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An addendum to “The Battle for Illeria” in Dormir abr Wyrda, Special Edition. This edition chronicles the Great War between the Varden and Galbatorix’s Empire with personal accounts from many key players in key battles, as well as accounts from common foot soldiers and civilians. With this Edition, we hope to provide insight into the movements and motivations of the two warring sides, so that we might understand the true impact of wars such as these - and to avoid such precarious situations in the future.

The morning started off crisp and chilly. As he arranged his leather and plate armor, Elain came to him. She adjusted some of the leather straps that were more difficult for him to reach.

Horst looked into her eyes. She smiled, but she couldn’t hide the worried look in her eyes. The red rims around her eyes betrayed that she had been crying. Horst wiped away a stray tear as she looked up at him.

“If things look to be going badly -“, Horst started.

Elain cut him off, “No, I won’t allow myself to think of it. Or speak of it.”

Horst continued anyway, “If things are going badly. Please, take Hope. If you can find our sons, take them too. Go south, then go to the Beors, and then flee even farther East. Find a place where he could never find you. Please Elain. Promise me.”

Elain looked up at him as he spoke, tears welling in her eyes, “I will go, but only for Hope. If she was not here I would not move from this spot until Galbatorix was brought low.”

“I know. I know,” Horst said kissing her softly one last time. “I will return to you, my dearest.”

He took a step away from her and took in her face again. The gentle lines that were just beginning to deepen around her eyes. Her cheeks, still as graceful as the day he first met her. Her hair, graying at the temples and flowing down behind her shoulders. She smiled at him.

Hope started crying, and Elain turned and bustled back into their tent.

——

Horst walked up to Roran, who looked like he had not slept either.

“What can I do?” Horst asked.

“Can you get the men settled in formation and send Nar Garzhvog and one of the elves to me so I can explain our strategy?” Roran asked.

Horst nodded. His gut clenched every time he looked at the walls. Those walls looked impregnable. However, he knew that as Roran’s second in command, he needed to project an air of calm certainty. So, he did his best to avoid looking at the wall as he arranged the warriors in a way that would keep as many of them alive as possible. He saw Baldor and Albriech among the rest of the men from Carvahall. Horst resisted the urge to put them near the center of the formation where they would be less likely to get hurt.

There are no certainties in a battle like this. Horst thought.

——-

After they made it up over the walls, Horst fell in beside Roran. Roran was muttering under his breath.

Horst caught snippets of what Roran was saying, “-was too easy… Blast it!… tricky one.”

“What?” asked Albriech, who was behind Horst.

“I said, Galbatorix wouldn’t let them give up this easily,” Roran replied. Roran shouted to the rest of the battalion, “Pin back your ears and look sharp! Galbatorix has a surprise or two in store for us, I wager. We won’t let ourselves get caught unawares though, now will we?”

“Stronghammer!” Came the resounding response.

Horst’s yell got stuck in his throat.

They marched through the streets of Uru’baen. Roran was to his right and Delwin was on the other side of Roran. Horst felt the men, Urgals, and elves beside him shuffling and twitching anytime a particularly loud or sharp noise cut through the mostly silent streets.

Then they heard it. That horn. It blew for more than a minute. Dread crawled down Horst’s spine.

But Roran was shouting. He yelled and yelled for his men to extricate themselves from the main body of the Varden. His voice cracked once, and Horst knew that he was desperate to pull his men out of what would be a slaughter.

The batallion wedged itself amongst side streets and against houses. As Horst sheltered in a corner with Baldor, Albriech, Roran, and Nar Garzvog, Horst was secretly relieved. He was no coward, but the thought of throwing himself headlong into battle without a shred of an advantage made his blood turn to ice.

That dread horn sounded again - shorter this time. Then came the sharp, rhythmic pounding that could only be described as terror inducing. Horst felt himself go rigid. His heart was pounding in his ears. He barely heard what Roran was saying.

“-to attack them from the side,” Roran finished to Garzvog. Horst nodded, and followed Roran to the front of the formation.

“Lord Barst! Lord Barst! Lord Barst!” The echoes of the Empire’s warriors crackled through the still-empty streets. The Varden responded with calls for Eragon, Saphira, and the Riders.

