Eldest: Book Two (The Inheritance cycle 2)

After Roran agreed to their plan, Horst began distributing shovels, pitchforks, flails—anything that could be used to beat the soldiers and the Ra’zac away.

Roran hefted a pick, then set it aside. Though he had never cared for Brom’s stories, one of them, the “Song of Gerand,” resonated with him whenever he heard it. It told of Gerand, the greatest warrior of his time, who relinquished his sword for a wife and farm. He found no peace, however, as a jealous lord initiated a blood feud against Gerand’s family, which forced Gerand to kill once more. Yet he did not fight with his blade, but with a simple hammer.

Going to the wall, Roran removed a medium-sized hammer with a long handle and a rounded blade on one side of the head. He tossed it from hand to hand, then went to Horst and asked, “May I have this?”

Horst eyed the tool and Roran. “Use it wisely.” Then he said to the rest of the group, “Listen. We want to scare, not kill. Break a few bones if you want, but don’t get carried away. And whatever you do, don’t stand and fight. No matter how brave or heroic you feel, remember that they are trained soldiers.”

When everyone was equipped, they left the forge and wound their way through Carvahall to the edge of the Ra’zac’s camp. The soldiers had already gone to bed, except for four sentries who patrolled the perimeter of the gray tents. The Ra’zac’s two horses were picketed by a smoldering fire.

Horst quietly issued orders, sending Albriech and Delwin to ambush two of the sentries, and Parr and Roran to ambush the other two.

Roran held his breath as he stalked the oblivious soldier. His heart began to shudder as energy spiked through his limbs. He hid behind the corner of a house, quivering, and waited for Horst’s signal. Wait.

Wait.

With a roar, Horst burst from hiding, leading the charge into the tents. Roran darted forward and swung his hammer, catching the sentry on the shoulder with a grisly crunch.

The man howled and dropped his halberd. He staggered as Roran struck his ribs and back. Roran raised the hammer again and the man retreated, screaming for help.

Roran ran after him, shouting incoherently. He knocked in the side of a wool tent, trampling whatever was inside, then smashed the top of a helmet he saw emerging from another tent. The metal rang like a bell. Roran barely noticed as Loring danced past—the old man cackled and hooted in the night as he jabbed the soldiers with a pitchfork. Everywhere was a confusion of struggling bodies.

Whirling around, Roran saw a soldier attempting to string his bow. He rushed forward and hit the back of the bow with his steel mallet, breaking the wood in two. The soldier fled.

The Ra’zac scrambled free of their tent with terrible screeches, swords in hand. Before they could attack, Baldor untethered the horses and sent them galloping toward the two scarecrow figures. The Ra’zac separated, then regrouped, only to be swept away as the soldiers’ morale broke and they ran.

Then it was over.

Roran panted in the silence, his hand cramped around the hammer’s handle. After a moment, he picked his way through the crumpled mounds of tents and blankets to Horst. The smith was grinning under his beard. “That’s the best brawl I’ve had in years.”

Behind them, Carvahall jumped to life as people tried to discover the source of the commotion. Roran watched lamps flare up behind shuttered windows, then turned as he heard soft sobbing.

The boy, Nolfavrell, was kneeling by the body of a soldier, methodically stabbing him in the chest as tears slid down his chin. Gedric and Albriech hurried over and pulled Nolfavrell away from the corpse.

“He shouldn’t have come,” said Roran.

Horst shrugged. “It was his right.”

All the same, killing one of the Ra’zac’s men will only make it harder to rid ourselves of the desecrators. “We should barricade the road and between the houses so they won’t catch us by surprise.” Studying the men for any injuries, Roran saw that Delwin had received a long cut on his forearm, which the farmer bandaged with a strip torn from his ruined shirt.

With a few shouts, Horst organized their group. He dispatched Albriech and Baldor to retrieve Quimby’s wagon from the forge and had Loring’s sons and Parr scour Carvahall for items that could be used to secure the village.

Even as he spoke, people congregated on the edge of the field, staring at what was left of the Ra’zac’s camp and the dead soldier. “What happened?” cried Fisk.

Loring scuttled forward and stared the carpenter in the eye. “What happened? I’ll tell you what happened. We routed the dung-beardlings … caught them with their boots off and whipped them like dogs!”

“I am glad.” The strong voice came from Birgit, an auburn-haired woman who clasped Nolfavrell against her bosom, ignoring the blood smeared across his face. “They deserve to die like cowards for my husband’s death.”

The villagers murmured in agreement, but then Thane spoke: “Have you gone mad, Horst? Even if you frightened off the Ra’zac and their soldiers, Galbatorix will just send more men. The Empire will never give up until they get Roran.”

“We should hand him over,” snarled Sloan.

Horst raised his hands. “I agree; no one is worth more than all of Carvahall. But if we surrender Roran, do you really think Galbatorix will let us escape punishment for our resistance? In his eyes, we’re no better than the Varden.”

“Then why did you attack?” demanded Thane. “Who gave you the authority to make this decision? You’ve doomed us all!”

This time Birgit answered. “Would you let them kill your wife?” She pressed her hands on either side of her son’s face, then showed Thane her bloody palms, like an accusation. “Would you let them burn us? … Where is your manhood, loam breaker?”

He lowered his gaze, unable to face her stark expression.

