Roran tried to twist free, but the Ra’zac did not budge. With his free hand, Roran buffeted the creature’s head and shoulders—which were as hard as iron. Desperate and enraged, he seized the edge of the Ra’zac’s hood and wrenched it back, exposing its features.

A hideous, tortured face screamed at him. The skin was shiny black, like a beetle carapace. The head was bald. Each lidless eye was the size of his fist and gleamed like an orb of polished hematite; no iris or pupil existed. In place of a nose, mouth, and chin, a thick beak hooked to a sharp point that clacked over a barbed purple tongue.

Roran yelled and jammed his heels against the sides of the window frame, struggling to free himself from the monstrosity, but the Ra’zac inexorably drew him out of the house. He could see Katrina on the ground, still screaming and fighting.

Just as Roran’s knees buckled, Horst appeared by his side and wrapped a knotted arm around his chest, locking him in place. “Someone get a spear!” shouted the smith. He snarled, veins bulging on his neck from the strain of holding Roran. “It’ll take more than this demon spawn to best us!”

The Ra’zac gave a final yank, then, when it failed to dislodge Roran, cocked its head and said, “You areoursss !” It lunged forward with blinding speed, and Roran howled as he felt the Ra’zac’s beak close on his right shoulder, snipping through the front of the muscle. His wrist cracked at the same time. With a malicious cackle, the Ra’zac released him and fell backward into the night.

Horst and Roran sprawled against each other in the hallway. “They have Katrina,” groaned Roran. His vision flickered and went black around the edges as he pushed himself upright on his left arm—his right hung useless. Albriech and Baldor emerged from his room, splattered with gore. Only corpses remained behind them.Now I have killed eight. Roran retrieved his hammer and staggered down the hall, finding his way blocked by Elain in her white sleeping shift.

She looked at him with wide eyes, then took his arm and pushed him down onto a wood chest set against the wall. “You have to see Gertrude.”

“But—”

“You’ll pass out if this bleeding isn’t stopped.”

He looked down at his right side; it was drenched in crimson. “We have to rescue Katrina before”—he clenched his teeth as the pain surged—“before they do anything to her.”

“He’s right; we can’t wait,” said Horst, looming over them. “Bind him up as best you can, then we’ll go.” Elain pursed her lips and hurried to the linen closet. She returned with several rags, which she wrapped tightly around Roran’s torn shoulder and his fractured wrist. Meanwhile, Albriech and Baldor scavenged armor and swords from the soldiers. Horst contented himself with just a spear.

Elain put her hands on Horst’s chest and said, “Be careful.” She looked at her sons. “All of you.”

“We’ll be fine, Mother,” promised Albriech. She forced a smile and kissed them on the cheek.

They left the house and ran to the edge of Carvahall, where they found that the wall of trees had been pulled open and the watchman, Byrd, slain. Baldor knelt and examined the body, then said with a choked voice, “He was stabbed from behind.” Roran barely heard him through the pounding in his ears. Dizzy, he leaned against a house and panted for breath.

“Ho! Who goes?”

From their stations along Carvahall’s perimeter, the other watchmen congregated around their murdered compatriot, forming a huddle of shuttered lanterns. In hushed tones, Horst described the attack and Katrina’s plight. “Who will help us?” he asked. After a quick discussion, five men agreed to accompany them; the rest would remain to guard the breach in the wall and rouse the villagers.

Pushing himself off the house, Roran trotted to the head of the group as it slipped through the fields and down the valley toward the Ra’zac’s camp. Every step was agony, yet it did not matter; nothing mattered except Katrina. He stumbled once and Horst wordlessly caught him.

Half a mile from Carvahall, Ivor spotted a sentry on a hillock, which compelled them to make a wide detour. A few hundred yards beyond, the ruddy glow of torches became visible. Roran raised his good arm to slow their advance, then began to dodge and crawl through the tangled grass, startling a jackrabbit. The men followed Roran’s lead as he worked his way to the edge of a grove of cattails, where he stopped and parted the curtain of stalks to observe the thirteen remaining soldiers.

Where is she?

In contrast to when they had first arrived, the soldiers appeared sullen and haggard, their weapons nicked and their armor dented. Most of them wore bandages that were rusty with splotches of dried blood. The men were clumped together, facing the two Ra’zac—both of whom were now hooded—across a low fire.

One man was shouting: “. . . over half of us killed by a bunch of inbred, cockle-brained woodrats that can’t tell a pike from a poleax or find the point of a sword even if it’s lodged in their gut, becauseyou don’t have half the sense my banner boy does! I don’t care if Galbatorix himself licks your boots clean, we won’t do a thing until we have a new commander.” The men nodded. “One who’shuman. ”

“Really?” demanded the Ra’zac softly.

“We’ve had enough taking orders from hunchbacks like you, with all your clicking and teapot whistling—makes us sick! And I don’t know what you did with Sardson, but if you stay another night, we’ll put steel in you and find out if you bleed like us. You can leave the girl, though, she’ll be—”