And it said, “Ah, I have been expecting you. Welcome to my abode. And welcome to you in particular, Eragon Shadeslayer, and to you, Saphira Brightscales. I have much desired to meet with you. But I am also glad to see you, Arya—daughter of Islanzadí, and Shadeslayer in your own right—and you as well, Elva, she of the Shining Brow. And of course, Glaedr, Umaroth, Valdr, and those others who travel with you unseen. I had long believed them to be dead, and I am most glad to learn otherwise. Welcome, all! We have much to talk about.”

THE HEART OF THE FRAY

long with the warriors of his battalion, Roran fought his way down off Urû’baen’s outer wall to the streets below. There they paused to regroup; then he shouted, “To the gate!” and pointed with his hammer.

He and several men from Carvahall, including Horst and Delwin, took the lead as they trotted along the inside of the wall toward the breach the elves had created with their magic. Arrows flitted over their heads as they ran, but none were aimed at them specifically, and he did not hear any of their group take a wound.

They encountered dozens of soldiers in the narrow space between the wall and the stone houses. A few paused to fight, but the rest ran, and even those who fought soon retreated down the adjoining alleyways.

At first the savage intensity of slaughter and victory blinded Roran to all else. But when the soldiers they met continued to flee, a sense of unease began to gnaw at his stomach, and he began to look around with greater alertness, searching for anything that seemed different from what it ought to be.

Something was wrong. He was sure of it.

“Galbatorix wouldn’t let them give up this easily,” he muttered to himself.

“What?” asked Albriech, who was next to him.

“I said, Galbatorix wouldn’t let them give up this easily.” Twisting his head around, Roran shouted to the rest of the battalion, “Pin back your ears and look sharp! Galbatorix has a surprise or two in store for us, I wager. We won’t let ourselves get caught unawares, though, now will we?”

“Stronghammer!” they shouted in return, and pounded their weapons against their shields. All but the elves, that was. Satisfied, he quickened the pace even as he continued to scan the rooftops.

They soon broke out into the rubble-strewn street that led to what had once been the main gate of the city. Now all that was left was a gaping hole several hundred feet wide at the top, with a pile of broken stones at the bottom. Through the gap streamed the Varden and their allies: men, dwarves, Urgals, elves, and werecats, fighting alongside one another for the first time in history.

Arrows rained down on the army as it poured into the city, but the elves’ magic stopped the deadly darts before they could cause harm. The same did not hold true for Galbatorix’s soldiers; Roran saw a number of them fall to the Varden’s archers, although some appeared to have wards that protected them from the arrows. Galbatorix’s favorites, he assumed.

As his battalion joined the rest of the army, Roran spotted Jörmundur riding in the press of warriors. Roran called out greetings, and Jörmundur replied in kind and shouted, “Once we reach that fountain”—he pointed with his sword toward a large, ornate edifice that stood in a courtyard several hundred yards in front of them—“take your men and head off to the right. Clear the southern part of the city, then meet back up with us at the citadel.”

Roran nodded, exaggerating the movement so Jörmundur could see. “Sir!”

He felt safer now that they had the company of other warriors, but still his sense of unease continued. Where are they? he wondered, looking at the mouths of the empty streets. Galbatorix had supposedly gathered the whole of his army in Urû’baen, but Roran had yet to see evidence of a large force of men. There had been surprisingly few soldiers on the walls, and those who were present had fled far sooner than they should have.

He’s luring us in, Roran realized with sudden certainty. It’s all a play designed to trick us. Catching Jörmundur’s attention again, he shouted, “Something’s wrong! Where are the soldiers?”

Jörmundur frowned and turned to speak with King Orrin and Queen Islanzadí, who had ridden up to him. Oddly enough, a white raven sat on Islanzadí’s left shoulder, his claws hooked into her corselet of golden armor.

And still the Varden continued to march deeper and deeper into Urû’baen.

“What is the matter, Stronghammer?” growled Nar Garzhvog as he pushed his way over to Roran.

Roran glanced up at the heavy-headed Kull. “I’m not sure. Galbatorix—”

He forgot whatever else he was going to say when a horn sounded among the buildings ahead of them. It blared for the better part of a minute, a low, ominous tone that caused the Varden to pause and look around with concern.

Roran’s heart sank. “This is it,” he said to Albriech. Turning, he waved his hammer, motioning toward the side of the street. “Move over!” he bellowed. “Get between the buildings and take cover!”

It took his battalion longer to extricate itself from the column of warriors than it had to join it. Frustrated, Roran continued shouting, trying to get them to move faster. “Quickly, you sorry dogs! Quickly!”

The horn sounded again, and Jörmundur finally called a halt to the army.

By then, Roran’s warriors were safely wedged into three streets, where they stood clustered behind buildings, waiting for his orders. He stood by the side of a house, along with Garzhvog and Horst, peering around the corner as he tried to see what was happening.