The uproar that followed was a sound that Horst was well familiar with at this point. He heard the gutteral screams of dying men. And behind those screams, Horst heard the unceasing laughter that meant their foes felt no pain.

That laughter haunted his dreams. It haunted his waking moments. Horst knew in that moment that this day was going to go badly.

But he had to keep moving. Roran’s batallion worked their way back past to the main body of Galbatorix’s army.

They turned, following Roran.

They formed a battering ram with their shields.

And then they were fighting. Spears came at him and they broke on his shield. He had never before been as grateful for the long years of strengthening his shoulders at the forge. He shoved forward. He stabbed and blocked.

A searing pain sliced through his mid thigh, and he stumbled for a moment. However, the strength of those around him buoyed him up until he regained his balance. He stabbed and stabbed and stabbed. And still there were more soldiers.

Horst’s vision became spotted and tunneled. There was nothing but the next crimson body - the next fight.

Finally, the group of soldiers broke and fled down side streets. They followed to where the rear of Galbatorix’s army was spread in the main square. Horst’s vision was already spotty. He trailed behind Roran, checking behind him that the warriors of Carvahall were all still there.

As they tramped down a side street, they came to the aid of a group of elves and werecats who were being pressured and harried by a group of the Empire’s soldiers.

Delwin went down next to Roran. Horst felt hopelessness threaten to overwhelm him. He couldn’t lose more of his home. As Delwin fell back to nurse his wound, Horst stepped up next to Roran.

A whistling sound had Horst leaping sideways. Shrapnel tore at his back and neck.

Get up get up get up! he thought. His limbs wouldn’t move. Am I paralyzed? How will I provide for Hope and Elain? Will I be able to survive?

And then air filled his lungs again and he managed to roll over. As Horst got to his feet, he saw the mangled body of Delwin. The stone had killed him. Sorrow and fear threatened to overwhelm him. Tears rolled down his face as he stared in shock for a moment. Then he heard a clatter farther down the street.

Where’s Roran? Horst thought, looking around. He couldn’t see him. And then he realized that without Roran it was his responsibility to regroup the men in order to continue fighting.

“To me!” Horst shouted, picking Albriech up off the ground. “To me!” Horst shouted again as the warriors of Roran’s battalion clustered around him.

Together they marched on the rest of the Empire’s soldiers who were frantically regrouping further down the street. Horst and his men fell upon those soldiers and the fighting restarted in earnest.

As they were fighting, Roran stumbled out from between some buildings, holding only a spear. Horst and the other men could not contain their joy. They shouted and cheered as Roran rejoined their ranks and took up his place beside the men of Carvahall.

They continued fighting along the outer wall of the city for what felt like an eternity, but was probably only about fifteen minutes. Eventually, the continuous waves of soldiers pulled Roran and Horst’s battalion back among the cramped streets. Horst’s only instinct was to remain close to Roran, and it seemed like most of the fighters from Carvahall had the same instinct as Horst. Men and Urgals from their battalion were strewn about the surrounding area fighting on their own or in small groups.

Horst could tell that Roran was frustrated. No matter how many soldiers they killed, there was always another group, another company. Even just one of the laughing dead stumbling out from between the cramped houses was enough to nearly set everyone off.

Horst’s nerves were frayed to their very ends. Every group of the Empire’s soldiers left him a little bit more brittle, a little closer to giving up. But his daughter needed a father, and so he persevered.

A man with bright blond hair fell from a slice across the throat. His compatriot with dark skin, eyes, and hair swiped at Horst with a sword, trying to step inside his guard. Horst gored the man through his knee and when he stumbled, stabbed him through an eye.

He continued like this until his vision was spotting again. He was keeping his shield up not because he was lifting it, but because it felt like his arm and shoulder had locked into place. He didn’t know if he could lower his shield if he tried.

Then came the scream.

He knew that voice. He had known that voice its entire life. He had heard that voice when it came out of the womb crying and fighting into the world. He had heard that scream when it fell off of their old gelding and broken its shoulder. He had heard the tears of that voice when their home was destroyed in Carvahall.

