“I could, but it would mean my life and that of everyone here.”
“Galbatorix as well?”
“He’s too well shielded, but our army would be destroyed along with most everyone in Urû’baen, and even those at our camp might die. Is that what you want?”
Roran shook his head.
“I thought not.”
Moving with uncanny speed, Barst struck elf after elf, felling them with ease. With one of his swings, he caught the shoulder of the elf woman with the red sash and knocked her sprawling onto her back. She pointed at Barst and screamed in the ancient language, but the spell went awry, for another elf slumped forward and toppled out of his saddle, the front of his body split from head to seam.
Barst slew the elf woman with a jab of his mace and then continued to run from horse to horse until he reached Islanzadí on her white mare.
The elf queen did not wait for Barst to kill her steed. She leaped out of her saddle, her red cape billowing, and her companion, the white raven, beat his wings as he took flight from her shoulder.
Before she alit, Islanzadí lashed out at Barst, her sword a streak of shining steel. Her blade rang as it collided with his wards.
Barst retaliated with a counterstroke, which Islanzadí parried with a deft turn of her wrist, sending the spiked ball of his mace crashing into the cobblestones. Around them, a space formed as friend and foe alike paused to watch them duel. Overhead, the raven circled, shrieking and cursing in the harsh manner of his kind.
Never had Roran seen such a fight. The blows from both Islanzadí and Barst were too fast to follow—only a blur was visible when they struck—and the sound of their weapons clashing was louder than all of the other noises in the city.
Again and again, Barst tried to crush Islanzadí with his mace, even as he had crushed the other elves. But she was too fast for him to catch, and she seemed, if not his equal in strength, at least strong enough to knock aside his blows without difficulty. The other elves, Roran thought, must be aiding her, for she appeared not to tire, despite her exertions.
A Kull and two elves joined Islanzadí. Barst paid them no mind, other than to kill them, one by one, when they made the mistake of venturing within his reach.
Roran found himself gripping the pillar so hard, his hands began to cramp.
Minutes passed as Islanzadí and Barst fought back and forth across the street. In motion, the elf queen was glorious: swift, lithe, and powerful. Unlike Barst, she could not afford to make a single mistake—nor did she—for her wards would not protect her. With every moment, Roran’s admiration for Islanzadí increased, and he felt he was witnessing a battle that would be sung about for centuries to come.
The raven often dove at Barst, seeking to distract him from Islanzadí. After the raven’s first few attempts, Barst ignored the bird, for the maddened creature could not touch him, and it took pains to keep away from his mace.
The raven seemed to grow frustrated; it shrieked louder and more frequently, and was bolder with its attacks, and with each sally, it edged ever closer to Barst’s head and neck.
Finally, as the bird again swooped toward Barst, the man twisted his mace upward, changing its path in midair, and clipped the raven on its right wing. The bird cried out in pain and dropped a foot toward the ground before struggling to climb back into the sky.
Barst swung at the raven again, but Islanzadí stopped his mace with her sword, and they stood facing each other with their weapons locked together at the top, the blade of her sword wedged between the flanges of his mace.
Elf and human swayed as they pushed against one another. Neither was able to gain the advantage. Then Queen Islanzadí shouted a word in the ancient language, and where their weapons met, a harsh, brilliant light shone forth.
Squinting, Roran shaded his eyes with his hand and averted his gaze.
For a minute, the only sounds were the cries of the wounded and a ringing, bell-like tone that grew louder and louder until it was nearly unbearable. To the side, Roran saw the werecat with Angela cringing and covering its tasseled ears with its paws.
When the sound was at the very height of its intensity, the blade of Islanzadí’s sword cracked, and the light and the bell-like tone vanished.
Then the elf queen smote at Barst’s face with the broken end of her sword, and she said, “Thus I curse you, Barst, son of Berengar!”
Barst allowed her sword to fall upon his wards. Then he swung his mace once more and caught Queen Islanzadí between her neck and her shoulder, and she collapsed to the ground, blood staining her corselet of golden scale armor.
