WOUNDS OF THE PAST
For three and a half days, the citizens of Carvahall discussed the latest attack, the tragedy of young Elmund’s death, and what could possibly be done to escape their thrice-blasted situation. The debate raged with bitter fury through every room of every home. In the space of a word, friends turned against friends, husbands against wives, children against parents, only to reconcile moments later in their frantic attempt to discover a means of survival.
Some said that since Carvahall was doomed anyway, they might as well kill the Ra’zac and remaining soldiers so as to at least have their vengeance. Others said that if Carvahall really was doomed, then the only logical course was to surrender and trust themselves to the king’s mercy, even if it did mean torture and death for Roran and enslavement for everyone else. And still others sided with neither opinion, but rather descended into a sullen black anger directed at everyone who had brought about this calamity. Many did their best to hide their panic in the depths of a tankard.
The Ra’zac themselves had apparently realized that with eleven soldiers dead they no longer had a large enough force to attack Carvahall, and thus had retreated farther down the road, where they were content to post sentinels across Palancar Valley and wait. “Wait for flea-bitten troops from Ceunon or Gil’ead, if you ask me,” Loring said at one meeting. Roran listened to that and more, kept his own council, and silently judged the various schemes. They all seemed dangerously risky.
Roran still had not told Sloan that he and Katrina were engaged. He knew it was foolish to wait, but he feared how the butcher would react when he learned that Roran and Katrina had flouted tradition and, in doing so, undermined Sloan’s authority. Besides, there was plenty of work to divert Roran’s attention; he convinced himself that strengthening the fortifications around Carvahall was his most important task at the moment.
Getting people to help was easier than Roran anticipated. After the last fight, the villagers were more apt to listen and to obey him — that is, those who did not blame him for causing their predicament. He was mystified by his new authority, until he realized that it was the result of the awe, respect, and perhaps even fear his kills had elicited. They called him Stronghammer. Roran Stronghammer.
The name pleased him.
As night engulfed the valley, Roran leaned against a corner of Horst’s dining room, his eyes closed. Conversation flowed from the men and women seated around the candlelit table. Kiselt was in the middle of explaining the state of Carvahall’s supplies. “We won’t starve,” he concluded, “but if we can’t tend to our fields and our flocks soon, we might as well cut our own throats before next winter. It would be a kinder fate.”
Horst scowled. “Dog tripe!”
“Dog tripe or not,” said Gertrude, “I doubt we’ll have a chance to find out. We outnumbered the soldiers ten to one when they arrived. They lost eleven men; we lost twelve, and I’m caring for another nine wounded. What happens, Horst, when they outnumber
“We will give the bards a reason to remember our names,” retorted the smith. Gertrude shook her head sadly.
Loring banged a fist on the table. “And I say it’s our turn to strike, before we
Roran shifted restlessly. He had heard all this before, and like before, Loring’s proposal ignited an argument that consumed the group. After an hour, the debate still showed no sign of being resolved, nor had any new ideas been presented, except for Thane’s suggestion that Gedric should go tan his own hide, which nearly resulted in a fistfight.
Finally, when the conversation lulled, Roran limped to the table as quickly as his injured calf would allow. “I have something to say.” For him it was the equivalent of stepping on a long thorn and then yanking it out without stopping to consider the pain; it had to be done, and the faster the better.
All eyes — hard, soft, angry, kind, indifferent, and curious — turned to him, and Roran took a deep breath. “Indecision will kill us just as surely as a sword or an arrow.” Orval rolled his eyes, but the rest still listened. “I don’t know if we should attack or flee—”
“Where?” snorted Kiselt.
“— but I do know one thing: our children, our mothers, and our infirm must be protected from danger. The Ra’zac have barred us from Cawley and the other farms down the valley. So what? We know this land better than any in Alagaesia, and there is a place... there is a place where our loved ones will be safe: the Spine.”
Roran winced as a barrage of outraged voices assaulted him. Sloan was the loudest, shouting, “I’ll be hanged before I set foot in those cursed mountains!”
“Roran,” said Horst, overriding the commotion. “You of all people should know that the Spine is too dangerous — it’s where Eragon found the stone that brought the Ra’zac! The mountains are cold, and filled with wolves, bears, and other monsters. Why even mention them?”
“That was a long time ago,” said Morn doubtfully.
Roran jumped on his statement. “And the stories have grown all the more frightening in the telling! A trail already exists to the top of Igualda Falls. All we have to do is send the children and others up there. They’ll only be on the fringe of the mountains, but they’ll still be safe. If Carvahall is taken, they can wait until the soldiers leave, then find refuge in Therinsford.”
“It is too dangerous,” growled Sloan. The butcher gripped the edge of the table so hard that the tips of his fingers turned white. “The cold, the beasts. No sane man would send his family among those.”
“But...” Roran faltered, put off-balance by Sloan’s response. Though he knew the butcher hated the Spine more than most — because his wife had plummeted to her death from the cliffs beside Igualda Falls — he had hoped that Sloan’s rabid desire to protect Katrina would be strong enough to overcome his aversion. Roran now understood he would have to win over Sloan just like everyone else. Adopting a placating tone, Roran said, “It’s not that bad. The snow is already melting off the peaks. It’s no colder in the Spine than it was down here a few months ago. And I doubt that wolves or bears would bother such a large group.”
Sloan grimaced, twisting his lips up over his teeth, and shook his head. “You will find nothing but death in the Spine.”
The others seemed to agree, which only strengthened Roran’s determination, for he was convinced that Katrina would die unless he could sway them. He scanned the long oval of faces, searching for a sympathetic expression. “Delwin, I know it’s cruel of me to say it, but if Elmund hadn’t been in Carvahall, he would still be alive. Surely you must agree that this is the right thing to do! You have an opportunity to save other parents from your suffering.”
No one responded. “And Birgit!” Roran dragged himself toward her, clutching the backs of chairs to keep himself from falling. “Do you want Nolfavrell to share his father’s fate? He has to leave. Can’t you see, that is the only way he’ll be safe... ” Though Roran did his best to fight it, he could feel tears flood his eyes. “It’s for the children!” he shouted angrily.
The room was silent as Roran stared at the wood beneath his hands, struggling to control himself. Delwin was the first to stir. “I will never leave Carvahall so long as my son’s killers remain here. However,” he paused, then continued with painful slowness, “I cannot deny the truth of your words; the children must be protected.”
“As I said from the beginning,” declared Tara.
Then Baldor spoke: “Roran is right. We can’t allow ourselves to be blinded by fear. Most of us have climbed to the top of the falls at one time or another. It’s safe enough.”
“I too,” Birgit finally added, “must agree.”
Horst nodded. “I would rather not do it, but considering the circumstances... I don’t think we have any other choice.” After a minute, the various men and women began to reluctantly acquiesce to the proposal.
“Nonsense!” exploded Sloan. He stood and stabbed an accusing finger at Roran. “How will they get enough food to wait for weeks on end? They can’t carry it. How will they stay warm? If they light fires, they’ll be seen! How, how, how? If they don’t starve, they’ll freeze. If they don’t freeze, they’ll be eaten. If they’re not eaten... Who knows? They may fall!”
