They had lost many—the dead and dying littered the street, and the gutters ran red with blood—but with their recent advances, a renewed sense of victory gripped the army; Roran could see it in the faces of the men and dwarves and Urgals, though not the elves, who maintained a cold fury at the death of their queen.
The elves worried Roran; he had seen them kill soldiers who were trying to surrender, cutting them down without the slightest compunction. Once loosed, their bloodlust seemed to have few bounds.
Soon after Barst fell, King Orrin had taken a bolt to the chest while storming a guardhouse deeper within the city. It was a serious wound, one that even the elves, apparently, were unsure they could heal. The king’s soldiers had taken Orrin back to the camp, and so far, Roran had heard no word of his fate.
Although he could not fight, Roran could still give orders. Of his own accord, he had started to organize the army from the rear, gathering up stray warriors and sending them on missions throughout Urû’baen—the first being to capture the rest of the catapults along the walls. When he received a piece of information that he thought Jörmundur or Orik or Martland Redbeard or any of the other captains within the army ought to know, now he had runners seek them out among the buildings and convey the news.
“—and if you see any soldiers near the big domed building by the market, be sure to tell Jörmundur that as well,” he said to the thin, high-shouldered swordsman who stood in front of him.
“Yes, sir,” said the man, and the knob in his neck bobbed as he swallowed.
Roran stared for a moment, fascinated by the movement, then he waved and said, “Go.”
As the man trotted away, Roran frowned and looked over the peaked roofs of the houses toward the citadel at the base of the overhanging shelf.
Where are you? he wondered. Nothing had been seen of Eragon or those with him since they entered the stronghold, and the length of their absence worried Roran. He could think of numerous explanations for the delay, but none boded well. The most benign was that Galbatorix was simply hiding, and that Eragon and his companions were having to search for the king. But after seeing the might of Shruikan during the previous night, Roran could not imagine that Galbatorix would flee from his enemies.
If his worst fears had come to pass, then the Varden’s victories would be short-lived, and Roran knew it was unlikely that he or any of the other warriors within their army would live through the day.
One of the men he had sent off earlier—a bare-headed, sandy-haired archer with a ruddy spot in the center of each cheek—ran out of a street to Roran’s right. The archer stopped in front of the block of stone and ducked his head while he panted for breath.
“You found Martland?” Roran asked.
The archer nodded again, his hair flopping over his glistening forehead.
“And you gave him my message?”
“Sir, yes sir. Martland told me to tell you that”—he paused for breath—“the soldiers have retreated from the baths, but now they’ve barricaded themselves in a hall close to the southern wall.”
Roran shifted on the litter and a pang ran through his newly healed arm. “What of the wall towers between the baths and the granaries? Have they been secured yet?”
“Two of them; we’re still fighting for the rest. Martland convinced a few elves to go and help, though. He also—”
A muffled roar from within the stone hill interrupted the man.
The archer blanched, save for the spots of color on his cheeks, which appeared even brighter and redder than before, like daubs of paint on the skin of a corpse. “Sir, is that—”
“Shh!” Roran cocked his head, listening. Only Shruikan could have roared that loud.
For a few moments, they heard nothing else of note. Then another roar sounded from inside the citadel, and Roran thought he could make out other, fainter noises, although he was not sure what they were.
Throughout the area in front of the ruined gate, men, elves, dwarves, and Urgals paused and looked toward the citadel.
Another roar, even louder than the last, rang forth.
Roran clutched the edge of the litter, his body rigid. “Kill him,” he muttered. “Kill the bastard.”
A vibration, subtle but noticeable, passed through the city, as if a great weight had struck the ground. With it, Roran heard what he thought was something breaking.
Then silence settled over the city, and every second that passed felt longer than the last.
“… Do you think he needs our help?” the archer asked in a soft voice.
“There’s nothing we can do for them,” said Roran, keeping his eyes fixed on the citadel.
“Couldn’t the elves—”
The ground rumbled and shook; then the front of the citadel exploded outward in a wall of white and yellow flame so bright, Roran saw the bones within the archer’s neck and head, his flesh like a red gooseberry held before a candle.
Roran grabbed the archer and rolled off the edge of the stone block, pulling the other man with him.
A blast of sound struck them as they fell. It felt as if spikes were being driven into Roran’s ears. He screamed, but he could not hear himself—nor, after the initial clap of thunder, could he hear anything else. The cobblestones bucked underneath them, a cloud of dust and debris hurtled over them, blotting out the sun, and a massive wind tore at Roran’s clothes.
The dust forced Roran to squeeze his eyes shut. All he could do was cling to the archer and wait for the upheaval to subside. He tried to take a breath, but the heated wind snatched the air from his lips and nose before he could fill his lungs. Something struck his head, and he felt his helmet fly off.
The shaking went on and on, but at last the ground grew still again, and Roran opened his eyes, afraid of what he would see.
The air was gray and dim; objects past a few hundred feet were lost in the haze. Small chunks of wood and stone rained from the sky, along with flakes of ash. A piece of timber that lay across the street from him—part of a flight of stairs the elves had broken when they destroyed the gate—was burning. The heat of the explosion had already charred the beam along its full length. The warriors who had been standing in the open now lay flat on the ground, some still moving, others clearly dead.
Roran glanced at the archer. The man had bitten through his bottom lip; blood coated his chin.
They helped each other off the ground, and Roran looked toward where the citadel had been. He could see nothing but gray darkness. Eragon! Could he and Saphira have survived the explosion? Could anyone who had been close to the heart of such an inferno?
Roran opened his mouth several times, trying to clear his ears—which rang and hurt badly—but to no avail. When he touched his right ear, his fingers came away bloody.
“Can you hear me?” he shouted at the archer, the words nothing but a vibration in his mouth and throat.
The archer frowned and shook his head.
A spate of dizziness caused Roran to lean over and prop himself against the block of stone. As he waited for his balance to return, he thought of the shelf hanging over them, and it suddenly occurred to him that the whole city might be in danger.
We have to leave before it falls, he thought. He spat blood and dirt onto the cobblestones. Then he looked in the direction of the citadel again. The dust still hid it. And grief clutched at his heart.