“They burned my farm,” said Roran, “devoured Quimby, and nearly destroyed Carvahall. Such crimes cannot go unpunished. Are we frightened rabbits to cower down and accept our fate? No! We have a right to defend ourselves.” He stopped as Albriech and Baldor trudged up the street, dragging the wagon. “We can debate later. Now we have to prepare. Who will help us?”

Forty or more men volunteered. Together they set about the difficult task of making Carvahall impenetrable. Roran worked incessantly, nailing fence slats between houses, piling barrels full of rocks for makeshift walls, and dragging logs across the main road, which they blocked with two wagons tipped on their sides.

As Roran hurried from one chore to another, Katrina waylaid him in an alley. She hugged him, then said, “I’m glad you’re back, and that you’re safe.”

He kissed her lightly. “Katrina … I have to speak with you as soon as we’re finished.” She smiled uncertainly, but with a spark of hope. “You were right; it was foolish of me to delay. Every moment we spend together is precious, and I have no desire to squander what time we have when a whim of fate could tear us apart.”

Roran was tossing water on the thatching of Kiselt’s house—so it could not catch fire—when Parr shouted, “Ra’zac!”

Dropping the bucket, Roran ran to the wagons, where he had left his hammer. As he grabbed the weapon, he saw a single Ra’zac sitting on a horse far down the road, almost out of bowshot. The creature was illuminated by a torch in its left hand, while its right was drawn back, as if to throw something.

Roran laughed. “Is he going to toss rocks at us? He’s too far away to even hit—” He was cut off as the Ra’zac whipped down its arm and a glass vial arched across the distance between them and shattered against the wagon to his right. An instant later, a fireball launched the wagon into the air while a fist of burning air flung Roran against a wall.

Dazed, he fell to his hands and knees, gasping for breath. Through the roaring in his ears came the tattoo of galloping horses. He forced himself upright and faced the sound, only to dive aside as the Ra’zac raced into Carvahall through the burning gap in the wagons.

The Ra’zac reined in their steeds, blades flashing as they hacked at the people strewn around them. Roran saw three men die, then Horst and Loring reached the Ra’zac and began pressing them back with pitchforks. Before the villagers could rally, soldiers poured through the breach, killing indiscriminately in the darkness.

Roran knew they had to be stopped, else Carvahall would be taken. He jumped at a soldier, catching him by surprise, and hit him in the face with the hammer’s blade. The soldier crumpled without a sound. As the man’s compatriots rushed toward him, Roran wrestled the corpse’s shield off his limp arm. He barely managed to get it free in time to block the first strike.

Backstepping toward the Ra’zac, Roran parried a sword thrust, then swung his hammer up under the man’s chin, sending him to the ground. “To me!” shouted Roran. “Defend your homes!” He sidestepped a jab as five men attempted to encircle him. “To me!”

Baldor answered his call first, then Albriech. A few seconds later, Loring’s sons joined him, followed by a score of others. From the side streets, women and children pelted the soldiers with rocks. “Stay together,” ordered Roran, standing his ground. “There are more of us.”

The soldiers halted as the line of villagers before them continued to thicken. With more than a hundred men at his back, Roran slowly advanced.

“Attack, you foolsss,” screamed a Ra’zac, dodging Loring’s pitchfork.

A single arrow whizzed toward Roran. He caught it on his shield and laughed. The Ra’zac were level with the soldiers now, hissing with frustration. They glared at the villagers from under their inky cowls. Suddenly Roran felt himself become lethargic and powerless to move; it was hard to even think. Fatigue seemed to chain his arms and legs in place.

Then from farther in Carvahall, Roran heard a raw shout from Birgit. A second later, a rock hurtled over his head and bored toward the lead Ra’zac, who twitched with supernatural speed to avoid the missile. The distraction, slight though it was, freed Roran’s mind from the soporific influence. Was that magic? he wondered.

He dropped the shield, grasped his hammer with both hands, and raised it far above his head—just like Horst did when spreading metal. Roran went up on tiptoe, his entire body bowed backward, then whipped his arms down with a huh! The hammer cartwheeled through the air and bounced off the Ra’zac’s shield, leaving a formidable dent.

The two attacks were enough to disrupt the last of the Ra’zac’s strange power. They clicked rapidly to each other as the villagers roared and marched forward, then the Ra’zac yanked on their reins, wheeling around.

“Retreat,” they growled, riding past the soldiers. The crimson-clad warriors sullenly backed out of Carvahall, stabbing at anyone who came too close. Only when they were a good distance from the burning wagons did they dare turn their backs.

Roran sighed and retrieved his hammer, feeling the bruises on his side and back where he had hit the wall. He bowed his head as he saw that the explosion had killed Parr. Nine other men had died. Already wives and mothers rent the night with their wails of grief.

How could this happen here?

“Everyone, come!” called Baldor.

Roran blinked and stumbled to the middle of the road, where Baldor stood. A Ra’zac sat beetle-like on a horse only twenty yards away. The creature crooked a finger at Roran and said, “You … you sssmell like your cousin. We never forget a sssmell.”

“What do you want?” he shouted. “Why are you here?”

The Ra’zac chuckled in a horrible, insectile way. “We want … information.” It glanced over its shoulder, where its companions had disappeared, then cried, “Release Roran and you ssshall be sold as ssslaves. Protect him, and we will eat you all. We ssshall have your answer when next we come. Be sssure it is the right one.”