Roran’s mouth went dry, and he felt a sense of despair. From what he knew, Barst was not the sort of man to have a belly. He would not let himself go soft, nor would Galbatorix have chosen such a man to defend Urû’baen. The only explanation that made sense, then, was that Barst had an Eldunarí strapped to his body underneath his oddly shaped breastplate.
Then the street shook and split, and a dark crevice appeared beneath Barst and his charger. The hole would have swallowed them both, with room to spare, but the horse remained standing upon thin air, as if its hooves were still planted firmly upon the ground. A wreath of different colors flickered around Barst, like a nimbus of tattered rainbows. Alternating waves of heat and cold emanated from his location, and Roran saw tendrils of ice crawling up from the ground, seeking to wrap themselves around the horse’s legs and hold them in place. But the ice could not grip the horse, nor did any of the magic seem to have an effect on either the man or the animal.
Barst pulled on the reins again, then spurred his horse toward a group of elves who stood beside a nearby house, chanting in the ancient language. It was they, Roran assumed, who had been casting the spells against Barst.
Lifting his mace above his head, Barst charged into the midst of the elves. They scattered, seeking to defend themselves, but to no avail, for Barst split their shields and broke their swords, and when he struck, the mace crushed the elves as if their bones were as thin and hollow as those of birds.
Why didn’t their wards protect them? Roran wondered. Why can’t they stop him with their minds? He’s only one man, and there’s only one Eldunarí with him.
A few yards away, a large round stone crashed into the sea of struggling bodies, leaving behind a bright red smear, and bounced into the front of a building, where it shattered the statues above the doorframe.
Roran ducked and cursed as he looked for where the stone had come from. Halfway across the city, he saw that Galbatorix’s soldiers had retaken the catapults and other war machines mounted on the curtain wall. They’re firing into their own city, he thought. They’re firing at their own men!
With a growl of disgust, he turned away from the square, so that he was facing the interior of the city. “We can’t help here!” he shouted to the battalion. “Leave Barst to the others. Take the street over there!” He pointed to his left. “We’ll fight our way to the wall and make our stand there!”
If the warriors responded, he did not hear, for he was already moving. Behind him, another stone crashed into the fighting armies, causing even more screams of pain.
The street Roran had chosen was full of soldiers, as well as a few elves and werecats, who were clumped together by the front door of a hatter’s shop, hard-pressed to fend off the large number of enemies around them. The elves shouted something, and a dozen soldiers fell to the ground, but the rest remained standing.
Diving into the midst of the soldiers, Roran again lost himself in the red-tinged haze of battle. He leaped over one of the fallen soldiers and brought his hammer down on the helm of a man with his back turned. Confident that the man was dead, Roran used his shield to shove the next soldier back and then jabbed with the end of his hammer at the man’s throat, crushing it.
Next to him, Delwin caught a spear in his shoulder and went down on one knee with a cry of pain. Swinging his hammer even faster than normal, Roran drove back the spearman while Delwin pulled the weapon out and got back to his feet.
“Fall back,” Roran told him.
Delwin shook his head, teeth bared. “No!”
“Fall back, blast you! That’s an order.”
Delwin cursed, but he obeyed, and Horst took his place. The smith, Roran noticed, was bleeding from cuts on his arms and legs, but they did not seem to interfere with his ability to move.
Evading a sword thrust, Roran took a step forward. He seemed to hear a faint rushing sound behind him, and then a thunderclap went off in his ears, and the earth spun around him and everything went black.
He woke with a throbbing head. Above, he saw the sky—bright now with light from the rising sun—and the dark underside of the crevice-lined overhang.
Groaning with pain, he pushed himself upright. He was lying at the base of the city’s outer wall, next to the bloody fragments of a stone from a catapult. His shield was missing, as was his hammer, which concerned him in a befuddled sort of way.
Even as he tried to regain his bearings, a group of five soldiers rushed at him, and one of the men stabbed him in the chest with a spear. The point of the weapon drove him back against the wall, but it did not pierce his skin.
“Grab him!” shouted the soldiers, and Roran felt hands take hold of his arms and legs. He thrashed, trying to wrench free, but he was still weak and disoriented, and there were too many soldiers for him to overpower.
The soldiers struck at him again and again, and he felt his strength fading as his wards shielded him from the blows. The world grew gray, and he was about to lose consciousness again when the blade of a sword sprouted from the mouth of one of the soldiers.
The soldiers dropped him, and Roran saw a dark-haired woman whirling among them, swinging her sword with the practiced ease of a seasoned warrior. Within seconds, she killed the five men, although one of them managed to give her a shallow cut along her left thigh.
Afterward, she offered him her hand and said, “Stronghammer.”
As he grasped her forearm, he saw that her wrist—where her worn bracer did not cover it—was layered with scars, as if she had been burned or whipped nearly to the bone. Behind the woman stood a pale-faced teenage girl clad in a piecemeal collection of armor, and also a boy who looked a year or two younger than the girl.
“Who are you?” he asked, standing. The woman’s face was striking: broad and strong-boned, with the bronzed, weather-beaten look of one who had spent most of her life outdoors.
“A passing stranger,” she said. Bending at the knees, she picked up one of the soldiers’ spears and handed it to him.
“My thanks.”
She nodded, and then she and her young companions trotted off among the buildings, heading farther into the city.
Roran stared after them for a half second, wondering, then shook himself and hurried back along the street to rejoin his battalion.