He turned and saw Baldor.

He saw the bleeding stump of his hand.

He saw the soldier rearing back for another blow.

Horst heard himself yell and his vision tunneled again until the next thing he saw was an eviscerated body on the ground in front of him.

Roran tore off part of his tunic and gave it to
Baldor to wrap around his arm. Roran called over the herbalist, Angela. They exchanged a few terse words. Roran couldn’t take Baldor out of the city. Horst knew that much.

“If you won’t take him, I will!” Horst bellowed.

“No, we need you,” Roran responded. He called over two warriors: the cobbler from Carvahall, Loring and an Urgal. Roran had to argue with the Urgal to get him to take Baldor, but in the end, both of them acquiesced.

Horst watched his youngest son depart. The tears were flowing down his face again. There was a ringing in his ears. Worry clenched at his gut. How will he survive without a hand? Carvahall can’t have a beggar. I won’t be around forever.

A sharp clang next to Horst’s ear dispelled the ringing in his ears, and he once again fell into the now-familiar rhythm of kill or be killed.

——-

As he watched Roran grapple with Barst, Horst blocked a crimson-clad warrior’s spear with his shield.

“No!” Horst shouted as he watched Barst envelope Roran in a deadly embrace. The pair wrestled on the ground.

Even from across the square, Horst heard a tinkle. It sounded like the time Albriech had dropped one of Elaine’s china on the floor of their home in Carvahall.

Then light began streaming from the sides of Barst’s breastplate. Horst watched Roran stumble away. He lost sight of Roran as Barst was eviscerated in a blast of magical light. Horst stumbled to a stop as his vision went white.

When his vision cleared, he looked to where Roran was lying on the ground.

No no no! Not Roran too.

*An image of Baldor’s wrist cut at the stump, bleeding*

First Baldor and now Roran.

Horst began sprinting towards where Roran lay on the ground, barely moving.

He can’t be dead he can’t be dead he can’t be dead. I can’t lose anymore in this war.

Horst barely noticed several elves and the dwarf king, Orik, sprinting towards Roran.

Roran’s face was puffy, cut, and bruised. One of his eyes was swollen halfway shut. His eyes were open, unfocused. Unblinking. Horst had seen that look in now too many soldier’s eyes.

Horst slid to a stop and dropped onto his knees next to Roran’s unmoving frame. Horst tapped the side of Roran’s face, and Roran’s eyes rolled open and Roran groaned.

As Roran slipped back into unconsciousness, Horst said, “Blast it, Roran! If you fall asleep now you might not wake up!”

Roran slipped away. Horst kept tapping Roran’s face and listening for breaths. Hot tears fell as he shook Roran gently.

“No no no,” he muttered. More tears splattered against Roran’s dented breastplate. He watched as his tears mixed with blood (whose, he did not know). Distantly, he noticed swirls within the liquid as the blood and tears mixed. He heard a ringing in his ears as he clung to Roran’s unmoving form.

Firm yet gentle hands pulled him off of Roran. He struggled, desperate to keep getting Roran to wake up.

He has to wake up, he has to! Horst could barely hear past the ringing in his ears.

“No!” Horst screamed as an elf, stronger than she should have been, pulled him away from Roran. He fought and he kicked as he watched four elves pick Roran up on a litter and carry him out of the city, fast as a cantering horse.

The elf woman finally let him go, saying, “We will be able to heal him outside the walls. But they must move swiftly.”

He watched in dismay as Roran was carried away.

——

Without their commander, the Empire’s soldiers quickly fell into disarray. Many surrendered outright. Many banded together within their companies and fought the losing battle of trying to maintain control over Uru’baen.

Once the central square fell into disarray, Horst began regathering the warriors of Roran’s battalion, now his.

“Gedric! Birgid!” he called. He waved at them, and they brought the rest of the battalion over to him.

As the warriors gathered around him, he sorted his emotions into neat boxes. He nailed shut the box worried about Roran, Baldor, Elain, and Hope. He locked the chest of fear that set his heart racing. He buried the bloody bag full of revulsion for killing other men, even if they were the Laughing Dead. The only emotion Horst allowed into his mind and onto his face was a calm determination. There was a job to do.

