A lone, haggard human dragged his feet up a hill, squinting at the sun heading for the horizon.

Five hours till sunset. I won't be able to stay long. He sighed, continuing past long grass and a series of elms.
His first visit since he and seven others had salvaged everything they could from the wreckage of the house and ashes of the barn.

He stood, rooted in place, shaking every once in a while from memories as he studied the fields of dandelions, wild mustard, grass, beets and turnips that had once been a farm. He was filled with grief.

Groaning, he turned away and headed back to the road, quickly becoming lost in thought. He blamed his cousin, the boy named Eragon, for the destruction and death of his father, Garrow. Because Eragon had brought a blue stone out of the Spine, attracting a dangerous pair of individuals, the bastards destroying everything he treasured and murdering his father.

That wasn't even what ticked him off.
It was the fact that Eragon had simply left. Taking off after the old, scatterbrained storyteller named Brom on some ridiculous journey, Brom having left Gertrude the healer in town a letter that just sounded so preposterous.

And then, there was the matter of rebuilding that farm so he could marry whom he loved. A butcher's daughter named Katrina. He had never been on best terms with her father, Sloan. Rebuilding his barn and home was going to be difficult, most certainly, but he was going to do it.

He arrived at a small village in the evening, a grouping of structures with clotheslines strung between them, fields of wheat surrounding them. A great waterfall cascaded down behind it in the distance, providing a beautiful backdrop to the ordinary village.

Singling out a house on a hill, he sauntered inside the already open door, entering the kitchen. Horst, his heavily pregnant wife Elain, and two sons by the names of Albriech and Baldor noticed his entrance.
"What's going on?" The guest asked.
Elain glanced at her husband before getting up. "Here, let me get you something to eat." She placed cold stew and bread at the table and stared the newcomer in the eyes.
"How was it?"

He shrugged. "All the wood was either burnt or rotting- nothing worth using. The well was still intact, and that's something to be grateful for, I suppose. I'll have to cut timber for the house as soon as possible if I'm going to have a roof over my head by planting season. Now tell me, what's happened?"
"Ha! There's been quite a row, there has." Horst began. "Thane is missing a scythe and he thinks Albriech took it."
Said person snorted. "He probably dropped it in the grass and forgot where he left it."
His father smiled. "Probably."

The newcomer bit into his bread. "It doesn't make much sense, accusing you." He told Albriech. "If you needed a scythe, you could just forge one."
"I know." He plopped into a chair. "But instead of looking for his, he starts grousing that he saw someone leaving his field and that it looked a bit like me… and since no one else looks like me, I must have stolen the scythe."

Which was true. Albriech was a large man with blonde hair, a trait being rare in Carvahall, this village. He got it from his mother.
"I'm sure it'll turn up." The other, quieter son spoke up. "Try not to get too angry over it in the meantime."
Albriech scoffed. "Easy for you to say."
The guest, Roran, finished the bread and started on the stew, addressing Horst. "Do you need me for anything tomorrow?"
"Not especially. I'll just be working on Quimby's wagon. The blasted frame still won't sit square."
"Good. Then I'll take the day and go hunting. There are a few deer farther down the valley that don't look too scrawny. Their ribs aren't showing, at least."
Baldor was suddenly excited. "Do you want some company?"
"Sure. We can leave at dawn."
Roran then stood, cleaning off his face and hands before leaving and heading for the center of town.

At the halfway point, he paused at the noise of excited voices outside a place called the Seven Sheaves. Now curious, he strolled to the tavern, finding a middle-aged trapper waving wildly as he started talking.

"So when I arrived at Therinsford, I went to this man, Neil. Good, honest man; I help in his fields during the spring and summer."
Roran nodded,the story held up so far. This sounded typical of trappers.

"After a few steins of ale- to lubricate my speaking, you understand, after 'alf year and nary a word uttered, except perhaps for blaspheming the world and all beyond when losing a bear-biter- I come to Neil, the froth still fresh on my beard, and start exchanging gossip. As our transaction proceeds, I ask him all gregarious-like, what news of the Empire or the king- may he rot with gangrene and trench-mouth. Was anyone born or died or banished that I know of? Neil leaned forward, going all serious 'bout the mouth, and said that the word is going around, there is, from Dras-Leona and Gil'ead of strange happenings here, there, and everywhere in Alagaësia. The Urgals have fair disappeared from civilized lands, and good riddance, but not one man can tell why or where. 'Alf the trade in the Empire has dried up as a result of raids and attacks and, from what I've heard, it isn't the work of mere brigands, for the attacks are too widespread, too calculated. No goods are stolen, only burned or soiled. But that's not the end of it, oh no, not by the tip of your blessed grandmother's whiskers."

