Christopher Paolini - Inheritance

“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 Dathedr. “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 Jormundur 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 Dathedr.

“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, Jormundur 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 Eldunari 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.