“Is Roran-,” Gedric began to ask.

“The elves are trying to heal him outside the city right now,” Horst cut him off. Raising his voice so everyone could hear him, he called, “Right, soldiers! Now that Roran has killed that right bastard, it’s up to us to secure this blasted city. First we’re going to help clear and secure this square.”

He split the warriors into two groups, one headed by the Urgal, Nar Garzvog, and the other led by him. He instructed Garzvog to take his warriors, which included the larger bulk of Urgals, and work their way down one of the major avenues back towards the main square. He took his squad and worked down an adjacent street. Once he laid out the plan, the groups separated.

As they marched up the street, he left small bands of warriors to guard the way back to the main square.

“What do you think is happening to Eragon?” Birgid asked. “Will they slay the king?”

“I think it’s a good sign that Galbatorix hasn’t released Shruiken onto the streets of Uru’baen,” Horst replied with a touch of grim sarcasm. “We can only hope it stays that way.”

———-

Some time later, a runner with bright hair and ruddy cheeks ran up to Horst.

“Are you Horst Ostrecson?” the young archer asked.

“Aye,” Horst replied, trying to decide if it was worth it to pursue the pair of Galbatorix’s soldiers that just fled down a side street towards the outer wall of the city.

“A message from Roran Stronghammer, sir,” the young man announced.

“Roran?” Horst exclaimed with incredulity.

“Aye,” the messenger replied. “He wants to know your position, activity, and general standing , sir. What may I report to him?”

Horst told the ruddy faced man how he’d taken over Roran’s command, how they’d cleared several streets of the empire’s soldiers, that they’d lost about a dozen men, and that Horst hoped Roran was doing okay. Then he send the man away.

He surveyed the narrow street that a hundred of his warriors were arrayed down.

What next? He wondered. If we leave, a larger force could overtake our position easily. What’s the best way to maintain this while expanding our influence?

What happens if Eragon doesn’t succeed? Then it’s a moot point.

Horst caught himself spiraling down thoughts of defeat and desperation. He chided himself mentally, thought some more, then made a decision.

He sent a runner to Nar Garzhvog outlining his plan for securing the area. Garzhvog sent the runner back with a message saying that it was a good plan.

Horst’s plan was simple. He would have men guard all the entrances to the main roads, and then clear the entire street, its side streets, and its alleyways of soldiers. Once that was done, he would post his own warriors at each entrance to the street. Then they would use the small connecting streets and alleyways to move between each major street, and the process would repeat.

Horst sent ten men down to the end of the street to block and patrol the area around the end of the street. The next twenty warriors he sent systematically down each book and cranny of the street. They found and captured a total of six soldiers that they had missed the first time. Only one of the Varden’s warriors received a wound that rendered him unable to continue fighting.

——

Horst’s battalion had completed this process for approximately a third of the streets surrounding the main square when they heard a colossal roar from the citadel.

Horst froze. He felt like a deer in an unfamiliar thicket when the howl of a wolf sounded nearby. He wanted to bolt, to run. Terror coursed through his veins as the final notes of that roar echoed through the streets. He nearly dropped his spear, because his hands were shaking so badly.

In his mind’s eye, Horst could see the blaze of fire that that roar had lit the night sky only the night before. At the cessation of the roar came a loud thud.

Everything was silent.

A cloud broke overhead and a ray of sunlight illuminated the dust in the air. Horst stared at it mesmerized. The dust swirled in intricate patterns that shifted with the gentle flow of the wind. Then, from the direction of the citadel, came a whoosh of wind that disrupted the dust. And that was all the warning he had before a thunderclap and darkness.

——

Horst awoke on a stretcher in the Varden’s camp far outside Uru’baen. Elain was fussing over him.

“Oh! You’re awake!” She exclaimed.

Horst sat up gingerly. He felt like six Kull had spent an hour wrestling on top of his back. As she turned back around to do some other task, he gently grabbed her hand.

“Yes?” She asked.

He pulled her into a gentle kiss. Horst did not care in that moment if Galbatorix was winging his way to their camp at that very moment. Elain was there. All was right in the world.