He shook his head before downing some more from his wineskin.
"There be mutterings of a Shade haunting the northern territories. He's been seen along the edge of Du Weldenvarden and near Gil'ead. They say his teeth are filed to points, his eyes are as red as wine, and his hair is as red as the blood he drinks. Worse, something seems to have gotten our fine, mad monarch's dander up, so it has. Five days past, a juggler from the south stopped in Therinsford on his lonesome way to Ceunon, and he said that troops have been moving and gathering, though for what was beyond him."

The trapper shrugged carelessly. "As my pap taught me when I was a suckling babe, where there's smoke, there's fire. Perhaps it's the Varden. They've caused old Iron Bones enough pain in the arse over the years. Or perhaps Galbatorix finally decided he's had enough of tolerating Surda. At least he knows where to find it, unlike those rebels. He'll crush Surda like a bear crushes an ant, he will."

Roran blinked as he thought about this in the ensuing uproar. The stories of the Shade sounded ridiculous, though the rest sounded quite real and concerning. If there was going to be war, it would make small town's live all the more difficult with increasing taxes and forced enlistment in with the army.

The trapper snorted. "What's more, there have even been tales of…" He paused, smirking. "Strange creatures with magic akin to the elves, made not of flesh but something else. Where they came from is unknown, just as much as what they want. Perhaps they're here to wipe us mankind off of Alagaësia. Mayhaps they come from across the sea! Or the lands beyond to the east. I've heard tell that they are like spirits given form, with nary a hair upon them or skin at all, but simply walking bone. They have glowing eyes and speed almost greater than even a horse! Let's pray to the gods they are not real or against us, eh?"

With that disturbing information, the trapper tapped his nose. "Oh, and there's tales of a new Rider in Alagaësia!" He burst into laughter. Those stories were always wishful thinking. Roran turned to leave, but noticed his love, Katrina standing by a corner within the tavern in a graceful russet dress and green ribbon. Her eyes met his with equal intensity. He approached her, touching her shoulder before the lovers slipped away into the evening darkness.

They gazed up at the skies at the edge of Carvahall as Katrina asked him something. "How was your day?"
"I returned home."
She stiffened. "What was it like?"
His voice caught as he responded. "Terrible." He took in a deep breath of her spice and wine scented copper hair.
"The house, the barn, the fields, they're all being overrun… I wouldn't have found them if I didn't know where to look."
She faced him, sorrow gleaming in her eyes like the stars. "Oh, Roran." Their lips met in a brief, tender kiss. "You have endured so much loss, and yet your strength has never failed you. Will you return to your farm now?"
"Aye. Farming is all I know."
"And what shall become of me?"
He hesitated. They both knew without question they were going to marry, yet her question didn't sit right with him. Even so, he had to deal with her insecurities now.

"Katrina… I cannot approach your father as I had planned. He would laugh at me, and rightly so. We have to wait. Once I have a place and I've collected my first harvest, then he will listen to me."
She turned her gaze back up to the stars, whispering too low for him to hear.
"What?"
"I said, are you afraid of him?"
"Of course not! I-"
"Then you must get his permission, tommorow, and set the engagement. Make him understand that, though you have nothing now, you will give me a good home and be a son-in-law he can be proud of. There's no reason we should waste our years living apart when we feel like this."

His voice turned to dispair. "I can't do that! I can't provide for you, I can't-"
"Don't you understand?" She took a step back, her words strained as a few tears slicked down her cheeks. "I love you, Roran, and I want to be with you, but Father has other plans for me. There are far more eligible men than you, and the longer you delay, the more he presses me to consent to a match of which he approves. He fears I will become an old maid, and I fear that too. I have only so much time or choice in Carvahall… If I must take another, I will."
Crying now, she searched his disbelieving face before gathering up her skirt and taking off.

Roran stood there, frozen for some hours in shock. He was cold from the revelation, as though part of him had been torn asunder.
After a long while, the village shrouded in darkness, he made his way back to Horst's and collapsed into bed.