And all was still.
The white raven circled once over Islanzadí’s body and uttered a doleful cry, then flew slowly toward the breach in the outer wall, the feathers of its wounded wing red and crumpled.
A great wail went up from the Varden. Throughout the streets, men cast down their weapons and fled. The elves shouted with rage and grief—a most terrible sound—and every elf with a bow began to fire arrows toward Barst. The arrows burst into flame before they touched him. A dozen elves charged him, but he swatted them aside as if they weighed no more than children. In that moment, another five elves darted in, lifted up Islanzadí’s body, and bore her away upon their leaf-shaped shields.
A sense of disbelief gripped Roran. Of them all, Islanzadí was the one he had least expected to die. He glared at the men who were fleeing and silently cursed them for traitors and cowards; then he returned his gaze to Barst, who was rallying his troops in preparation for driving the Varden and their allies back out of Urû’baen.
The pit in Roran’s stomach grew larger. The elves might continue to fight, but the men, dwarves, and Urgals no longer had a taste for battle. He could see it in their faces. They would break and retreat, and Barst would slaughter them by the hundreds from behind. Nor, Roran was sure, would Barst halt at the city walls. No, he would continue on to the fields beyond and chase the Varden back to their camp, scattering and killing as many as he could.
It was what Roran would do.
Worse, if Barst reached the camp, Katrina would be in danger, and Roran had no illusions as to what would happen if the soldiers caught her.
Roran stared down at his bloody hands. Barst had to be stopped. But how? Roran thought and he thought, running through everything he knew about magic until, at last, he remembered how it had felt when the soldiers were holding him and striking him.
Roran took a deep, shuddering breath.
There was a way, but it was dangerous, incredibly dangerous. If he did what he was contemplating, he knew that he would probably never see Katrina again, much less their unborn child. Yet the knowledge brought him a certain peace. His life for theirs was a fair trade, and if he could help save the Varden at the same time, then he would be happy to give it.
Katrina …
The decision was an easy one.
Raising his head, he strode over to the herbalist. She looked as shocked and grief-ridden as any of the elves. He touched her on the shoulder with the edge of his shield and said, “I need your help.”
She gazed at him with red-rimmed eyes. “What do you intend to do?”
“Kill Barst.” His words captivated all of the warriors nearby.
“Roran, no!” exclaimed Horst.
The herbalist nodded. “I’ll help however I can.”
“Good. I want you to fetch Jörmundur, Garzhvog, Orik, Grimrr, and one of the elves who still has some authority.”
The curly-haired woman sniffed and wiped her eyes. “Where do you want them to meet you?”
“Right here. And hurry, before any more men flee!”
Angela nodded, then she and the werecat trotted away, sticking close to the sides of the buildings for protection.
“Roran,” said Horst, clutching his arm, “what do you have in mind?”
“I’m not going to go up against him by myself, if that’s what you’re thinking,” said Roran, nodding toward Barst.
Horst a
ppeared somewhat relieved. “Then what are you going to do?”
“You’ll see.”
Several soldiers carrying pikes ran up the steps of the building, but the red-haired dwarves who had joined Roran’s force held them off with ease, the steps for once giving them the advantage of height over their opponents.
While the dwarves fenced with the soldiers, Roran went to a nearby elf who—with a snarl fixed on his face—was emptying his quiver at a prodigious speed, sending each of his arrows arcing toward Barst. None of them, of course, found their mark.
“Enough,” said Roran. When the dark-haired elf ignored him, Roran grabbed the elf’s right hand, his bow hand, and pulled it to the side. “That’s enough, I said. Save your arrows.”
A growl sounded, and then Roran felt a hand around his throat.
“Do not touch me, human.”
“Listen to me! I can help you kill Barst. Just … let me go.”
After a second or two, the fingers gripping Roran’s neck relaxed. “How, Stronghammer?” The bloodthirstiness of the elf’s voice contrasted with the tears on his cheeks.
