INHERITANCE: Memorandum Of Scales

THE BATTLE OF PULIN

ERAGON

FLAMES licked the air. Barking shouts filled the streets of Pulin, interposed by the sound of massive slabs of stone that crashed into the city's urban flats. Far in the distance Pulin's legendary walls crumbled, punctured by meteor-like missles streaking across the sky like falling stars.

Bodies were scattered about- some moaning and near death- others horrifically charred as they failed to escape grasping fires that sprouted from hastily evacuated homes.

Pulin's own forces mobilized along with the Varden's troops, setting up a perimeter around Orrin's estate. The King himself, astride his warhorse, stood before a small assembly of generals as they devised plans of defense.

"This wasn't the meeting I had in mind," Orrin said to himself with a wry smile, face half obscured by a golden warhelm. His keep rumbled, heavy stones crashing against ancient architecture. With each strike screams exploded from within Pulin's proper, leaving a wake of death that lingered behind cackling flames.

They were facing what Orrin's mages called a Shade.

Orrin swallowed heavily, ash painting tired lungs. He was aware of magic- taught by his father how to defend against it. He was not blessed by mana- a quality that Orrin's father had verbally lashed him for as a boy- almost as if it was Orrin's own doing.

The young King looked up to the sky, bright eyes catching more volleys of stone as they climbed across a darkening mosaic of clouds, and into the city below.

This Shade was not alone. With it was an Urgal horde, numbering no less than six thousand. His mages had also discovered beasts among the army, corrupted by dark mana. Orrin shivered, recalling the horrifying images he had been shown within a wavering scrying pool.

Greatwolves yipped and barked between Urgal legs, blood dripping from onyx fangs. Shadowlions lurked within the horde beside them, quiet while eyes rolled in silent frenzy.

It was within this madness that a Shade lurked- a monstrosity of death and cursed mana. The few Elves that had defected to the Varden sensed magic beyond what was possible for a Shade- and it wasn't long before they were able to deduce this attack was the work of the Empire.

So this is how you fight your battles, Galbatorix.

Orrin winced, covering his eyes as smoke passed over his head- the aftermath of yet another blast of flaming rock crashing into crumbling homes.

"My Lord," an armored man strode to Orrin's horse, stilling it as it stomped in agitation at the smog surrounding them.

Orrin's warhelm gleamed as he looked down upon one of his most loyal generals.

"Kēomyr," Orrin rasped.

Kēomyr saluted, gripping a silver hilt as he did so.

"The Shade has begun its advance. Urgals have finally breached the walls. Even when the horde reaches the city limits, I doubt the Shade will cease its artillery until all of us are dead."

Orrin winced as his ears were met with another volley of horrified cries. Behind him a plume of black smoke erupted. He couldn't see the deaths directly, but he knew that the Shade was directing stones into masses of fleeing Pulinites, trampling over each other as they were herded into Tronjheim below.

"It knows we are trying to escape to our allies." Orrin said over the screams.

Kēomyr nodded, dusky blonde hair specked by ash.