“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 Jörmundur 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 Däthedr.
“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.