“You’ll find out in a minute. But I have a question for you first. Why can’t you kill Barst with your minds? He’s only one man, and there are so many of you.”
An anguished expression crossed the elf’s face. “Because his mind is hidden from us!”
“How?”
“I do not know. We can feel nothing of his thoughts. It is as if there is a sphere around his mind. We can see nothing within the sphere, nor can we pierce it.”
Roran had expected something like that. “Thank you,” he said, and the elf made a slight motion of his head in acknowledgment.
Garzhvog was the first to reach the building; he emerged from a nearby street and ran up the steps with two huge strides, then turned and roared at the thirty soldiers following him. Seeing the Kull safe among friends, the soldiers wisely dropped back.
“Stronghammer!” exclaimed Garzhvog. “You asked, and I have come.”
After a few more minutes, the others Roran had sent the herbalist to fetch arrived at the great stone building. The silver-haired elf who presented himself was one Roran had seen with Islanzadí on several occasions. Lord Däthedr was his name. The six of them, all bloody and weary, stood in a clump among the fluted pillars.
“I have a plan to kill Barst,” Roran said, “but I need your help, and we have little time. Can I count on you?”
“That depends on your plan,” said Orik. “Tell it to us first.”
So Roran explained it as quickly as he could. When he finished, he asked Orik, “Can your engineers aim the catapults and ballistae as accurately as needed?”
The dwarf made a noise in his throat. “Not with how humans build their war machines. We can put a stone within twenty feet of the target, but any closer than that is up to luck.”
Roran looked at the elf lord Däthedr. “Will the others of your kind follow you?”
“They will obey my orders, Stronghammer. Do not doubt it.”
“Then will you send some of your magicians to accompany the dwarves and help guide the stones?”
“There would be no guarantee of success. The spells might easily fail or go astray.”
“We’ll have to risk it.” Roran swept his gaze over the group. “So, I ask again: can I count on you?”
Out by the city wall, a chorus of fresh screams erupted as Barst smashed his way through a bank of men.
Garzhvog surprised Roran by being the first to answer. “You are battle-mad, Stronghammer, but I will follow you,” he said. He made a ruk-ruk sound that Roran thought might be laughter. “There will be much glory in killing Barst.”
Then Jörmundur said, “Aye, I’ll follow you as well, Roran. We have no other choice, I think.”
“Agreed,” said Orik.
“Agrrreed,” said Grimrr, king of the werecats, drawing the word out into a throaty growl.
“Agreed,” said Lord Däthedr.
“Then go!” said Roran. “You know what you need to do! Go!”
As the others departed, Roran called his warriors together and told them his plan. Then they hunkered between the pillars and waited. It took three or four minutes—precious time in which Barst and his soldiers pushed the Varden ever closer to the breach in the outer wall—but then Roran saw groups of dwarves and elves run up to twelve of the nearest ballistae and catapults on the walls and free them from the soldiers.
Several more tense minutes passed. Then Orik hurried up the steps to the building, along with thirty of his dwarves, and said to Roran, “They’re ready.”
Roran nodded. To everyone with him, he said, “Take your places!”
The remnants of Roran’s battalion formed a dense wedge, with him at the tip and the elves and Urgals directly behind him. Orik and his dwarves took up the rear.
Once all of the warriors were in place, Roran shouted, “Forward!” and trotted down the steps into the midst of the enemy soldiers, knowing that the rest of the group was close behind him.
The soldiers had not been expecting the charge; they parted before Roran like water before the prow of a ship.
One man tried to bar Roran’s way, and Roran stabbed him through the eye without breaking stride.
When they were about fifty feet from Barst, who had his back turned, Roran stopped, as did the warriors behind him. To one of the elves, he said, “Make it so everyone in the square can hear me.”
The elf muttered in the ancient language, then said, “It is done.”
“Barst!” shouted Roran, and was relieved to hear his voice echo over the whole of the battle. The fighting throughout the streets came to a halt, save for a few individual skirmishes here and there.
