt bruised his fingers, and he ripped it from the muck and slashed at the soldier's sword hand, severing his thumb.

The man stared dumbly at the glistening stump, then said, "This is what comes from not shielding myself."

"Aye," agreed Roran, and beheaded him.

The last soldier panicked and fled toward the impassive specters of the Ra'zac while Sloan bombarded him with a stream of insults and foul names. When the soldier finally pierced the shining curtain of rain, Roran watched with a thrill of horror as the two black figures bent down from their steeds on either side of the man and gripped the nape of his neck with twisted hands. The cruel fingers tightened, and the man shrieked desperately and convulsed, then went limp. The Ra'zac placed the corpse behind one of their saddles before turning their horses and riding away.

Roran shuddered and looked at Sloan, who was cleaning his blades. "You fought well." He had never suspected that the butcher contained such ferocity.

Sloan said in a low voice, "They'll never get Katrina. Never, even if I must skin the lot of them, or fight a thousand dragons and the king to boot. I'd tear the sky itself down and let the Empire drown in its own blood before she suffers so much as a scratch." He clamped his mouth shut then, jammed the last of his knives into his belt, and began dragging the three broken trees back into position.

While he did, Roran rolled the dead soldiers through the trampled mud, away from the fortifications. Now I have killed five.

At the completion of his labor, he straightened and glanced around, puzzled, for all he heard was silence and the hissing rain. Why has no one come to help us?

Wondering what else might have occurred, he returned with Sloan to the scene of the first attack. Two soldiers hung lifelessly on the slick branches of the tree wall, but that was not what held their attention. Horst and the other villagers knelt in a circle around a small body. Roran caught his breath. It was Elmund, son of Delwin. The ten year old boy had been struck in his side by a spear. His parents sat in the mud beside him, their faces as blank as stone.

Something has to be done, thought Roran, dropping to his knees and leaning against his spear. Few children survived their first five or six years. But to lose your firstborn son now, when everything indicated that he should grow tall and strong to take his father's place in Carvahall- it was enough to crush you.

Katrina... the children... they all have to be protected. But where?... Where?... Where?... Where!

-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-.-

For three and a half days, the citizens of Carvahall discussed the latest attack, the tragedy of young Elmund's death, and what could possibly be done to escape their thrice-blasted situation. The debate raged with bitter fury through every room of every home. In the space of a word, friends turned against friends, husbands against wives, children against parents, only to reconcile moments later in their frantic attempt to discover a means of survival.

Some said that since Carvahall was doomed anyway, they might as well kill the Ra'zac and remaining soldiers so as to at least have their vengeance.

Others said that if Carvahall really was doomed, then the only logical course was to surrender and trust themselves to the king's mercy, even if it did mean torture and death for Roran and enslavement for everyone else.

And still others sided with neither opinion, but rather descended into a sullen black anger directed at everyone who had brought about this calamity.

Many did their best to hide their panic in the depths of a tankard. The woman and the dragon hadn't been seen since the night of the attack, and they hadn't taken part in it, despite the fact that they could have taken the village easily if the dragon were to attack it. The king wants us alive. It can be the only explanation.

The Ra'zac themselves had apparently realized that with eleven soldiers dead they no longer had a large enough force to attack Carvahall, and thus had retreated farther down the road, where they were content to post sentinels across Palancar Valley and wait. "Wait for flea-bitten troops from Ceunon or Gil'ead, if you ask me," Loring said at one meeting. Roran listened to that and more, kept his own council, and silently judged the various schemes. They all seemed dangerously risky.

Roran still had not told Sloan that he and Katrina were engaged. He knew it was foolish to wait, but he feared how the butcher would react when he learned that Roran and Katrina had flouted tradition and, in doing so, undermined Sloan's authority. Besides, there was plenty of work to divert Roran's attention; he convinced himself that strengthening the fortifications around Carvahall was his most important task at the moment.

Getting people to help was easier than Roran anticipated. After the last fight, the villagers were more apt to listen and to obey him- that is, those who did not blame him for causing their predicament. He was mystified by his new authority, until he realized that it was the result of the awe, respect, and perhaps even fear his kills had elicited.

They called him Stronghammer. Roran Stronghammer. The name pleased him.

As night engulfed the valley, Roran leaned against a corner of Horst's dining room, his eyes closed. Conversation flowed from the men and women seated around the candlelit table. Kiselt was in the middle of explaining the state of Carvahall's supplies. "We won't starve," he concluded, "but if we can't tend to our fields and our flocks soon, we might as well cut our own throats before next winter. It would be a kinder fate."

Horst scowled. "Dog tripe!"

"Dog tripe or not," said Gertrude, "I doubt we'll have a chance to find out. We outnumbered the soldiers ten to one when they arrived. They lost eleven men; we lost twelve, and I'm caring for another nine wounded. What happens, Horst, when they outnumber us ten to one?"

"We will give the bards a reason to remember our names," retorted the smith.

Gertrude shook her head sadly.

Loring banged a fist on the table. "And I say it's our turn to strike, before we are outnumbered. All we need are a few men, shields, and spears, and we can wipe out their infestation. It could be done tonight!"

Roran shifted restlessly. He had heard all this before, and like before, Loring's proposal ignited an argument that consumed the group. After an hour, the debate still showed no sign of being resolved, nor had any new ideas been presented, except for Thane's suggestion that Gedric should go tan his own hide, which nearly resulted in a fistfight.

