Inheritance
Page 42

Brigman’s bare upper lip curled. “No, I’m sure it wasn’t … sir.” He handed the parchment back. “The men are yours to command, Stronghammer. We were about to launch an attack on the western gate. Perhaps you would care to lead the charge?” The question was as pointed as a dagger.
The world seemed to tilt around Roran, and he gripped the saddle tighter. He was too tired to bandy words with anyone and do it well, and he knew it.
“Order them to stand down for the day,” he said.
“Have you lost your wits? How else do you expect us to capture the city? It took us all morning to prepare the attack, and I’m not going to sit here twiddling my thumbs while you catch up on your sleep. Nasuada expects us to end the siege within a few days, and by Angvard, I’ll see it done!”
In a voice pitched so low that only Brigman could hear, Roran growled, “You’ll tell the men to stand down, or I’ll have you strung up by your ankles and whipped for breaking orders. I’m not about to approve any sort of attack until I’ve had a chance to rest and look at the situation.”
“You’re a fool, you are. That would—”
“If you can’t hold your tongue and do your duty, I’ll thrash you myself—right here and now.”
Brigman’s nostrils flared. “In your state? You wouldn’t stand a chance.”
“You’re wrong,” said Roran. And he meant it. He was not sure how he might beat Brigman right then, but he knew in the deepest fibers of his being that he could.
Brigman seemed to struggle with himself. “Fine,” he spat. “It wouldn’t be good for the men to see us sprawling in the dirt anyway. We’ll stay where we are, if that’s what you want, but I won’t be held accountable for the waste of time. Be it on your head, not mine.”
“As it always is,” said Roran, his throat tight with pain as he swung down from the mare. “Just as you’re responsible for the mess you’ve made of this siege.”
Brigman’s brow darkened, and Roran saw the man’s dislike of him curdle and turn to hate. He wished that he had chosen a more diplomatic response.
“Your tent is this way.”
It was still morning when Roran woke.
A soft light diffused through the tent, lifting his spirits. For a moment, he thought he had only fallen asleep for a few minutes. Then he realized he felt too bright and alert for that to be the case.
He cursed quietly to himself, angry that he had allowed an entire day to slip through his fingers.
A thin blanket covered him, mostly unneeded in the balmy southern weather, especially since he was wearing his boots and clothes underneath. He pulled it off, then tried to sit upright.
A choked groan escaped him as his entire body seemed to stretch and tear. He fell back and lay gasping at the fabric above. The initial shock soon subsided, but it left behind a multitude of throbbing aches—some worse than others.
It took him several minutes to gather his strength. With a massive effort, he rolled onto his side and swung his legs over the edge of the cot. He stopped to catch his breath before attempting the seemingly impossible task of standing.
Once he was on his feet, he smiled sourly. It was going to be an interesting day.
The others were already up and waiting for him when he made his way out of the tent. They looked worn and haggard; their movements were as stiff as his own. After exchanging greetings, Roran motioned toward the bandage on Delwin’s forearm, where a tavern keeper had cut him with a paring knife. “Has the pain gone down?”
Delwin shrugged. “It’s not so bad. I can fight if need be.”
“Good.”
“What do you intend to do first?” Carn asked.
Roran eyed the rising sun, calculating how much time remained until noon. “Take a walk,” he said.
Starting from the center of the camp, Roran led his companions up and down each row of tents, inspecting the condition of the troops as well as the state of their equipment. Occasionally, he stopped to question a warrior before moving on. For the most part, the men were tired and disheartened, although he noticed their mood seemed to improve when they caught sight of him.
Roran’s tour ended at the southern edge of the camp, as he had planned. There he and the others stopped to gaze at the imposing edifice that was Aroughs.
The city had been built in two tiers. The first was low and spread out and contained the majority of buildings, while the second, smaller tier occupied the top of a long, gentle rise, which was the tallest point for miles around. A wall encircled both levels of the city. Five gates were visible within the outer wall: two of them opened to roads that entered the city—one from the north and one from the east—and the other three sat astride canals that flowed southward, into the city. On the other side of Aroughs lay the restless sea, where the canals presumably emptied.
At least they don’t have a moat, he thought.
The north-facing gate was scratched and scarred from a battering ram, and the ground in front of it was torn up with what Roran recognized as the tracks of battle. Three catapults, four ballistae of the sort he had knowledge of from his time on the Dragon Wing, and two ramshackle siege towers were arrayed before the outer wall. A handful of men hunkered next to the machines of war, smoking pipes and playing dice on patches of leather. The machines appeared pitifully inadequate compared with the monolithic mass of the city.
The low, flat land surrounding Aroughs sloped downward toward the sea. Hundreds of farms dotted the green plain, each marked by a wooden fence and at least one thatched hut. Sumptuous estates stood here and there: sprawling stone manors protected by their own high walls and, Roran assumed, by their own guards. No doubt they belonged to the nobles of Aroughs, and perhaps certain welloff merchants.