Hi all! I started working on this project back in September and already have it well over half written, but now that the new book of short stories is coming out, I'm concerned some of it will become obsolete. I do try not to deviate too far from canon, so it legitimately troubles me but can't be helped at this point. On that note, though not the focus of this story, canon pairings will be implied or touched upon.

Thank you to everyone who reads, follows, favorites, and/or comments~ I really do appreciate it more than words can express. I hope you are able to enjoy reading this story as much as I have writing it.


Chapter 1

Hot. That was the grueling sensation Murtagh awoke to. It was a dry heat, and his tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth, his lips were cracked, and his face was scorched. Only after several attempts was he able to open his eyes, and he winced and held his hand up against the blazing light.

It took a moment for him to recover his wits, and then he slowly drew himself upright. All but his face was buried in sand, and all around him lay a barren, desert landscape. Orange dunes rolled in every direction and were framed by empty blue skies. In the distance were mountains or boulders. Through the haze of heat, he could not tell for certain which it was. He was completely, utterly alone.

"Thorn," he croaked, and his throat burned. His muscles ached in protest as he climbed to his feet, and it took a great more effort than he liked to stay upright. Despite the pain, he raised his voice. "Thorn!" Again with his mind, he reached out and shouted, Thorn! Silence answered him. He scanned the sand for any trace of another, but there was nothing, only him, and not even footprints to suggest how he came this far. Spinning, he called out, "Eragon!"

Murtagh reached with his mind in search of any trace of life, and aside from a stray creature here and there, the desert was a wasteland. He expanded his search as far as it would go and found what may have been life at the mountains—or boulders—but he was not certain. He withdrew back into himself and had to sit down. Dizziness overwhelmed him from the heat and exertion.

His attire was meant for a cold, wet climate, and so he unraveled his cloak, discarded all unnecessary leather and wool articles, and kept only a pale undershirt and black trousers. He pulled the cloak on to shield himself from the sun, and everything else he left behind.

He regretted that he no longer had a sword and only carried with him a single dagger.

Speaking a word of magic, he cooled the air around him enough to be bearable but not so much that it strained him. Exhaustion hung onto him as the sand clung to his skin and clothes. Aiming for the faint signs of life in the distance, he trudged through sand that often rose past his ankles. A little magic would ease the burden, but his head hurt too much to bother.

Then, everything that had happened came crawling to the forefront of his memory. Murtagh paused and reached into his mind in search of the foreign consciousness that should be there. It was present, like an annoying thought that one could not quite remember but desperately wanted to recall, but no matter how much he prodded it, the entity did not respond. It was still and silent. He tried to borrow its strength as before, using it to fuel a few extra spells for comfort from the heat, water from deep in the earth, and the ability to walk on the sand as though solid rock. It wearied him, but not nearly as much as it should have. The consciousness, willing or not, lent him power.

After gathering a few handfuls of cool water in his hands and drinking and rinsing himself off, he used one last handful of water to scry Thorn and Eragon. Neither appeared, and it left a sinking feeling in his gut that did not go away. Splashing the water on his face and sweeping his hair back, he set out in search of life. Murtagh pulled his hood up and set a steady pace.

What an awful reunion with Eragon that had been. Leave it to him.

A year prior, he and Thorn left cultivated Alagaësia and ventured to places far less traveled and oftentimes far less civil. A few Urgals and several slave trade encounters later and Murtagh wondered how much reprieve they would actually have. However, the circumstances had probably been for the best. Sitting alone on a snowy hill for a year would have been counterproductive, and both he and Thorn knew only combat. They fought some Urgals and befriended others only for the sole purpose of taking down slave traders that insisted on capturing every remote group of people they could find. Kidnapping people who supposedly did not exist was an easy profit, apparently.

Despite their chance encounters and strange companions in the north, and even though he had Thorn, Murtagh was still haunted by loneliness. It hung on him like his own shadow. His anger had subsided enough to be manageable, and so Thorn suggested they return for a visit, for companionship, as the dragon put it.

Truthfully, Murtagh wondered if Thorn was lonely. After all, Murtagh doubted his own ability to be decent company.