Finally, when the conversation lulled, Roran limped to the table as quickly as his injured calf would allow. "I have something to say." For him it was the equivalent of stepping on a long thorn and then yanking it out without stopping to consider the pain; it had to be done, and the faster the better.

All eyes- hard, soft, angry, kind, indifferent, and curious- turned to him, and Roran took a deep breath. "Indecision will kill us just as surely as a sword or an arrow." Orval rolled his eyes, but the rest still listened. "I don't know if we should attack or flee- "

"Where?" snorted Kiselt.

"-but I do know one thing: our children, our mothers, and our infirm must be protected from danger. The Ra'zac have barred us from Cawley and the other farms down the valley. So what? We know this land better than any in Alagaësia, and there is a place... there is a place where our loved ones will be safe: the Spine."

Roran winced as a barrage of outraged voices assaulted him. Sloan was the loudest, shouting, "I'll be hanged before I set foot in those cursed mountains!"

"Roran," said Horst, overriding the commotion. "You of all people should know that the Spine is too dangerous- it's where Eragon found the stone that brought the Ra'zac! The mountains are cold, and filled with wolves, bears, and other monsters. Why even mention them?"

To keep Katrina safe! Roran wanted to scream.

Instead, he said, "Because no matter how many soldiers the Ra'zac summon, they will never dare enter the Spine. Not after Galbatorix lost half his army in it."

"That was a long time ago," said Morn doubtfully.

Roran jumped on his statement. "And the stories have grown all the more frightening in the telling! A trail already exists to the top of Igualda Falls. All we have to do is send the children and others up there. They'll only be on the fringe of the mountains, but they'll still be safe. If Carvahall is taken, they can wait until the soldiers leave, then find refuge in Therinsford."

"It is too dangerous," growled Sloan. The butcher gripped the edge of the table so hard that the tips of his fingers turned white. "The cold, the beasts. No sane man would send his family among those."

"But..." Roran faltered, put off balance by Sloan's response. Though he knew the butcher hated the Spine more than most- because his wife had plummeted to her death from the cliffs beside Igualda Falls- he had hoped that Sloan's rabid desire to protect Katrina would be strong enough to overcome his aversion. Roran now understood he would have to win over Sloan just like everyone else.

Adopting a placating tone, Roran said, "It's not that bad. The snow is already melting off the peaks. It's no colder in the Spine than it was down here a few months ago. And I doubt that wolves or bears would bother such a large group."

Sloan grimaced, twisting his lips up over his teeth, and shook his head. "You will find nothing but death in the Spine." The others seemed to agree, which only strengthened Roran's determination, for he was convinced that Katrina would die unless he could sway them. He scanned the long oval of faces, searching for a sympathetic expression.

"Delwin, I know it's cruel of me to say it, but if Elmund hadn't been in Carvahall, he would still be alive. Surely you must agree that this is the right thing to do! You have an opportunity to save other parents from your suffering." No one responded.

"And Birgit!" Roran dragged himself toward her, clutching the backs of chairs to keep himself from falling. "Do you want Nolfavrell to share his father's fate? He has to leave. Can't you see, that is the only way he'll be safe..." Though Roran did his best to fight it, he could feel tears flood his eyes. "It's for the children!" he shouted angrily.

The room was silent as Roran stared at the wood beneath his hands, struggling to control himself. Delwin was the first to stir. "I will never leave Carvahall so long as my son's killers remain here. However," he paused, then continued with painful slowness, "I cannot deny the truth of your words; the children must be protected."

"As I said from the beginning," declared Tara.

Then Baldor spoke: "Roran is right. We can't allow ourselves to be blinded by fear. Most of us have climbed to the top of the falls at one time or another. It's safe enough."

"I too," Birgit finally added, "must agree."

Horst nodded. "I would rather not do it, but considering the circumstances... I don't think we have any other choice."

After a minute, the various men and women began to reluctantly acquiesce to the proposal.

"Nonsense!" exploded Sloan. He stood and stabbed an accusing finger at Roran. "How will they get enough food to wait for weeks on end? They can't carry it. How will they stay warm? If they light fires, they'll be seen! How, how, how? If they don't starve, they'll freeze. If they don't freeze, they'll be eaten. If they're not eaten... Who knows? They may fall!"

Roran spread his hands. "If we all help, they will have plenty of food. Fire won't be a problem if they move farther back into the forest, which they must anyway, since there isn't room to camp right by the falls."

"Excuses! Justifications!"

"What would you have us do, Sloan?" asked Morn, eyeing him with curiosity.

Sloan laughed bitterly. "Not this."

"Then what?"

"It doesn't matter. Only this is the wrong choice."

"You don't have to participate," pointed out Horst.

"Nor will I," said the butcher. "Proceed if you want, but neither I nor my blood shall enter the Spine while I still have marrow in my bones." He grabbed his cap and left with a venomous glare at Roran, who returned the scowl in kind. As Roran saw it, Sloan was endangering Katrina through his own pigheaded stubbornness. If he can't bring himself to accept the Spine as a place of refuge, decided Roran, then he's become my enemy and I have to take matters into my own hands.

Horst leaned forward on his elbows and interlaced his thick fingers. "So... If we are going to use Roran's plan, what preparations will be needed?" The group exchanged wary glances, then gradually began to discuss the topic.

Roran waited until he was convinced that he had achieved his goal before slipping out of the dining room. Loping through the dusky village, he searched for Sloan along the inner perimeter of the tree wall. Eventually, he spotted the butcher hunched underneath a torch, his shield clasped around his knees.

