The Varden heavily outnumbered the soldiers, and by the time Roran reached the bottom of the stairs, they had already put to death fully three-quarters of the defending force.
Leaving the disposal of the few remaining soldiers to his more-than-able warriors, Roran made his way toward the large double doors to the left of the canal—doors wide enough for two wagons to drive through abreast. As he did, he came upon Carn, who was sitting at the base of the crane’s platform, eating out of a leather pouch he always carried. The pouch, Roran knew, contained a mixture of lard, honey, powdered beef liver, lamb’s heart, and berries. The one time Carn had given him a piece, he had gagged—but even a few bites could keep a man on his feet for a whole day’s worth of hard work.
To Roran’s concern, the magician looked utterly exhausted. “Can you continue?” Roran asked, pausing by him.
Carn nodded. “I just need a moment.… The bolts in the tunnel, and then the sacks of flour and the piece of slate …” He pushed another morsel of food in his mouth. “It was a bit much all at once.”
Reassured, Roran started to move away, but Carn caught him by the arm. “I didn’t do it,” he said, and his eyes crinkled with amusement. “Singe your beard, that is. The torches must have started the fire.”
Roran grunted, and continued on to the doors. “Form up!” he shouted, and slapped his shield with the flat of his hammer. “Baldor, Delwin, you take the lead with me. The rest of you, line up behind us. Shields out, swords drawn, arrows nocked. Halstead probably doesn’t know yet that we’re in the city, so don’t let anyone escape who could warn him.… Ready, then? Right, with me!”
Together he and Baldor—whose cheeks and nose were red from the explosion—unbarred the doors and threw them open, revealing the interior of Aroughs.
DUST AND ASHES
ozens of large plaster-sided buildings stood clustered around the portal in the city’s outer wall, where the canal entered Aroughs. All of the buildings—cold and forbidding with the empty stare of their black windows—appeared to be warehouses or storage facilities, which, coupled with the early-morning hour, meant it was unlikely that anyone had noticed the Varden’s clash with the guards.
Roran had no intention of staying around to find out for sure.
Hazy rays of newborn light streaked horizontally across the city, gilding the tops of the towers, the battlements, the cupolas, and the slanted roofs. The streets and alleyways were cloaked in shadows the color of tarnished silver, and the water in its stone-lined channel was dark and dismal and laced with streaks of blood. High above gleamed a lone wandering star, a furtive spark in the brightening blue mantle, where the sun’s growing radiance had obscured all of the other nighttime jewels.
Forward the Varden trotted, their leather boots scuffing against the cobblestone street.
Off in the distance, a cock crowed.
Roran led them through the warren of buildings toward the inner wall of the city, but not always choosing the most obvious or direct route, so as to reduce their chances of encountering someone in the streets. The lanes they followed were narrow and murky, and sometimes he had difficulty seeing where he was placing his feet.
Filth clotted the gutters of the streets. The stench filled him with loathing and made him wish for the open fields he was used to.
How can anyone bear to live in such conditions? he wondered. Even pigs won’t wallow in their own dirt.
Away from the curtain wall, the buildings changed to houses and shops: tall, crossbeamed, with whitewashed walls and wrought-iron fixtures upon the doors. Behind the shuttered windows, Roran sometimes heard the sound of voices, or the clatter of dishes, or the scrape of a chair being pulled across a wooden floor.
We’re running out of time, he thought. Another few minutes and the streets would be teeming with the denizens of Aroughs.
As if to fulfill his prediction, two men stepped out of an alleyway in front of the column of warriors. Both of the city dwellers carried yokes on their shoulders with buckets of fresh milk hanging off the ends.
The men stopped with surprise as they saw the Varden, the milk sloshing out of the buckets. Their eyes widened, and their mouths fell open in preparation of some exclamation.
Roran halted, as did the troop behind him. “If you scream, we’ll kill you,” he said in a soft, friendly voice.
The men shivered and inched away.
Roran stepped forward. “If you run, we’ll kill you.” Without taking his eyes off the two frightened men, he uttered Carn’s name and, when the magician arrived at his side, he said, “Put them to sleep for me, if you would.”
The magician quickly recited a phrase in the ancient language, ending with a word that sounded to Roran something like slytha. The two men collapsed bonelessly to the ground, their buckets tipping over as they struck the cobblestones. Milk sheeted down the lane, forming a delicate web of white veins as it settled into the grooves between the stones of the street.
“Pull them off to the side,” Roran said, “where they can’t be seen.”
As soon as his warriors had dragged the two unconscious men out of the way, he ordered the Varden forward once more, resuming their hurried march toward the inner wall.
Before they had gone more than a hundred feet, however, they turned a corner and ran headlong into a group of four soldiers.
This time Roran showed no mercy. He sprinted across the space that separated them and, while the soldiers were still trying to gather their wits, he buried the flat blade of his hammer into the base of the lead soldier’s neck. Likewise, Baldor cut down one of the other soldiers, swinging his sword with a strength few men could match, a strength born of years spent working at his father’s forge.
The last two soldiers squawked with alarm, turned, and ran.
An arrow shot past Roran’s shoulder from somewhere behind him and took one soldier in the back, knocking him to the ground. A moment later, Carn barked, “Jierda!” The neck of the final soldier broke with an audible snap, and he tumbled forward to lie motionless in the center of the street.