Sweat dripped down Roran’s brow and his heart was pounding, but he refused to feel afraid. “Barst!” he shouted again, and slapped the front of his shield with his spear. “Turn and fight me, you maggot-ridden cur!”
A soldier ran at him. Roran blocked his sword and, in one easy motion, swept the man off his feet and dispatched him with two quick jabs. Pulling his spear free, Roran repeated his call: “Barst!”
The broad, heavy figure slowly turned to face him. Now that he was closer, Roran could see the sly intelligence that lay in Barst’s eyes and the small, mocking smile that lifted the corners of his childlike mouth. His neck was as thick as Roran’s thigh, and beneath his mail hauberk, his arms were knotted with muscles. The reflections from his protruding breastplate kept snaring Roran’s gaze, despite his efforts to ignore them.
“Barst! My name is Roran Stronghammer, cousin to Eragon Shadeslayer! Fight me if you dare, or be branded a coward before all here today.”
“No man scares me, Stronghammer. Or should I say Lackhammer, for I see no hammer upon you.”
Roran drew himself up. “I need no hammer to kill you, you beardless bootlicker.”
“Is that so?” Barst’s tiny smile grew wider. “Give us room!” he shouted, and waved his mace at the soldiers and Varden alike.
With the soft thunder of thousands of feet treading backward, the armies withdrew, and a wide, circular area formed around Barst. He pointed his mace at Roran. “Galbatorix told me of you, Lackhammer. He said that I was to break every bone in your body before I killed you.”
“What if we break your bones instead?” said Roran. Now! he thought as hard as he could, trying to shout his thoughts into the darkness that surrounded his mind. He hoped the elves and the other spellcasters were listening as promised.
Barst frowned and opened his mouth. Before he could speak, a low, whistling noise sounded over the city, and six stone projectiles—each the size of a barrel—hurtled over the tops of the houses from the catapults on the walls. A half-dozen javelins accompanied the stones.
Five of the stones landed directly on Barst. The sixth missed and went bouncing across the square like a rock across water, bowling over men and dwarves alike.
The stones cracked and exploded as they struck Barst’s
wards, sending fragments flying in every direction. Roran ducked behind his shield and nearly fell as a fist-sized chunk of stone slammed into it, bruising his arm. The javelins vanished in a flare of yellow fire, which gave a ghoulish light to the clouds of dust that floated upward from Barst’s location.
When he was sure it was safe, Roran looked over his shield.
Barst was lying on his back amid the rubble, his mace on the ground next to him.
“Get him!” Roran bellowed, and ran forward.
Many of the gathered Varden started toward Barst, but the soldiers they had been fighting shouted and attacked, stopping them from covering more than a few steps. With a roar, the two armies turned on each other once again, both factions inflamed with a desperate anger.
As they did, Jörmundur emerged from a side street, leading a hundred men whom he had collected from the edges of the battle. He and those with him would help hold back the scrum of combatants while Roran and the others dealt with Barst.
From the opposite side of the square, Garzhvog and six other Kull charged out from behind the houses they had been using for cover. Their pounding footsteps shook the ground, and men of both the Empire and the Varden scrambled to move out of their way.
Then hundreds of werecats, most in their animal forms, slipped out from the main body of the intermingled armies and streamed across the cobblestones, teeth bared, toward where Barst lay.
Barst had just begun to stir when Roran reached him. Grabbing his spear with both hands, Roran brought it down on Barst’s neck.
The blade of the weapon stopped a foot away, and the tip bent and snapped as if it had struck a block of granite.
Roran cursed and continued to stab as quickly as he could, trying to keep the Eldunarí within Barst’s breastplate from recovering its strength.
Barst groaned.
“Hurry!” Roran bellowed at the Urgals.
Once they were close enough, Roran sprang aside so that the Kull would have the room they needed. Taking turns, each of the massive Urgals struck at Barst with their weapons. His wards blocked them, but the Kull continued to hammer away. The sound was deafening.