And so, they departed from the far north with the intention of trying to find where Eragon had gone. It was over Du Weldenvarden, the vast sprawling forest at the northeast of Alagaësia, that Thorn felt the peculiar pull of magic that steered them east. The crimson dragon had described it as a shift in the natural energy of the world, so fine that few but dragons would ever feel it. It concerned him, and so it concerned Murtagh as well.

Across a sprawling plain and wide, deep stretches of river, far beyond the well-traveled lands of Alagaësia, lay an icy mountain that towered high above all others at the far end of the Beor Mountains. Upon it was a half-built castle with a grand courtyard and a broad keep far larger than any human or elf would ever demand. It was a castle built for dragons.

Murtagh and Thorn never had time to truly appreciate it. As soon as they approached, a storm of lights had engulfed them and brought them to the ground, unceremoniously into the keep. The elves had already fallen when they arrived. Everything after that happened so quickly that Murtagh barely remembered it.

So he did not bother trying, not yet.

After traveling for a better part of the day and mulling over recent events, Murtagh reached the peak of a high dune. Beneath him lay an expanse of pale red stone and massive boulders, though sand had washed away much of the land's color. On the other end of the expanse, still small on the horizon, were the jagged peaks of what were likely the Beor Mountains. At least now he had a sense of where he was. Heavy from exhaustion, he slid down the dune and landed on solid stone.

As he took one step forward, a woman's scream echoed across the field of rocks. Murtagh ceased his spells of cooling and stability, placing around himself instead a simple spell of protection. Then, he sprinted in the direction of the shout and then slipped into the shade of a large boulder.

A group of at least fifty people were coming out of a mountain pass. Most were civilians, many with bruises and bloody, tattered clothes, and they dragged their feet. A few horse-drawn carts hauled even more people, weaker still than any of the others, and armed men surrounded the assembly on all sides. Murtagh counted twenty armed, surly-looking men: slave traders.

Near the front of the group, a woman stumbled. It must have been a repeated offense, for a nearby trader snarled through his teeth and hauled her off the ground by her graying hair. He hollered obscenities at her and reeled back his hand to strike her. His arm froze in place, and a puzzled expression arose on his face and the woman's.

By a spell, Murtagh pinned his arm. "Did your mother never teach you how to treat a lady?" Then he drew his dagger.

The man opened his mouth, and Murtagh threw the dagger into his back. He fell without making a sound, and the woman landed on her knees. She and several other civilians stared at Murtagh with wide eyes and gaping mouths. He took a sword from his victim and scanned the crowd. A few of the other slave traders shouted and pointed, and several ran in his direction. Stray arrows shot from over a boulder, and he deflected them with magic only for fear of them striking innocents.

One of the slave traders reached him, then another, eventually followed by all the rest. Murtagh ducked under a few blades, danced around several more, and all the while cut down his attackers with about as much effort as it took for him to get out of bed each morning. Leaving a trail of bodies in his wake, Murtagh found one last trader running not towards him but towards the civilians. Snatching his dagger out of his first victim's back, he launched it at the man, striking him square between the eyes.

Civilians eyed Murtagh in both wonder and fear. Rather than acknowledge them, he went and picked through the supplies on the bodies, claiming for himself two spare belts, several different daggers, a silver sword that suggested these traders had a successful business, a bow and a quiver of arrows. As he was putting them on, a few people approached him.

"Thank you," said the woman he had saved first. She held a hand towards him, retracted it, and covered her lips, eyes wide. Perhaps she recognized him.

"Don't mention it," he told her, and he meant it. Flashing his best attempt at a charming smile despite his fatigue and pounding head, Murtagh fastened a belt across his chest to keep the quiver at his back and then walked away from her. If these were the Beor Mountains, he could make his way back to civilization easily enough.

"Wait!" The woman followed after him but stopped when he faced her. Several other people gathered behind her, and all stared at him as though in expectation. His eyes went wide as the woman fell to her knees at his feet and clung to him. "Please! We are not the only hostages… our children were taken! They should still be nearby—please help us save them!"