Roran spun around on one foot and ran to Sloan's shop, where he hurried to the kitchen in the back. Katrina paused in the middle of setting their table and stared at him with amazement. "Roran! Why are you here? Did you tell Father?"

"No." He came forward and took her arm, savoring the touch. Just being in the same room with her filled him with joy. "I have a great favor to ask of you. It's been decided to send the children and a few others into the Spine above Igualda Falls."

Katrina gasped.

"I want you to accompany them."

With a shocked expression, Katrina pulled free of his grasp and turned to the open fireplace, where she hugged herself and stared at the bed of throbbing embers. For a long time, she said nothing. Then: "Father forbade me to go near the falls after Mother died. Albem's farm is the closest I've been to the Spine in over ten years." She shivered, and her voice grew accusing. "How can you suggest that I abandon both you and my father? This is my home as much as yours. And why should I leave when Elain, Tara, and Birgit will remain?"

"Katrina, please." He tentatively put his hands on her shoulders. "The Ra'zac are here for me, and I would not have you harmed because of that. As long as you're in danger, I can't concentrate on what has to be done: defending Carvahall."

"Who would respect me for fleeing like a coward?" She lifted her chin. "I would be ashamed to stand before the women of Carvahall and call myself your wife."

"Coward? There is no cowardice in guarding and protecting the children in the Spine. If anything, it requires greater courage to enter the mountains than to stay."

"What horror is this?" whispered Katrina. She twisted in his arms, eyes shining and mouth set firmly. "The man who would be my husband no longer wants me by his side."

He shook his head. "That's not true. I—"

"It is true! What if you are killed while I'm gone?"

"Don't say—"

"No! Carvahall has little hope of survival, and if we must die, I would rather die together than huddle in the Spine without life or heart. Let those with children tend to their own. As will I." A tear rolled down her chek.

Gratitude and wonder surged through Roran at the strength of her devotion. He looked deep into her eyes. "It is for that love that I would have you go. I know how you feel. I know that this is the hardest sacrifice either of us could make, and I ask it of you now."

Katrina shuddered, her entire body rigid, her white hands clenched around her muslin sash. "If I do this," she said with a shaking voice, "you must promise me, here and now, that you will never make such a request again. You must promise that even if we faced Galbatorix himself and only one of us could escape, you would not ask me to leave."

Roran looked at her helplessly. "I can't."

"Then how can you expect me to do what you won't!" she cried. "That is my price, and neither gold nor jewels nor pretty words can replace your oath. If you don't care enough for me to make your own sacrifice, Roran Stronghammer, then be gone and I never wish to see your face again!"

I cannot lose her!

Though it pained him almost beyond endurance, he bowed his head and said, "You have my word."

Katrina nodded and sank into a chair- her back stiff and upright-and blotted her tears on the cuff of her sleeve. In a quiet voice, she said, "Father will hate me for going."

"How will you tell him?"

"I won't," she said defiantly. "He would never let me enter the Spine, but he has to realize that this is my decision. Anyway, he won't dare pursue me into the mountains; he fears them more than death itself."

"He may fear losing you even more."

"We shall see. If- when- the time comes to return, I expect you to have already spoken to him about our engagement. That should give him enough time to reconcile himself to the fact."

Roran found himself nodding in agreement, all the while thinking that they would be lucky if events worked out so well.

When dawn arrived, Roran woke and lay staring at the whitewashed ceiling while he listened to the slow rasp of his own breathing. After a minute, he rolled off the bed, dressed, and proceeded to the kitchen, where he procured a chunk of bread, smeared it with soft cheese, then stepped out onto the front porch to eat and admire the sunrise. His tranquility was soon disrupted when a herd of unruly children dashed through the garden of a nearby house, shrieking with delight at their game of Catch-the-Cat, followed by a number of adults intent on snaring their respective charges. Roran watched the cacophonous parade vanish around a corner, then placed the last of the bread in his mouth and returned to the kitchen, which had filled with the rest of the household.

Elain greeted him. "Good morning, Roran." She pushed open the window shutters and gazed up at the sky. "It looks like it may rain again."

"The more the better," asserted Horst. "It'll help keep us hidden while we climb Narnmor Mountain."

"Us?" inquired Roran. He sat at the table beside Albriech, who was rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

Horst nodded. "Sloan was right about the food and supplies; we have to help carry them up the falls, or else there won't be enough."

"Will there still be men to defend Carvahall?"

"Of course, of course."

Once they all had breakfast, Roran helped Baldor and Albriech wrap spare food, blankets, and supplies into three large bundles that they slung across their shoulders and hauled to the north end of the village. Roran's calf pained him, but not unbearably. Along the way, they met the three brothers Darmmen, Larne, and Hamund, who were similarly burdened. Just inside the trench that circumnavigated the houses, Roran and his companions found a large gathering of children, parents, and grandparents all busy organizing for the expedition.

Several families had volunteered their donkeys to carry goods and the younger children; the animals were picketed in an impatient, braying line that added to the overall confusion. Roran set his bundle on the ground and scanned the group. He saw Svart- Ivor's uncle and, at nearly sixty, the oldest man in Carvahall- seated on a bale of clothes, teasing a baby with the tip of his long white beard; Nolfavrell, who was guarded over by Birgit; Felda, Nolla, Calitha, and a number of other mothers with worried expressions; and a great many reluctant people, both men and women. Roran also saw Katrina among the crowd. She glanced

up from a knot she was tying on a pack and smiled at him, then returned to her task. Since no one seemed to be in charge, Roran did his best to sort out the chaos by overseeing the arranging and packaging of the various supplies. He discovered a shortage of waterskins, but when he asked for more, he ended up with thirteen too many.

