Roran bellowed as he waded into their midst, lashing out left and right with his hammer and driving the five men back into a corner. Then Mandel and the two other warriors were at his side, swords flashing. Together they made short work of the guards.
When he stood over the twitching body of the last soldier, Roran spat on the ground and said, “Don’t trust strangers.”
The fighting had polluted the room with a collection of horrific odors, which seemed to press against Roran like a thick, heavy blanket made of the most unpleasant substance he could imagine. He was barely able to breathe without being sick, so he covered his nose and mouth with the sleeve of his tunic, trying to filter out some of the smells.
The four of them went to the windlass, being careful not to slip on the pools of blood, and studied it for a moment as they figured out its workings.
Roran spun around, raising his hammer as he heard a clink of metal and then the loud creak of a wooden trapdoor being pulled open, followed by a clatter of footsteps as a soldier descended the winding staircase from the gate tower above.
“Taurin, what in the blazes is going—” The soldier’s voice died in his throat and he stopped partway down the stairs as he caught sight of Roran and his companions, as well as the mangled bodies in the corner.
A warrior to Roran’s right threw a spear at the soldier, but the soldier ducked and the spear struck the wall above him. The soldier cursed and scrambled back up the stairs on all fours, vanishing behind a curve of the wall.
A moment later, the trapdoor slammed shut with an echoing boom, and then they heard the soldier wind a horn and shout frantic warnings to the people in the square.
Roran scowled and returned to the windlass. “Leave him,” he said, shoving his hammer under his belt. He leaned against the spoked wheel used to raise and lower the portcullis and pushed as hard as he could, straining every muscle. The other men added their strength to his, and slowly, ever so slowly, the wheel began to turn, the ratchet on the side of the windlass clicking loudly as the huge wooden catch slid over the teeth below.
The effort needed to turn the wheel became substantially easier a few seconds later, a fact that Roran attributed to the team he had sent to infiltrate the other guardhouse.
They did not bother to raise the portcullis all the way; after a half minute of grunting and sweating, the fierce war cries of the Varden reached their ears as the men waiting outside charged through the gate and into the square.
Roran released the wheel, then pulled out his hammer again and made for the stairs with the others in tow.
Outside the guardhouse, he spotted Carn and Delwin just as they emerged from the structure on the other side of the gate. Neither appeared injured, but Roran noticed that the older warrior who had accompanied them was now absent.
While they waited for Roran’s group to rejoin them, Baldor and the rest of the Varden organized themselves into a solid block of men at the edge of the square. They stood five ranks deep, shoulder to shoulder with their shields overlapping.
As he trotted over to them, Roran saw a large contingent of soldiers emerge from among the buildings at the far side of the square. There they assumed a defensive formation, angling their spears and pikes outward, so they resembled a long, low pincushion stuck full of needles. He estimated that about one hundred fifty soldiers were present—a number that his warriors could certainly overcome, but at a cost of both time and men.
His mood grew even more grim as the same hook-nosed magician whom he had seen on the previous day stepped out in front of the rows of soldiers and spread his arms above his head, a nimbus of black lighting crackling around each of his hands. Roran had learned enough about magic from Eragon to know that the lightning was probably more for show than anything else, but show or not, he had no doubt that the enemy spellcaster was enormously dangerous.
Carn arrived at the head of the warriors seconds after Roran. Together they and Baldor gazed at the magician and the ridge of soldiers assembled in opposition.
“Can you kill him?” Roran asked quietly, so the men behind him could not hear.
“I’ll have to try, now won’t I?” replied Carn. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Perspiration beaded his face.
“If you want, we can rush him. He can’t kill us all before we wear down his wards and put a blade through his heart.”
“You don’t know that.… No, this is my responsibility, and I have to deal with it.”
“Is there anything we can do to help?”
Carn uttered a nervous laugh. “You could shoot some arrows at him. Blocking them might weaken him enough that he’ll make a mistake. But whatever you do, don’t get between us.… It won’t be safe, for you or for me.”
Roran transferred his hammer to his left hand, then placed his right on Carn’s shoulder. “You’ll be fine. Remember, he’s not that clever. You tricked him before, and you can trick him again.”
“I know.”
“Good luck,” said Roran.
Carn nodded once, then walked toward the fountain in the center of the square. The light from the sun had reached the plume of dancing water, which glittered like handfuls of diamonds tossed into the air.
The hook-nosed magician also walked toward the fountain, matching his steps to Carn’s until they stood only twenty feet apart, whereupon they both stopped.
From where Roran was standing, Carn and his opponent appeared to be talking to each other, but they were too far away for him to make out what they said. Then both of the spellcasters went rigid, as if someone had jabbed them with poniards.
That was what Roran had been waiting for: a sign that they were dueling with their minds, too busy to pay attention to their surroundings.
“Archers!” he barked. “Go there and there,” and he pointed at either side of the square. “Put as many arrows into that traitorous dog as you can, but don’t you dare hit Carn or I’ll have you fed alive to Saphira.”
The soldiers shifted uneasily as the two groups of archers advanced partway across the square, but none of Galbatorix’s crimson-clad troops broke formation or moved to engage the Varden.
They must have a great deal of confidence in that pet viper of theirs, Roran thought, concerned.
Dozens of brown, goose-feather-fletched arrows arched spinning and whistling toward the enemy magician, and for a moment, Roran hoped that they might be able to kill him. Five feet from the hook-nosed man, however, every single shaft shattered and dropped to the ground, as if they had run headlong into a wall of stone.
Roran bounced on his heels, too tense to stand still. He hated having to wait, doing nothing, while his friend was in danger. Moreover, every passing moment gave Lord Halstead more of an opportunity to figure out what was happening and devise an effective response. If Roran’s men were to avoid being crushed by the Empire’s superior forces, they had to keep their enemies off balance, unsure of where to turn or what to do.
“On your toes!” he said, turning to the warriors. “Let’s see if we can do some good while Carn is fighting to save our necks. We’re going to flank those soldiers. Half of you come with me; the rest follow Delwin here. They can’t block off every single street, so Delwin, you and your men work your way past the soldiers, then loop back around and attack them from behind. We’ll keep them busy on this front, so they won’t put up much resistance. If any of the soldiers try to run, let them. It would take too long to kill them all anyway. Got it? … Go, go, go!”