The room was large, rectangular, and sparsely decorated: a too-small rug lay on the floor; a narrow, moth-eaten tapestry hung from the wall to his left; and a single lancet window pierced the wall to his right. Other than that, the room was devoid of ornamentation. Shoved into one corner was a long wooden table piled high with books, scrolls, and loose sheets of paper. A few massive chairs—upholstered with leather fastened with rows of tarnished brass tacks—stood scattered about the table, but neither Nasuada nor the dozen people who bustled around her deigned to use them. Jörmundur was not there, but Roran was familiar with several of the other warriors present: some he had fought under, others he had seen in action during battle or heard tell of from the men in his company.

“—and I don’t care if it does give him a ‘pain in his goiter’!” she exclaimed, and brought her right hand down flat on the table with a loud slap. “If we don’t have those horseshoes, and more besides, we might as well eat our horses for all the good they’ll do us. Do I make myself understood?”

As one, the men she addressed answered in the affirmative. They sounded somewhat intimidated, even abashed. Roran found it both strange and impressive that Nasuada, a woman, was able to command such respect from her warriors, a respect that he shared. She was one of the most determined and intelligent people he had ever known, and he was convinced that she would have succeeded no matter where she had been born.

“Now go,” said Nasuada, and as eight men filed past her, she motioned Roran to the table. He waited patiently as she dipped a quill in an inkpot and scribbled several lines onto a small scroll, then handed it to one of the pages and said, “For the dwarf Narheim. And this time, make sure you get his reply before you return, or I’ll send you over to the Urgals to fetch and clean for them.”

“Yes, my Lady!” said the boy, and sprinted off, half frightened out of his wits.

Nasuada began to leaf through a stack of papers in front of her. Without looking up, she said, “Are you well rested, Roran?”

He wondered why she was interested. “Not particularly.”

“That’s unfortunate. Were you up all night?”

“Part of it. Elain, the wife of our smith, gave birth yesterday, but—”

“Yes, I was informed. I take it that you didn’t stand vigil until Eragon healed the child?”

“No, I was too tired.”

“At least you had that much sense.” Reaching across the table, she picked up another sheet of paper and scrutinized it before adding it to her pile. In the same matter-of-fact tone she had been using, she said, “I have a mission for you, Stronghammer. Our forces at Aroughs have encountered stiff resistance—more than we anticipated. Captain Brigman has failed to resolve the situation, and we need those men back now. Therefore, I am sending you to Aroughs to replace Brigman. A horse is waiting for you by the south gate. You will ride fast as you can to Feinster, then from Feinster to Aroughs. Fresh horses will be waiting for you every ten miles between here and Feinster. Past there, you will have to find replacements on your own. I expect you to reach Aroughs within four days. Once you have caught up on your rest, that will leave you approximately … three days to end the siege.” She glanced up at him. “A week from today, I want our banner flying over Aroughs. I don’t care how you do it, Stronghammer; I just want it done. If you can’t, then I’ll have no choice but to send Eragon and Saphira to Aroughs, which will leave us barely able to defend ourselves should Murtagh or Galbatorix attack.”

And then Katrina would be in danger, thought Roran. An unpleasant feeling settled in his gut. Riding to Aroughs in only four days would be a miserable ordeal, especially given how sore and bruised he was. Having to also capture the city in so little time would be compounding misery with madness. All in all, the mission was about as appealing as wrestling a bear with his hands tied behind his back.

He scratched his cheek through his beard. “I don’t have any experience with sieges,” he said. “Leastways, not like this. There must be someone else in the Varden who would be better suited to the task. What about Martland Redbeard?”

Nasuada made a dismissive motion. “He can’t ride at full gallop with only one hand. You should have more confidence in yourself, Stronghammer. There are others among the Varden who know more about the arts of war, it’s true—men who have been in the field longer, men who received instruction from the finest warriors of their father’s generation—but when swords are drawn and battle is joined, it’s not knowledge or experience that matters most, it’s whether you can win, and that’s a trick you seem to have mastered. What’s more, you’re lucky.”

She put down the topmost papers and leaned on her arms. “You’ve proven that you can fight. You’ve proven that you can follow orders … when it pleases you, that is.” He resisted the urge to hunch his shoulders as he remembered the bitter, white-hot bite of the whip cutting into his back after he had been disciplined for defying Captain Edric’s orders. “You’ve proven that you can lead a raiding party. So, Roran Stronghammer, let us see if you are capable of something more, shall we?”

He swallowed. “Yes, my Lady.”

“Good. I am promoting you to captain for the time being. If you succeed in Aroughs, you may consider the title permanent, at least until you demonstrate that you are deserving of either greater or lesser honors.” Returning her gaze to the table, she began to sort through a morass of scrolls, evidently searching for something hidden underneath.