Murtagh instinctively tried to step away from her, but she did not let him go. He opened his mouth to deny her request but could not bring himself to do so. A few others stepped forward, mothers mostly and a few fathers, and pleaded with him. The woman pinning his legs raised her head, and tears ran down her face.

"Please," she begged. "We have no one else." With her head bowed again, she concluded, "Our children are helpless. Please…"

Helpless. That was a concept that resonated with Murtagh, and not only that, but a mother's tears as well

"Where are they?" he asked without accepting the task.

A man with a strong jaw and broad shoulders limped forward, his expression hard. "There is a deserted city in the mountains near here. We were also there until our captors decided to move us to Helgrind. For some reason, the children were left behind."

"Orthíad," Murtagh mused. While in Tronjheim, he had reviewed various maps of the land and read information about cities in the mountains. Orthíad had been a grand dwarven city that was eventually replaced by Tronjheim.

"You will help us, then?" wondered the mother at his feet.

Murtagh's gaze flicked from her to the others gathered around. Their faces were drawn and haggard and their bodies battered and bruised, but a light still shone in their eyes. They were placing their hopes on him. A detour was not desirable, but the thought of children in the hands of slave traders did not sit well in his stomach. Drawing in a long, deep breath, he nodded. Several people shouted for joy, and the mother began to sob into her hands. Murtagh shifted and rubbed the back of his head, turning away from her. No one had been rescued yet, so celebration was certainly not in order.

"How far back is it?" he asked them.

"About a half a day's walk," answered the man. He waved at a group of people who went to prepare the carts. "We'll go with you. My son is there."

Murtagh did not argue. After looking over the group another time, however, he frowned. "Everyone is unwell. Are there enough provisions?"

"The cart is full of food and water," answered an older woman. "Now that our captors are gone, we can have some for ourselves."

"Use them sparingly. It's still a good distance to the next town," Murtagh told them. The man with the limp was staring at him, his eyes narrow and chilling. Murtagh was used to it and ignored him. "Ensure the weakest among you eat first, and save for the children. Drink the water freely. I can provide more if needed."

A few people tipped their heads at him, but most accepted his words and scurried about, attending to their own matters. The man scrutinized Murtagh from head to toe and then went to the carts and began passing out supplies. Food and drink did much to revive their bodies and spirits.

After everyone had their fill, they turned their procession around and retraced their steps, only now, Murtagh led them.

Night fell upon them, and the temperature plummeted. They did not stop to set up camp, though, for time was short. There was no real need, either. Murtagh cast a spell for warmth around the entirety of the group, protecting them from the chill. It should have been a wearisome task on his own, but with the help of the sleeping entity in his mind, it was simple enough. Likely there would be some backlash for him using its strength, but it seemed only fair since the being was napping in his head.

By the time they arrived on the outskirts of Orthíad, the sun was on the verge of rising again. Hues of orange, pink and purple painted the horizon. Nights were brief in the desert.

As the day dawned, Murtagh allowed a small group to lead him to the entrance of the city. Orthíad, like most dwarven cities, was built inside the mountain and had superior defenses. This particular city, however, had been deserted and neglected so long that half the mountain had crumbled around it, exposing it to the elements. There were more than a dozen weaknesses that Murtagh could easily exploit with magic to get inside.

People garbed in long black cloaks with high hoods came and went from the city's many entrances. Most milled around without intention, swaying back and forth, pacing across the sand. As light spilled into the valley, many disappeared inside. Those that did not continued their aimless activities in the shadows. Murtagh moved closer, constantly remaining out of their sight. Whoever they were, they were tall for humans and walked with a strange gait. It was familiar somehow.

One turned briefly in his direction, and Murtagh spun with a start and slipped behind a stone wall. Beneath the hood was not the face of a man but a gnarled, dark creature with a crooked beak. Ra'zac. Murtagh counted thirty or so, and those were only the ones outside the city. Behind him, the few civilians with him came close, and he immediately pushed them back, ushering them away.

"Are there any humans in there?" he asked, keeping his voice low. All the while, he herded them away from the city. His heart hammered in his chest. Even with a large supply of magic, this was a suicide mission. "Or just those things?"

