“No. We need you.” Turning, Roran whistled and picked two warriors: the old cobbler Loring and an Urgal. “Get him to the elves’ healers as fast as you can,” he said, pushing Baldor toward them. As he went, Baldor picked up his hand and tucked it under his hauberk.
The Urgal snarled and said in a thick accent that Roran barely understood, “No! I stay. I fight!” He struck his sword against his shield.
Roran stepped over, grabbed one of the creature’s horns, and pulled on it until he had twisted the Urgal’s head halfway around. “You’ll do as I say,” Roran growled. “Besides, it’s not an easy task. Protect him and you’ll win much glory for you and your tribe.”
The Urgal’s eyes seemed to brighten. “Much glory?” he said, mashing the words between his heavy teeth.
“Much glory!” Roran confirmed.
“I do it, Stronghammer!”
With a sense of relief, Roran watched the three of them depart, heading toward the outer wall, so that they might skirt most of the fighting. He was also pleased to see the human-shaped werecat follow after them, the feral, brindle-haired girl swinging her head from side to side as she scented the air.
Then another group of soldiers attacked, and all thoughts of Baldor left Roran’s mind. He hated fighting with a spear instead of a hammer, but he made do, and after a time, the street again grew calm. He knew the respite would be short.
He took the opportunity to sit on the front doorstep of a house and try to regain his breath. The soldiers seemed as fresh as ever, but he could feel exhaustion dragging on his limbs. He doubted he could keep going for much longer without making a fatal mistake.
As he sat panting, he listened to the shouts and screams coming from the direction of Urû’baen’s ruined front gate. It was difficult to tell what was happening from the general clamor, but he suspected the Varden were getting pushed back, for the noise seemed to be receding slightly. Amid the commotion, he could hear the regular crack of Lord Barst’s mace striking warrior after warrior, and then the increase in cries that invariably followed.
Roran made himself stand. If he sat for much longer, his muscles would start to stiffen. A moment after he moved away from the doorstep, the contents of a chamber pot splashed across the spot where he had just been.
“Murderers!” shouted a woman above him, and then a pair of shutters banged shut.
Roran snorted and picked his way around bodies as he led his remaining warriors over to the nearest cross street.
They paused, wary, when a soldier raced past, panic upon his face. Close behind, a pack of yowling housecats chased after him, blood dripping from the fur around their mouths.
Roran smiled and started forward again.
He stopped a second later when a group of dwarves with red beards ran toward them from deeper within the city. “Ready yourself!” one shouted. “We have a whole pack of soldiers nipping at our heels, a few hundred of them, at least.”
Roran looked back up the empty cross street. “Perhaps you lost—” he began to say, and then stopped when a line of crimson tunics appeared around the corner of a building a few hundred feet away. More and more soldiers followed, pouring into the street like a swarm of red ants.
“Back!” Roran shouted. “Back!” We have to find somewhere defensible. The outer wall was too far away, and none of the houses were large enough to have enclosed courtyards.
As Roran ran down the street with his warriors, a dozen or so arrows landed around them.
Roran stumbled and fell, writhing, as a bolt of pain shot up his spine from the small of his back. It felt as if someone had jabbed him with a large iron bar.
A second later, the herbalist was by his side. She tugged at something behind him, and Roran screamed. Then the pain decreased, and he found himself able to see clearly again.
The herbalist showed him an arrow with a bloody tip before throwing it away. “Your mail stopped most of it,” she said as she helped him to his feet.
Gritting his teeth, Roran ran with her to rejoin their group. Every step pained him now, and if he bent at the waist too far, his back spasmed and he found it almost impossible to move.
He saw no good places to make a stand, and the soldiers were getting closer, so at last he shouted, “Stop! Form up! Elves to the sides! Urgals front and center!”
Roran took his place near the front, along with Darmmen, Albriech, the Urgals, and one of the red-bearded dwarves.
“So you are the one they call Stronghammer,” said the dwarf as they watched the advance of the soldiers. “I fought alongside your hearth-brother in Farthen Dûr. It is mine honor to fight with you as well.”
Roran grunted. He just hoped he could stay on his feet.
Then the soldiers crashed into them, shoving them back through sheer weight. Roran set his shoulder against his shield and pushed with all his might. Swords and spears stuck through the gaps in the wall of overlapping shields; he felt one scrape against his side, but his hauberk protected him.
The elves and the Urgals proved invaluable. They broke the soldiers’ lines and earned Roran and the other warriors room to swing their weapons. At the edge of his vision, Roran saw the dwarf stabbing the soldiers in the legs, feet, and groin, causing many to fall.
The supply of soldiers seemed endless, however, and Roran found himself forced backward step by step. Not even the elves could stem the tide of men, try though they might. Othíara, the elf woman Roran had spoken to outside the city wall, died from an arrow in the neck, and the remaining elves received many wounds.