Inheritance
Page 223
A growl sounded, and then Roran felt a hand around his throat.
“Do not touch me, human.”
“Listen to me! I can help you kill Barst. Just … let me go.”
After a second or two, the fingers gripping Roran’s neck relaxed. “How, Stronghammer?” The bloodthirstiness of the elf’s voice contrasted with the tears on his cheeks.
“You’ll find out in a minute. But I have a question for you first. Why can’t you kill Barst with your minds? He’s only one man, and there are so many of you.”
An anguished expression crossed the elf’s face. “Because his mind is hidden from us!”
“How?”
“I do not know. We can feel nothing of his thoughts. It is as if there is a sphere around his mind. We can see nothing within the sphere, nor can we pierce it.”
Roran had expected something like that. “Thank you,” he said, and the elf made a slight motion of his head in acknowledgment.
Garzhvog was the first to reach the building; he emerged from a nearby street and ran up the steps with two huge strides, then turned and roared at the thirty soldiers following him. Seeing the Kull safe among friends, the soldiers wisely dropped back.
“Stronghammer!” exclaimed Garzhvog. “You asked, and I have come.”
After a few more minutes, the others Roran had sent the herbalist to fetch arrived at the great stone building. The silver-haired elf who presented himself was one Roran had seen with Islanzadí on several occasions. Lord Däthedr was his name. The six of them, all bloody and weary, stood in a clump among the fluted pillars.
“I have a plan to kill Barst,” Roran said, “but I need your help, and we have little time. Can I count on you?”
“That depends on your plan,” said Orik. “Tell it to us first.”
So Roran explained it as quickly as he could. When he finished, he asked Orik, “Can your engineers aim the catapults and ballistae as accurately as needed?”
The dwarf made a noise in his throat. “Not with how humans build their war machines. We can put a stone within twenty feet of the target, but any closer than that is up to luck.”
Roran looked at the elf lord Däthedr. “Will the others of your kind follow you?”
“They will obey my orders, Stronghammer. Do not doubt it.”
“Then will you send some of your magicians to accompany the dwarves and help guide the stones?”
“There would be no guarantee of success. The spells might easily fail or go astray.”
“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!”
“Do not touch me, human.”
“Listen to me! I can help you kill Barst. Just … let me go.”
After a second or two, the fingers gripping Roran’s neck relaxed. “How, Stronghammer?” The bloodthirstiness of the elf’s voice contrasted with the tears on his cheeks.
“You’ll find out in a minute. But I have a question for you first. Why can’t you kill Barst with your minds? He’s only one man, and there are so many of you.”
An anguished expression crossed the elf’s face. “Because his mind is hidden from us!”
“How?”
“I do not know. We can feel nothing of his thoughts. It is as if there is a sphere around his mind. We can see nothing within the sphere, nor can we pierce it.”
Roran had expected something like that. “Thank you,” he said, and the elf made a slight motion of his head in acknowledgment.
Garzhvog was the first to reach the building; he emerged from a nearby street and ran up the steps with two huge strides, then turned and roared at the thirty soldiers following him. Seeing the Kull safe among friends, the soldiers wisely dropped back.
“Stronghammer!” exclaimed Garzhvog. “You asked, and I have come.”
After a few more minutes, the others Roran had sent the herbalist to fetch arrived at the great stone building. The silver-haired elf who presented himself was one Roran had seen with Islanzadí on several occasions. Lord Däthedr was his name. The six of them, all bloody and weary, stood in a clump among the fluted pillars.
“I have a plan to kill Barst,” Roran said, “but I need your help, and we have little time. Can I count on you?”
“That depends on your plan,” said Orik. “Tell it to us first.”
So Roran explained it as quickly as he could. When he finished, he asked Orik, “Can your engineers aim the catapults and ballistae as accurately as needed?”
The dwarf made a noise in his throat. “Not with how humans build their war machines. We can put a stone within twenty feet of the target, but any closer than that is up to luck.”
Roran looked at the elf lord Däthedr. “Will the others of your kind follow you?”
“They will obey my orders, Stronghammer. Do not doubt it.”
“Then will you send some of your magicians to accompany the dwarves and help guide the stones?”
“There would be no guarantee of success. The spells might easily fail or go astray.”
“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!”
