The pebble always remained motionless.

He snorted and tossed it by the side of the road.

His wife and unborn child were with the Varden, and yet there was nothing he could do to kill either Murtagh or Galbatorix. He clenched his fists and imagined breaking things. Bones, mostly.

Maybe we should flee. It was the first time the thought had occurred to him. He knew there were lands to the east beyond Galbatorix’s reach—fertile plains where none but nomads lived. If the other villagers came with him and Katrina, they could start anew, free of the Empire and Galbatorix. The idea made him sick to consider, however. He would be abandoning Eragon, his men, and the land that he called home. No. I won’t allow our child to be born into a world where Galbatorix still holds sway. Better to die than to live in fear.

Of course, that still did not solve the problem of how to capture Urû’baen. Always before, there had been a weakness he could exploit. In Carvahall, it had been the Ra’zac’s failure to understand that the villagers would fight. When he wrestled the Urgal Yarbog, it had been the creature’s horns. In Aroughs, it had been the canals. But here at Urû’baen, he saw no weaknesses, no place where he could turn his opponents’ strength against them.

If we had the supplies, I would wait and starve them out. That would be the best way. Anything else is madness. But as he knew, war was a catalog of madness.

Magic is the only way, he finally concluded. Magic and Saphira. If we can kill Murtagh, then either she or the elves will have to help us past the walls.

He scowled, a sour taste in his mouth, and quickened his stride. The faster they made camp, the better. His feet were sore from walking, and if he was going to die in a senseless charge, then at least he wanted a hot meal and a good night’s sleep beforehand.

The Varden set up their tents a mile from Urû’baen, by a small stream that fed the Ramr River. Then the men, dwarves, and Urgals began constructing defenses, a process that would continue until night and then resume in the morning. In fact, as long as they stayed in one location, they would continue to work on reinforcing their perimeter. The warriors detested the labor, but it kept them busy and, moreover, it might save their lives.

Everyone thought the orders came from the shadow-Eragon. Roran knew they actually came from Jörmundur. He had come to respect the older warrior since Nasuada’s abduction and Eragon’s departure. Jörmundur had been fighting the Empire nearly his whole life, and he had a deep understanding of tactics and logistics. He and Roran got along well; they were both men of steel, not magic.

And then there was King Orrin, with whom—after the initial defenses had been established—Roran found himself arguing. Orrin never failed to irritate him; if anyone was going to get them killed, it was him. Roran knew that offending a king was not the healthiest thing to do, but the fool wanted to send a messenger to the front gates of Urû’baen and issue a formal challenge, the way they had at Dras-Leona and Belatona.

“Do you want to provoke Galbatorix?” Roran growled. “If we do that, he might respond!”

“Well, of course,” said King Orrin, drawing himself upright. “It’s only proper that we announce our intentions and provide him with the opportunity to parley for peace.”

Roran stared; then he turned away in disgust and said to Jörmundur, “Can’t you make him see reason?”

The three of them were gathered in Orrin’s pavilion, where the king had summoned them.

“Your Majesty,” said Jörmundur, “Roran is right. It would be best to wait to contact the Empire.”

“But they can see us,” protested Orrin. “We’re camped right outside their walls. It would be … rude not to send an envoy to state our position. You are both commoners; I would not expect you to understand. Royalty demands certain courtesies, even if we are at war.”

An urge to strike the king swept through Roran. “Are you so puffed up as to believe Galbatorix considers you an equal? Bah! We’re insects to him. He cares nothing for your courtesy. You forget, Galbatorix was a commoner like us before he overthrew the Riders. His ways are not your ways. There is no one like him in the world, and you think to predict him? You think to placate him? Bah!”

Orrin’s face colored, and he threw aside his goblet of wine, dashing it against the rug upon the ground. “You go too far, Stronghammer. No man has the right to insult me like that.”

“I have the right to do whatever I want,” growled Roran. “I’m not one of your subjects. I don’t answer to you. I’m a free man, and I’ll insult anyone I choose, whenever I choose, however I choose—even you. It would be a mistake to send that messenger, and I—”

There was a screech of sliding steel as King Orrin tore his sword from its scabbard. He did not catch Roran entirely unawares; Roran already had his hand on his hammer, and as he heard the sound, he yanked the weapon from his belt.

The king’s blade was a silver blur in the dim light of the tent. Roran saw where Orrin was going to strike and stepped out of the way. Then he rapped the flat of the king’s sword, causing it to flex and ring and leap out of Orrin’s hand.

The jeweled weapon fell onto the rug, the blade quivering.

“Sire,” cried one of the guards outside. “Are you all right?”

“I just dropped my shield,” replied Jörmundur. “There’s no need for concern.”

“Sir, yes sir.”