Roran killed several of the soldiers himself, but for the most part, he hung back and concentrated upon directing the assault, as was his responsibility now. He was still stiff and sore from the flogging he had endured, and he did not want to exert himself any more than necessary, for fear of cracking the mat of scabs that covered his back.

Until that point, Roran had had no difficulty maintaining discipline among the twenty humans and twenty Urgals. Although it was obvious that neither group liked nor trusted the other—an attitude he shared, for he regarded the Urgals with the same degree of suspicion and distaste as would any man who had been raised in proximity to the Spine—they had succeeded in working together during the past three days with nary a raised voice. That both groups had managed to cooperate so well had, he knew, little to do with his prowess as a commander. Nasuada and Nar Garzhvog had taken great care in picking the warriors who were to travel with him, selecting only those with a reputation for a quick blade, sound judgment, and, above all, a calm and even disposition.

However, in the aftermath of the attack on the supply train, as his men were busy dragging the bodies of the soldiers and the wagoners into a pile, and Roran was riding up and down the line of wagons overseeing the work, he heard an agonized howl from somewhere by the far end of the train. Thinking that perhaps another contingent of soldiers had chanced upon them, Roran shouted to Carn and several other men to join him and then touched his spurs to Snowfire’s flanks and galloped toward the rear of the wagons.

Four Urgals had tied an enemy soldier to the trunk of a gnarled willow tree and were amusing themselves by poking and prodding him with their swords. Swearing, Roran jumped down from Snowfire and, with a single blow of his hammer, put the man out of his misery.

A swirling cloud of dust swept over the group as Carn and four other warriors galloped up to the willow tree. They reined in their steeds and spread out on either side of Roran, holding their weapons at the ready.

The largest Urgal, a ram named Yarbog, stepped forward. “Stronghammer, why did you stop our sport? He would have danced for us for many more minutes.”

From between clenched teeth, Roran said, “So long as you are under my command, you will not torture captives without cause. Am I understood? Many of these soldiers have been forced to serve Galbatorix against their will. Many of them are our friends or family or neighbors, and while we must fight them, I will not have you treat them with unnecessary cruelty. If not for the whims of fate, any one of us humans might be standing in their place. They are not our enemy; Galbatorix is, as he is yours.”

The Urgal’s heavy brow beetled, nearly obscuring his deep-set yellow eyes. “But you will still kill them, yes? Why cannot we enjoy seeing them wriggle and dance first?”

Roran wondered if the Urgal’s skull was too thick to crack with his hammer. Struggling to restrain his anger, he said, “Because it is wrong, if nothing else!” Pointing at the dead soldier, he said, “What if he had been one of your own race who had been enthralled by the Shade, Durza? Would you have tormented him as well?”

“Of course,” said Yarbog. “They would want us to tickle them with our swords so that they would have an opportunity to prove their bravery before they died. Is it not the same with you hornless humans, or have you no stomach for pain?”

Roran was not sure how serious an insult it was among the Urgals to call another hornless, but even so, he had no doubt that questioning someone’s courage was as offensive to Urgals as it was to humans, if not more so. “Any one of us could withstand more pain without crying out than you, Yarbog,” he said, tightening his grip on his hammer and shield. “Now, unless you wish to experience agony the likes of which you cannot imagine, surrender your sword to me, then untie that poor wretch and carry him over to the rest of the bodies. After that, go see to the packhorses. They are yours to care for until we return to the Varden.”

Without waiting for an acknowledgment from the Urgal, Roran turned and grasped Snowfire’s reins and prepared to climb back onto the stallion.

“No,” growled Yarbog.

Roran froze with one foot in a stirrup and silently swore to himself. He had hoped that just such a situation would not arise during the trip. Swinging around, he said, “No? Are you refusing to obey my orders?”

Drawing back his lips to expose his short fangs, Yarbog said, “No. I challenge you for leadership of this tribe, Stronghammer.” And the Urgal threw back his massive head and bellowed so loudly that the rest of the humans and Urgals stopped what they were doing and ran toward the willow tree until all forty of them were clustered around Yarbog and Roran.

“Shall we attend to this creature for you?” Carn asked, his voice ringing out.

Wishing that there were not so many onlookers, Roran shook his head. “No, I shall deal with him myself.” Despite his words, he was glad to have his men beside him, opposite the line of hulking, gray-skinned Urgals. The humans were smaller than the Urgals, but all except Roran were mounted on horses, which would give them a slight advantage if there were a fight between the two groups. If that came to pass, Carn’s magic would be of little help, for the Urgals had a spellcaster of their own, a shaman named Dazhgra, and from what Roran had seen, Dazhgra was the more powerful magician, if not as skilled in the nuances of their arcane art.

To Yarbog, Roran said, “It is not the custom of the Varden to award leadership based upon trial by combat. If you wish to fight, I will fight, but you will gain nothing by it. If I lose, Carn will assume my command, and you will answer to him instead of me.”