Delays such as those consumed the early-morning hours. In the middle of discussing with Loring the possible need for extra shoes, Roran stopped as he noticed Sloan standing at the entrance to an alleyway. The butcher surveyed the mass of activity before him. Contempt cut into the lines along his downturned mouth. His sneer hardened into enraged incredulity as he spotted Katrina, who had shouldered her pack, removing any possibility that she was there only to help. A vein throbbed down the middle of Sloan's forehead.

Roran hurried toward Katrina, but Sloan reached her first. He grabbed the top of the pack and shook it violently, shouting, "Who made you do this?"

Katrina said something about the children and tried to pull free, but Sloan yanked at the pack—twisting her arms as the straps slid off her shoulders—and threw it on the ground so that the contents scattered. Still shouting, Sloan grabbed Katrina's arm and began to drag her away. She dug in her heels and fought, her copper hair swirling over her face like a dust storm.

Furious, Roran threw himself at Sloan and tore him from Katrina, shoving the butcher in the chest so that he stumbled backward several yards. "Stop! I'm the one who wanted her to go."

Sloan glared at Roran and snarled, "You have no right!"

"I have every right." Roran looked at the ring of spectators who had gathered around and then declared so that all could hear: "Katrina and I are engaged to be married, and I would not have my future wife treated so!" For the first time that day, the villagers fell completely silent; even the donkeys were quiet. Surprise and a deep, inconsolable pain sprang onto Sloan's vulnerable face, along with the glimmer of tears. For a moment, Roran felt sympathy for him, then a series of contortions distorted Sloan's visage, each more extreme than the last, until his skin turned beet red. He cursed and said, "You two-faced coward! How could you look me in the eye and speak to me like an honest man while, at the same time, courting my daughter without permission? I dealt with you in good faith, and here I find you plundering my house while my back is turned."

"I had hoped to do this properly," said Roran, "but events have conspired against me. It was never my intention to cause you grief. Even though this hasn't gone the way either of us wanted, I still want your blessing, if you are willing."

"I would rather have a maggot-riddled pig for a son than you! You have no farm. You have no family. And you will have naught to do with my daughter!" The butcher cursed again. "And she'll have naught to do with the Spine!"

Sloan reached for Katrina, but Roran blocked the way, his face as hard as his clenched fists. Only a handsbreadth apart, they stared directly at each other, trembling from the strength of their emotions.

Sloan's red rimmed eyes shone with manic intensity. "Katrina, come here," Sloan commanded.

"Don't do this. Don't make her choose."

"Come here! Sloan screeched, ignoring Roran's words.

Roran withdrew from Sloan- so that the three of them formed a triangle- and looked at Katrina.

Tears streamed down her face as she glanced between him and her father. She stepped forward, hesitated, then with a long, anguished cry, tore at her hair in a frenzy of indecision.

"Katrina!" exclaimed Sloan with a burr of fear.

"Katrina," murmured Roran.

At the sound of his voice, Katrina's tears ceased and she stood straight and tall with a calm expression. She said, "I'm sorry, Father, but I have decided to marry Roran," and stepped to his side.

Sloan turned bone white. He bit his lip so hard that a bead of ruby blood appeared. "You can't leave me! You're my daughter!" He lunged at her with crooked hands.

In that instant, Roran bellowed and struck the butcher with all his strength, knocking him sprawling in the dirt before the entire village.

Sloan rose slowly, his face and neck flushed with humiliation. When he saw Katrina again, the butcher seemed to crumple inward, losing height and stature until Roran felt as if he were looking at a specter of the original man. In a low whisper, he said, "It is always so; those closest to the heart cause the most pain. Thou will have no dowry from me, snake, nor your mother's inheritance." Weeping bitterly, Sloan turned and fled toward his shop. Katrina leaned against Roran, and he put an arm around her. Together they clung to each other as people crowded against them offering condolences, advice, congratulations, and disapproval.

Despite the commotion, Roran was aware of nothing but the woman whom he held, and who held him.

Just then, Elain bustled up as fast as her pregnancy would allow. "Oh, you poor dear!" she cried, and embraced Katrina, drawing her from Roran's arms. "Is it true you are engaged?"

Katrina nodded and smiled, then erupted into hysterical tears against Elain's shoulder.

"There now, there now." Elain cradled Katrina gently, petting her and trying to soothe her, but without avail- every time Roran thought she was about to recover, Katrina began to cry with renewed intensity. Finally, Elain peered over Katrina's quaking shoulder and said, "I'm taking her back to the house."

"I'll come."

"No, you won't," retorted Elain. "She needs time to calm down, and you have work to do. Do you want my advice?"

Roran nodded dumbly. "Stay away until evening. I guarantee that she will be as right as rain by then. She can join the others tomorrow."

Without waiting for his response, Elain escorted the sobbing Katrina away from the wall of sharpened trees.

Roran stood with his hands hanging limply by his sides, feeling dazed and helpless. What have we done?

He regretted that he had not revealed their engagement to Sloan sooner. He regretted that he and Sloan could not work together to shield Katrina from the Empire. And he regretted that Katrina had been forced to relinquish her only family for him. He was now doubly responsible for her welfare. They had no choice but to get married.

I've made a terrible mess of this. He sighed and clenched his fist, wincing as his bruised knuckles stretched.

