They soon broke out into the rubble-strewn street that led to what had once been the main gate of the city. Now all that was left was a gaping hole several hundred feet wide at the top, with a pile of broken stones at the bottom. Through the gap streamed the Varden and their allies: men, dwarves, Urgals, elves, and werecats, fighting alongside one another for the first time in history.
Arrows rained down on the army as it poured into the city, but the elves’ magic stopped the deadly darts before they could cause harm. The same did not hold true for Galbatorix’s soldiers; Roran saw a number of them fall to the Varden’s archers, although some appeared to have wards that protected them from the arrows. Galbatorix’s favorites, he assumed.
As his battalion joined the rest of the army, Roran spotted Jörmundur riding in the press of warriors. Roran called out greetings, and Jörmundur replied in kind and shouted, “Once we reach that fountain”—he pointed with his sword toward a large, ornate edifice that stood in a courtyard several hundred yards in front of them—“take your men and head off to the right. Clear the southern part of the city, then meet back up with us at the citadel.”
Roran nodded, exaggerating the movement so Jörmundur could see. “Sir!”
He felt safer now that they had the company of other warriors, but still his sense of unease continued. Where are they? he wondered, looking at the mouths of the empty streets. Galbatorix had supposedly gathered the whole of his army in Urû’baen, but Roran had yet to see evidence of a large force of men. There had been surprisingly few soldiers on the walls, and those who were present had fled far sooner than they should have.
He’s luring us in, Roran realized with sudden certainty. It’s all a play designed to trick us. Catching Jörmundur’s attention again, he shouted, “Something’s wrong! Where are the soldiers?”
Jörmundur frowned and turned to speak with King Orrin and Queen Islanzadí, who had ridden up to him. Oddly enough, a white raven sat on Islanzadí’s left shoulder, his claws hooked into her corselet of golden armor.
And still the Varden continued to march deeper and deeper into Urû’baen.
“What is the matter, Stronghammer?” growled Nar Garzhvog as he pushed his way over to Roran.
Roran glanced up at the heavy-headed Kull. “I’m not sure. Galbatorix—”
He forgot whatever else he was going to say when a horn sounded among the buildings ahead of them. It blared for the better part of a minute, a low, ominous tone that caused the Varden to pause and look around with concern.
Roran’s heart sank. “This is it,” he said to Albriech. Turning, he waved his hammer, motioning toward the side of the street. “Move over!” he bellowed. “Get between the buildings and take cover!”
It took his battalion longer to extricate itself from the column of warriors than it had to join it. Frustrated, Roran continued shouting, trying to get them to move faster. “Quickly, you sorry dogs! Quickly!”
The horn sounded again, and Jörmundur finally called a halt to the army.
By then, Roran’s warriors were safely wedged into three streets, where they stood clustered behind buildings, waiting for his orders. He stood by the side of a house, along with Garzhvog and Horst, peering around the corner as he tried to see what was happening.
Once more the horn sounded, and then the tramp of many feet echoed through Urû’baen.
Dread crawled through Roran as he saw rank after rank of soldiers march into the streets leading from the citadel, the rows of men brisk and orderly, their faces devoid of even the slightest hint of fear. At their head rode a squat, broad-shouldered man upon a gray charger. He wore a gleaming breastplate that bulged over a foot outward, as if to accommodate a large belly. In his left hand, he carried a shield painted with the device of a crumbling tower upon a bare stone peak. In his right hand, he carried a spiked mace that most men would have found difficult to lift but that he swung back and forth with ease.
Roran wet his lips. He guessed that the man was none other than Lord Barst, and if even half the things he had heard about the man were true, then Barst would never ride straight at an opposing force unless he was utterly certain of destroying it.
Roran had seen enough. Pushing himself off the corner of the building, he said, “We’re not going to wait. Tell the others to follow us.”
“You mean to run away, Stronghammer?” rumbled Nar Garzhvog.
“No,” said Roran. “I mean to attack from the side. Only a fool would attack an army like that head-on. Now go!” He gave the Urgal a shove, then hurried down the cross street to take his position at the front of his warriors. And only a fool would go head to head with the man Galbatorix has chosen to lead his forces.
As they made their way between the densely packed buildings, Roran heard the soldiers start to chant, “Lord Barst! Lord Barst! Lord Barst!” And they stamped the ground with their hobnail boots and banged their swords against their shields.
Better and better, Roran thought, wishing he were anywhere but there.
Then the Varden shouted in return, the air filled with cries of “Eragon!” and “The Riders!” and the city rang with the sounds of clashing metal and the screams of wounded men.
When his battalion was level with what Roran guessed was the midpoint of the Empire’s army, he had them turn and start in the direction of their enemies. “Stay together,” he ordered. “Form a wall with your shields, and whatever you do, make sure you protect the spellcasters.”
They soon spotted the soldiers in the street—spearmen, mostly—pressed close against one another as they shuffled toward the front of the battle.
Nar Garzhvog let out a ferocious bellow, as did Roran and the other warriors in the battalion, and they charged toward the ranks of men. The soldiers shouted with alarm, and panic spread among them as they scrambled backward, trampling their own kind as they tried to find room to fight.
Howling, Roran fell upon the first row of men. Blood sprayed around him as he swung his hammer and felt metal and bone give way. The soldiers were so tightly packed that they were nearly helpless. He killed four of them before even one managed to swing a sword at him, which he blocked with his shield.
By the edge of the street, Nar Garzhvog knocked down six men with a single blow of his club. The soldiers started to climb back to their feet, ignoring injuries that would have crippled them had they been able to feel pain, and Garzhvog struck again, pounding them to a pulp.
Roran was aware of nothing but the men in front of him, the weight of his hammer in his hand, and the slipperiness of the blood-coated cobblestones under his feet. He broke and he battered; he ducked and he shoved; he growled and he shouted and he killed and he killed and he killed—until, to his surprise, he swung his hammer and found nothing but empty air before him. His weapon bounced against the ground, striking sparks from the cobblestones, and a painful jolt ran up his arm.
Roran shook his head, his battle rage clearing; he had fought his way completely through the mass of soldiers.
Spinning around, he saw that most of his warriors were still engaged with soldiers to his right and left. Loosing another howl, he dove back into the fray.
Three soldiers closed in on him: two with spears, one with a sword. Roran lunged at the man with the sword, but his foot slipped beneath him as he stepped on something soft and wet. Even as he fell, he swung his hammer at the ankles of the nearest man. The soldier danced back and was about to bring his sword down on Roran when an elf leaped forward and, with two quick strokes, beheaded all three soldiers.