……

The ground was crunching beneath their feet in the early hours of the morning, the air brisk from the night's chill. Baldor trailed behind Roran as both searched for deer.
"There." Baldor pointed out with a whisper, a set of tracks reasonably fresh leading towards a bramble besides the river, Anora.
Since it seemed about a day's age, Roran deemed it safe to speak.

"Could I have your advice, Baldor? You seem to have a good understanding of people."
"Of course. What is it?"
They plodded on in silence for a while.
"Sloan wants to marry off Katrina, and not to me. Every day that passes increases the chance he will arrange a union to his liking."
"And what does Katrina say of this?"
He shrugged. "He is her father. She cannot continue to defy his will when no one she does want has stepped forward to claim her."
"That is, you."
"Aye."
"And that's why you were up so early."
Both paused. Roran wasn't just up early, he simply hadn't slept the night before.

"I can't bear to lose her. But I don't think Sloan will give his blessing, what with my position and all."
"No, I don't think he would." Baldor unfortunately agreed. "What is it you want my advice on, though?"
Roran snorted humorously. "How can I convince Sloan otherwise? How can I resolve this dilemma without starting a blood feud?" He questioned, throwing his hands in the air. "What should I do?"
"Have you no ideas?" Balder countered calmly.
"I do, but not the sort I find pleasing. It occurred to me that Katrina and I could simply announce we were engaged- not that we are yet- and hang the consequences. That would force Sloan to accept our betrothal."

Balder furrowed his brow as he thought. "Maybe." He started slowly. "But it would also create a slew of bad feelings throughout Carvahall. Few would approve of your actions. Nor would it be wise to force Katrina to choose between you or her family; she might resent you for it in the years to come."
"I know, but what alternative do I have?"
"Before you take such a drastic step, I recommend you try to win Sloan over as an ally. There's a chance you might succeed, after all, if it's made clear to him that no one else will want to marry an angry Katrina. Especially when you're around to cuckold the husband."

Baldor laughed as Roran grimaced. "If you fail, well then, you can proceed with confidence, knowing that you have indeed exhausted all other routes. And people will be less likely to spit on you for breaking tradition and more likely to say Sloan's bullheaded ways brought it upon himself."
"Neither course is easy." Roran spoke through gritted teeth.

Baldor grew somber. "You knew that to begin with. No doubt there'll be harsh words if you challenge Sloan,but things will settle down in the end- perhaps not comfortably, but at least bearably. Aside from Sloan, the only people you'll really offend are prudes like Quimby, though how Quimby can brew such a hale drink yet be so starched and bitter himself is beyond me."

Roran nodded. In Carvahall, grudges lasted for years. "I'm glad we could talk. It's been…"
He stopped, thinking. Remembering Eragon and he. They were once like brothers, always having each other's backs. The absence of someone like that left a terrible void within him.

Suddenly, a strange scent made the pair stop in their tracks. It was like scorched meat and burning pine. Roran glanced at Baldor. "Smell that?" The young man nodded. Both of them went back to the road and traveled south.
They paused at a copse of cottonwood, Roran suddenly suspicious. Without a word, he hid in the underbrush and crept closer to the sound.
"What are you doing?" Baldor asked him. Roran silenced him, so Baldor joined him as they snuck down the path. As they rounded the bend, both froze.

Soldiers. Camped in the grass beside the road, upwards thirty men wearing armor and red tunics, the gold symbol of flame threaded into the outfits. Galbatorix's insignia.
But worse were the horrid pair crouching among the men, twisted and robed in black like unholy things. Roran's blood went cold as he realized who they were. His fingers flew to his quiver as he prepared to take a shot. Baldor grabbed him, tugging him back down. "Don't you'll get us both killed." Roran gave him a death stare, snarling. "That's… they're the bastards…" His hands shook. "They've returned!"
"Roran." Baldor insisted. "You can't do anything. Look, they work for the king. Even if you managed to escape, you'd be an outlaw everywhere, and you'd bring disaster on Carvahall."
"What do they want? What can they want?" The king. Why did Galbatorix countenance my father's torture?

"If they didn't get what they needed from Garrow, and Eragon fled with Brom, then they must want you." Baldor gave a meaningful pause. "We have to get back and warn everyone. Then you have to hide. The strangers are the only ones with horses. We can get there first if we run."
Roran eyed the troop hatefully, taking note of a writhing sack beside the strangers with curiosity as he considered.