"How are you?" asked Baldor, coming alongside him.

Roran forced a smile. "It didn't turn out quite how I hoped. Sloan's beyond reason when it comes to the Spine."

"And Katrina."

"That too. I—" Roran fell silent as Loring stopped before them. "That was a blasted fool thing to do!" growled the shoemaker, wrinkling his nose. Then he stuck out his chin, grinned, and bared his stumps of teeth. "But I 'ope you and the girl have the best of luck." He shook his head. "Heh, you're going to need it, Stronghammer!"

"We're all going to need it," snapped Thane as he walked past.

Loring waved a hand. "Bah, sourpuss. Listen, Roran; I've lived in Carvahall for many, many years, and in my experience, it's better that this happened now, instead of when we're all warm and cozy."

Baldor nodded, but Roran asked, "Why so?"

"Isn't it obvious? Normally, you and Katrina would be the meat of gossip for the next nine months." Loring put a finger on the side of his nose. "Ah, but this way, you'll soon be forgotten amid everything else that's going on, and then the two of you might even have some peace."

Roran frowned. "I'd rather be talked about than have those desecrators camped on the road."

"So would we all. Still, it's something to be grateful for, and we all need something to be grateful for- 'specially once you're married!" Loring cackled and pointed at Roran. "Your face just turned purple, boy!"

Roran grunted and set about gathering Katrina's possessions off the ground. As he did, he was interrupted by comments from whoever happened to be nearby, none of which helped to settle his nerves.

"Rotgut," he muttered to himself after a particularly invidious remark.

Although the expedition into the Spine was delayed by the unusual scene the villagers had just witnessed, it was only slightly after midmorning when the caravan of people and donkeys began to ascend the bare trail scratched into the side of Narnmor Mountain to the crest of the Igualda Falls. It was a steep climb and had to be taken slowly, on account of the children and the size of the burdens everyone carried. Roran spent most of his time caught behind Calitha- Thane's wife- and her five children.

He did not mind, as it gave him an opportunity to indulge his injured calf and to consider recent events at length. He was disturbed by his confrontation with Sloan. At least, he consoled himself, Katrina won't remain in Carvahall much longer. For Roran was convinced, in his heart of hearts, that the village would soon be defeated. It was a sobering, yet unavoidable, realization.

He paused to rest three-quarters of the way up the mountain and leaned against a tree as he admired the elevated view of Palancar Valley. He tried to spot the Ra'zac's camp- which he knew was just to the left of the Anora River and the road south- but was unable to discern even a wisp of smoke. Nor did he spot that blasted dragon or the crazy woman with the orange blade.

Roran heard the roar of the Igualda Falls long before they came into sight. The falls appeared for all the world like a great snowy mane that billowed and drifted off Narnmor's craggy head to the valley floor a half mile below. The massive stream curved in several directions as it fell, the result of different layers of wind. Past the slate ledge where the Anora River became airborne, down a glen filled with thimbleberries, and then finally into a large clearing guarded on one side by a pile of boulders, Roran found that those at the head of the procession had already begun setting up camp. The forest rang with the children's shouts and cries.

Removing his pack, Roran untied an ax from the top, then set about clearing the underbrush from the site along with several other men. When they finished, they began chopping down enough trees to encircle the camp. The aroma of pine sap filled the air. Roran worked quickly, the wood chips flying in unison with his rhythmic swings. By the time the fortifications were complete, the camp had already been erected with seventeen wool tents, four small cookfires, and glum expressions from people and donkeys alike. No one wanted to leave, and no one wanted to stay.

Roran surveyed the assortment of boys and old men clutching spears, and thought, Too much experience and too little. The grandfathers know how to deal with bears and the like, but will the grandsons have the strength to actually do it? Then he noticed the hard glint in the women's eyes and realized that while they might hold a babe or be busy tending a scraped arm, their own shields and spears were never far from reach. Roran smiled. Perhaps... perhaps we still have hope.

He saw Nolfavrell sitting alone on a log- staring back toward Palancar Valley- and joined the boy, who looked at him seriously.

"Are you leaving soon?" asked Nolfavrell.

Roran nodded, impressed by his poise and determination.

"You will do your best, won't you, to kill the Ra'zac and avenge my father? I would do it, except that Mama says I must guard my brothers and sisters."

"I'll bring you their heads myself, if I can," promised Roran.

The boy's chin trembled. "That is good!"

"Nolfavrell..." Roran paused as he searched for the right words. "You are the only one here, besides me, who has killed a man. It doesn't mean that we are better or worse than anyone else, but it means that I can trust you to fight well if you are attacked. When Katrina comes here tomorrow, will you make sure that she's well protected?"

Nolfavrell's chest swelled with pride. "I'll guard her wherever she goes!" Then he looked regretful. "That is... when I don't have to look after—"

Roran understood. "Oh, your family comes first. But maybe Katrina can stay in the tent with your brothers and sisters."

"Yes," said Nolfavrell slowly. "Yes, I think that would work. You can rely on me."

"Thank you." Roran clapped him on the shoulder. He could have asked an older and more capable person, but the adults were too busy with their own responsibilities to defend Katrina as he hoped. Nolfavrell, however, would have the opportunity and inclination to assure that she remained safe.

He can hold my place while we are apart.

Roran stood as Birgit approached. Eyeing him flatly, she said, "Come, it is time." Then she hugged her son and continued toward the falls with Roran and the other villagers who were returning to Carvahall. Behind them, everyone in the small camp clustered against the felled trees and stared forlornly out through their wooden bars.

As Roran proceeded about his work throughout the rest of the day, he felt Carvahall's emptiness deep inside. It was as if part of himself had been extracted and hidden in the Spine. And with the children gone, the village now felt like an armed camp. The change seemed to have made everyone grim and grave.

When the sun finally sank into the waiting teeth of the Spine, Roran climbed the hill to Horst's house. He stopped before the front door and placed a hand on the knob, but remained there, unable to enter. Why does this frighten me as much as fighting?

In the end, he forsook the front door entirely and went to the side of the house, where he slipped into the kitchen and, to his dismay, saw Elain knitting on one side of the table, speaking to Katrina, who was opposite her. They both turned toward him, and Roran blurted, "Are... are you all right?"

Katrina came to his side. "I'm fine." She smiled softly. "It just was a terrible shock when Father... when..." She ducked her head for a moment. "Elain has been wonderfully kind to me. She agreed to lend me Baldor's room for the night."

"I'm glad you are better," said Roran. He hugged her, trying to convey all of his love and adoration through that simple touch.

Elain wrapped up her knitting. "Come now. The sun has set, and it's time you were off to bed, Katrina."

Roran reluctantly let go of Katrina, who kissed him on the cheek and said, "I'll see you in the morning." He started to follow her out, but stopped when Elain said with a barbed tone, "Roran." Her delicate face was hard and stern.

"Yes?"

Elain waited until they heard the creak of stairs that indicated Katrina was out of earshot. "I hope that you meant every promise you gave that girl, because if you didn't, I'll call an assembly and have you exiled within a week."

Roran was dumbfounded. "Of course I meant them! I love her."

"Katrina just surrendered everything she owned or cared about for you." Elain stared up at him with unwavering eyes. "I've seen men who throw their affection at young maids, like grain tossed at chickens. The maids sigh and weep and believe that they are special, yet for the man, it's only a trifling amusement. You have always been honorable, Roran, but one's loins can turn even the most sensible person into a prancing booby or a sly, wicked fox. Are you one? For Katrina requires neither a fool, a trickster, nor even love; what she requires above all else is a man who will provide for her. If you abandon her, she will be the meanest person in Carvahall, forced to live off her friends, our first and only beggar. By the blood in my veins, I won't let that happen."

"Nor would I," protested Roran. "I would have to be heartless, or worse, to do so."

Elain jerked her chin. "Exactly. Don't forget that you intend to marry a woman who has lost both her dowry and her mother's inheritance. Do you understand what it means for Katrina to lose her inheritance? She has no silver, no linens, no lace, nor any of the things needed for a well run home. Such items are all we own, passed from mother to daughter since the day we first settled Alagaësia. They determine our worth. A woman without her inheritance is like... is like—"

"Is like a man without a farm or a trade," said Roran.

"Just so. It was cruel of Sloan to deny Katrina her inheritance, but that can't be helped now. Both you and she have no money or resources. Life is difficult enough without that added hardship. You'll be starting from nothing and with nothing. Does the prospect frighten you or seem unbearable? So I ask you once again- and don't lie or the two of you will regret it for the rest of your lives- will you care for her without grudge or resentment?"

"Yes."

Elain sighed and filled two earthen cups with cider from a jug hanging among the rafters. She handed one to Roran as she seated herself back at the table. "Then I suggest that you devote yourself to replacing Katrina's home and inheritance so that she and any daughters you may have can stand without shame among the wives of Carvahall."

Roran sipped the cool cider. "If we live that long."

"Aye." She brushed back a strand of her blond hair and shook her head. "You've chosen a hard path, Roran."

"I had to make sure that Katrina would leave Carvahall."

Elain lifted an eyebrow. "So that was it. Well, I won't argue about it, but why on earth didn't you speak to Sloan about your engagement before this morning? When Horst asked my father, he gave our family twelve sheep, a sow, and eight pairs of wrought-iron candlesticks before he even knew if my parents would agree. That's how it should be done. Surely you could have thought of a better strategy than striking your father-in-law-to-be."

A painful laugh escaped Roran. "I could have, but it never seemed the right time with all the attacks."

"The Ra'zac haven't attacked for almost six days now."

He scowled. "No, but... it was... Oh, I don't know!" He banged his fist on the table with frustration.

Elain put down her cup and wrapped her tiny hands around his. "If you can mend this rift between you and Sloan now, before years of resentment accumulate, your life with Katrina will be much, much easier. Tomorrow morning you should go to his house and beg his forgiveness."

"I won't beg! Not to him."

"Roran, listen to me. It's worth a month of begging to have peace in your family. I know from experience; strife does naught but make you miserable."

"Sloan hates the Spine. He'll have nothing to do with me."

"You have to try, though," said Elain earnestly. "Even if he spurns your apology, at least you can't be blamed for not making the effort. If you love Katrina, then swallow your pride and do what's right for her. Don't make her suffer for your mistake."

She finished her cider, used a tin hat to snuff the candles, and left Roran sitting alone in the dark.

Several minutes elapsed before Roran could bring himself to stir. He stretched out an arm and traced along the counter's edge until he felt the doorway, then proceeded upstairs, all the while running the tips of his fingers over the carved walls to keep his balance. In his room, he disrobed and threw himself lengthwise on the bed. Wrapping his arms around his wool stuffed pillow, Roran listened to the faint sounds that drifted through the house at night: the scrabble of a mouse in the attic and its intermittent squeaks, the groan of wood beams cooling in the night, the whisper and caress of wind at the lintel of his window, and... and the rustle of slippers in the hall outside his room. He watched as the latch above the doorknob was pulled free of its hook, then the door inched forward with a rasp of protest. It paused. A dark form slipped inside, the door closed, and Roran felt a curtain of hair brush his face along with lips like rose petals. He sighed. Katrina.