All he needed to do for vengeance was take one step and shoot his arrows into those bastards. Break cover. Nothing else was necessary.

Roran choked back a sob as he clenched his fists. I can't leave Katrina. He told himself stiffly. Slowly, dreadfully, he backed away. "Home then." He darted off, not waiting for a response. As soon as they couldn't see the camp anymore, both Roran and Baldor took off running, pushing forward as quickly as possible. Roran slowed only once, so Baldor could catch up. "You spread the word, I'll talk with Horst." Baldor nodded at that and they continued on.

Once the village was in sight, they separated, Roran heading for the forge as Baldor made his way to the center of town. Roran exploded into the forge, gasping for air and interrupting Horst as the man sang.
"What's the matter, lad? Is Baldor hurt?"
He shook his head, heaving. After a moment, he started explaining bluntly everything that had happened, most importantly how the strangers were agents of the Empire. As he wrapped up his tale, Horst fiddled with his beard thoughtfully.

"You have to leave Carvahall. Fetch some food from the house, then take my mare- Ivor's pulling stumps with her- and ride into the foothills. Once we know what the soldiers want, I'll send Albriech or Baldor with word."
"What will you say if they ask for me?"
"That you're out hunting and we don't know when you'll return. It's true enough, and I doubt they'll chance blundering around in the trees for fear of missing you. Assuming it's you they're really after."
Roran gave a Curt nod and took off back towards Horst's house. Inside, he snatched the tack and bags off the wall, tying turnips, beets, jerky, and a loaf of bread in a knot of blankets and grabbing a tin pot, pausing only to explain the situation to Elain before charging out the door.

Carrying the bundle awkwardly, he raced through the village to Ivor's farm. Reaching the farm, he spotted Ivor with the horse, wielding a willow wand as she yanked to uproot an elm from the earth. "Come on now! Put your back into it!" She shuddered, frothing at the mouth as she struggled. With a final charge, she ripped it from it's anchorage. Ivor reined her in as Roran signaled him from afar.

As he neared them, Roran spoke. "I need to borrow her." Explaining why. Ivor cursed, unhitching the mare as he bemoaned. "Always the moment I get a bit of work done, that's when the interruption comes. Never before."
He frowned, crossing his arms as Roran busied himself with the saddle.
When finished, he lept atop the horse, carrying his bow. "I am sorry for the trouble, but it can't be helped."
"Well, don't worry about it. Just make sure you aren't caught." Ivor reassured him.
"I'll do that."

Roran dug his heels into the horse's sides, Ivor calling after him. "And don't be hiding up my creek!"
He couldn't help but grin, shaking his head and leaning down over the mare's neck as he picked up speed.

Eventually he found a spot where he could watch Carvahall without being spotted, disconcerted by his closeness to the Spine, a dangerous place. He observed as the two columns of soldiers arrived at the edge, stopped by a ragtag group of men, both sides speaking tensely, then just stared at one another before the outsiders were given entrance.
What happens now? Roran asked himself.

Late evening rolled by, the soldiers setting up camp in a nearby field to the village, tents creating a block of grey, shadows dancing as sentries patrolled around the place. It was eerily foreboding.
Roran considered the reasons for the return of the strangers with this oversized company.
Then he spotted something down the mountain. Someone entered the forest at the lower slopes. Roran crouched behind a boulder with his bow drawn, ready to attack.

Upon recognizing it as Albriech, he gave a low whistle. Said person found him and ducked behind the boulder alongside him. "I thought I'd never find you."
"I'm surprised you did."
"Can't say I enjoyed wandering through the forest after sundown. I kept expecting to walk into a bear, or worse. The Spine isn't a fit place for men, if you ask me."
Roran shrugged, glanced back at Carvahall. "So why are they here?"
"To take you into custody. They're willing to wait as long as they have to for you to return from 'hunting'."
Roran dropped to the ground. "Did they give a reason? Did they mention the stone?"
Albriech shook his head. "All they would say is that it's the king's business. The whole day they've been asking questions about you and Eragon- it's all they're interested in." He paused. "I'd stay, but they'll notice if I'm missing tomorrow. I brought plenty of food and blankets, plus some of Gertrude's salves in case you injure yourself. You should be fine up here."
Roran smiled in appreciation. "Thanks for the help."
"Anyone would do it." Albriech shrugged modestly. He made to leave, but hesitated.

"By the way, the two strangers… they're called the Ra'zac."