A thunderclap tore Roran from sleep. Light flared on his face as he struggled to regain awareness, like a diver desperate to reach the surface. He opened his eyes and saw a jagged hole blasted through his door. Six soldiers rushed through the yawning cleft, followed by the two Ra'zac, who seemed to fill the room with their ghastly presence. A sword was pressed against Roran's neck. Beside him, Katrina screamed and pulled the blankets around her.

"Up," ordered the Ra'zac. Roran cautiously got to his feet. His heart felt like it was about to explode in his chest.

"Tie his handsss and bring him."

As a soldier approached Roran with rope, Katrina screamed again and jumped on the men, biting and clawing furiously. Her sharp nails furrowed their faces, drawing streams of blood that blinded the cursing soldiers. Roran dropped to one knee and grabbed his hammer from the floor, then planted his feet, swinging the hammer over his head and roaring like a bear.

The soldiers threw themselves at him in an attempt to subdue him through sheer numbers, but to no avail: Katrina was in danger, and he was invincible. Shields crumpled beneath his blows, brigandines and mail split under his merciless weapon, and helmets caved in.

Two men were wounded, and three fell to rise no more. The clang and clamor had roused the household; Roran dimly heard Horst and his sons shouting in the hall.

The Ra'zac hissed to one another, then scuttled forward and grasped Katrina with inhuman strength, lifting her off the floor as they fled the room.

"Roran!" she shrieked.

Summoning his energy, Roran bowled past the two remaining men. He stumbled into the hall and saw the Ra'zac climbing out a window. Roran dashed toward them and struck at the last Ra'zac, just as it was about to descend below the windowsill.

Jerking upward, the Ra'zac caught Roran's wrist in midair and chittered with delight, blowing its fetid breath onto his face. "Yesss! You are the one we want!"

Roran tried to twist free, but the Ra'zac did not budge. With his free hand, Roran buffeted the creature's head and shoulders- which were as hard as iron. Desperate and enraged, he seized the edge of the Ra'zac's hood and wrenched it back, exposing its features. A hideous, tortured face screamed at him.

The skin was shiny black, like a beetle carapace. The head was bald. Each lidless eye was the size of his fist and gleamed like an orb of polished hematite; no iris or pupil existed. In place of a nose, mouth, and chin, a thick beak hooked to a sharp point that clacked over a barbed purple tongue. Roran yelled and jammed his heels against the sides of the window frame, struggling to free himself from the monstrosity, but the Ra'zac inexorably drew him out of the house. He could see Katrina on the ground, still screaming and fighting. Just as Roran's knees buckled, Horst appeared by his side and wrapped a knotted arm around his chest, locking him in place. "Someone get a spear!" shouted the smith. He snarled, veins bulging on his neck from the strain of holding Roran. "It'll take more than this demon spawn to best us!"

The Ra'zac gave a final yank, then, when it failed to dislodge Roran, cocked its head and said, "You areoursss !" It lunged forward with blinding speed, and Roran howled as he felt the Ra'zac's beak close on his right shoulder, snipping through the front of the muscle. His wrist cracked at the same time. With a malicious cackle, the Ra'zac released him and fell backward into the night.

Horst and Roran sprawled against each other in the hallway. "They have Katrina," groaned Roran. His vision flickered and went black around the edges as he pushed himself upright on his left arm- his right hung useless. Albriech and Baldor emerged from his room, splattered with gore. Only corpses remained behind them.

Now I have killed eight.

Roran retrieved his hammer and staggered down the hall, finding his way blocked by Elain in her white sleeping shift. She looked at him with wide eyes, then took his arm and pushed him down onto a wood chest set against the wall. "You have to see Gertrude."

"But—"

"You'll pass out if this bleeding isn't stopped." He looked down at his right side; it was drenched in crimson. "We have to rescue Katrina before"—he clenched his teeth as the pain surged— "before they do anything to her."

"He's right; we can't wait," said Horst, looming over them. "Bind him up as best you can, then we'll go."

Elain pursed her lips and hurried to the linen closet. She returned with several rags, which she wrapped tightly around Roran's torn shoulder and his fractured wrist. Meanwhile, Albriech and Baldor scavenged armor and swords from the soldiers. Horst contented himself with just a spear.

Elain put her hands on Horst's chest and said, "Be careful." She looked at her sons. "All of you."

"We'll be fine, Mother," promised Albriech. She forced a smile and kissed them on the cheek. They left the house and ran to the edge of Carvahall, where they found that the wall of trees had been pulled open and the watchman, Byrd, slain. Baldor knelt and examined the body, then said with a choked voice, "He was stabbed from behind."

Roran barely heard him through the pounding in his ears. Dizzy, he leaned against a house and panted for breath.

"Ho! Who goes?" From their stations along Carvahall's perimeter, the other watchmen congregated around their murdered compatriot, forming a huddle of shuttered lanterns. In hushed tones, Horst described the attack and Katrina's plight. "Who will help us?" he asked. After a quick discussion, five men agreed to accompany them; the rest would remain to guard the breach in the wall and rouse the villagers.

Pushing himself off the house, Roran trotted to the head of the group as it slipped through the fields and down the valley toward the Ra'zac's camp. Every step was agony, yet it did not matter; nothing mattered except Katrina. He stumbled once and Horst wordlessly caught him. Half a mile from Carvahall, Ivor spotted a sentry on a hillock, which compelled them to make a wide detour.

A few hundred yards beyond, the ruddy glow of torches became visible. Roran raised his good arm to slow their advance, then began to dodge and crawl through the tangled grass, startling a jackrabbit. The men followed Roran's lead as he worked his way to the edge of a grove of cattails, where he stopped and parted the curtain of stalks to observe the thirteen remaining soldiers. Where is she?

In contrast to when they had first arrived, the soldiers appeared sullen and haggard, their weapons nicked and their armor dented. Most of them wore bandages that were rusty with splotches of dried blood. The men were clumped together, facing the woman with the orange sword and the two Ra'zac- both of whom were now hooded- across a low fire.

The woman appeared, as always, amused, but the soldiers were most certainly not. "I don't know what you did with Sardson, but if you stay another night, we'll put steel in you and find out if you bleed like us. You can leave the girl, though, she'll be—" The man did not get a chance to continue, for the largest Ra'zac jumped across the fire and landed on his shoulders, like a giant crow. Screaming, the soldier collapsed under the weight. He tried to draw his sword, but the Ra'zac pecked twice at his neck with its hidden beak, and he was still.

"We have to fight that ?" muttered Ivor behind Roran.

The soldiers remained frozen with shock as the two Ra'zac lapped from the neck of the corpse. The duchess turned as the giant orange dragon emerged from around a bending hill, walking towards them. It lowered it's head until a pale yellow eye peered at her before turning it's head with a puff of smoke. The crazy lady climbed it's foreleg like a tree, jumping from one spot to another, before settling in it's white saddle.

Meanwhile the Ra'zac threw back their heads and began to shriek at the sky, the wail becoming increasingly shrill until it passed from hearing. Roran looked up, expectant. At first he saw nothing, but then a nameless terror gripped him as two barbed shadows appeared high over the Spine, eclipsing the stars. They advanced quickly, growing larger and larger until they obscured half the sky with their ominous presence. A foul wind rushed across the land, bringing with it a sulfurous miasma that made Roran cough and gag. The soldiers were likewise afflicted; their curses echoed as they pressed sleeves and scarves over their noses.

Above them, the shadows paused and then began to drift downward, enclosing the camp in a dome of menacing darkness. The sickly torches flickered and threatened to extinguish themselves, yet they still provided sufficient light to reveal the two beasts descending among the tents. Their bodies were naked and hairless- like newborn mice- with leathery gray skin pulled tight across their corded chests and bellies. In form they resembled starved dogs, except that their hind legs bulged with enough muscle to crush a boulder. A narrow crest extended from the back of each of their attenuated heads, opposite a long, straight, ebony beak made for spearing prey, and cold, bulbous eyes identical to the Ra'zac's. From their shoulders and backs sprang huge wings that made the air moan under their weight.

Flinging themselves to the ground, the soldiers cowered and hid their faces from the monsters. A terrible, alien intelligence emanated from the creatures, bespeaking a race far older and far more powerful than humans.

Roran was suddenly afraid that his mission might fail. Behind him, Horst whispered to the men, urging them to hold their ground and remain hidden, else they would be slain.

The Ra'zac bowed to the beasts, then slipped into a tent and returned carrying Katrina- who was bound with ropes- and leading Sloan. The butcher walked freely.

Roran stared, unable to comprehend how Sloan had been captured. His house isn't anywhere near Horst's. Then it struck him. "He betrayed us," said Roran with wonder. His fist slowly tightened on his hammer as the true horror of the situation exploded within him. "He killed Byrd and he betrayed us!" Tears of rage streamed down his face.

"Roran," murmured Horst, crouching beside him. "We can't attack now; they'd slaughter us. Roran... do you hear me?"

He heard but a whisper in the distance as he watched the smaller Ra'zac jump onto one beast above the shoulders, then catch Katrina as the other Ra'zac tossed her up. Sloan seemed upset and frightened now. He began arguing with the Ra'zac, shaking his head and pointing at the ground. Finally, the Ra'zac struck him across the mouth, knocking him unconscious. It made to pick him up, but the woman on the dragon said something that Roran could not hear. The Ra'zac argued with her with their clicks and hisses, but she shook her head and drew her amber blade halfway from her sheath. The hairless beasts hissed quietly, turning their heads in her direction, but the tangerine colored dragon raised it's head and roared at them in turn. Cowed, they slunk back- but only slightly. Roran watched with apt horror as the second Ra'zac handed Sloan to the woman, who bound him in the saddle behind her. Unbidden, the orange dragon turned and opened it's wings.

The woman donned a helm and turned back to the men, say "Reinforcements will be here soon. Capture the boy, alive. Bring him to me within a fortnight or I shall enjoy listening to your screams." She smiled at them then with a smile that sent shivers down Roran's spine.

The dragon launched itself into the sky and, within but a few minutes, was so well hidden within the clouds that Roran could not tell which direction it had gone.

Then the Ra'zac's steeds followed suite, flexed their massive thighs and leaping into the sky, once again shadows upon the field of stars.

No words or emotions were left to Roran. He was utterly destroyed. All that remained was to kill the soldiers. He stood and raised his hammer in preparation to charge, but as he stepped forward, his head throbbed in unison with his wounded shoulder, the ground vanished in a burst of light, and he toppled into oblivion.