"They were people," whispered a short man with a bald head. His nasally words did not hold much certainty. "They all dress like that and had their faces covered."

Not people! Murtagh rubbed his brow. "How many?"

"A whole city," answered the man with square shoulders. He crossed his arms. "Several hundred by my estimate."

Several hundred Ra'zac. All of them were supposed to be dead. The Ra'zac had no reason to keep the children alive. This was a suicide mission without purpose. And for what reason were the adults taken away in the first place? Surely such a large group of adults would make a better feast than children. Then, a hand gripped Murtagh's arm.

"Please," began the mother who had begged for his aid. "Our children."

Murtagh glanced back in the direction of the city, then continued to usher the people away. Maintaining a constant awareness of their surroundings, he led them a safe distance away and told them, "Go back and get as far from here as possible."

"We will not leave our children," began the mother, shaking her head with brow furrowed. Tears rimmed her eyes.

The man with the limp stepped between them, and he crossed his arms over his chest and looked down his nose and Murtagh.

"Go," Murtagh ordered, and he grabbed the man's forearm and squeezed. The man did not waver. "Those are not people, they are Ra'zac, and they will tear all of you to pieces if given the chance. Get out of here now."

Eyes wide, the man stepped back. Truly they had not realized. The woman covered her face and fell again to her knees. Gasps and whispers erupted from the few others with them. Murtagh tried to urge them away, hauling the woman back to her feet and dragging her.

"Follow the mountains west and you will eventually reach Surda. You can find shelter there," he told them. The woman was sobbing, and so he grabbed her shoulders and shook her. "Enough! I will look for the children. But you must go!"

"You would still go after them?" wondered the man with raised eyebrows.

"I will," Murtagh promised. "Now go as quickly as you can, and stop for nothing."

The man nodded and then pulled the woman away by her arm. She continued to beg for the safety of her child, but her words were drowned by hiccups and sobs. The rest of the group followed, and Murtagh waited until they were completely gone from sight.

Sliding across several stone ledges, he peered at the city. The Ra'zac continued shuffling around without purpose. Most were small, probably young. That gave Murtagh both hope and dread—hope that they were immature and weak, and dread because they may have had a parent around.

Careful where he allowed his mind to wander, he searched for traces of human life. Within the city, he touched upon the Ra'zac, and they were all the same. Empty, hollow, and devoid of thought or feeling. They were indistinguishable from each other, their presences muddled and blurry, unnatural.

His mind reached from one end of the city to the other, and that is where he found them. A group of humans, approximately thirty or so, all clumped together in one place. Murtagh retreated before he felt much, but their terror gave him the chills. Sliding down, he sat on the stone ledge and stared in the general direction of where the children were. He could probably get in with little trouble and a lot of magic, but how was he to take thirty children with him on the way out? Only with a lot more magic.

Murtagh prodded at the sleeping being in his head. Mind if I borrow some of your power? he asked, and as expected, it did not respond. Why thank you. Do not mind if I do.

He cast a spell over himself. Invisibility was fallible, and so instead he created over himself the image of a young Ra'zac, dressed as all the rest were, and then he barred his mind from all intrusions. As far as any would be concerned, his mind would be just as hollow as the Ra'zac he had inspected. It was a formidable disguise, but any physical contact would blow his cover in an instant. An illusion could trick the eyes but not the body.

Murtagh navigated across the mountain ledges, staying out of sight, until he reached the very edge of the city. Below, Ra'zac meandered around and occasionally bumped into each other, and some would pick fights with others. They were brainless and hopefully would stay that way.

Several long corridors and bridges connected various upper levels of the city. Murtagh jumped off his mountain perch and landed on one of the highest bridges. The captives were on a high level, just as he was, but several walls stood between them. Assuming an unsteady gait, he moved forward into the shadows. Most of the Ra'zac gathered on the ground level far below. It was not a stretch to say there were hundreds of them, and they seeped out of holes in walls and grew in number. Few bothered with the upper levels, making them easier for Murtagh to navigate.

Many bridges were made of wood and bound with ropes and chains, but others were carved out of stone with high sides that helped to conceal his presence. Sunlight reached through holes in the ceiling and touched all the high places, and he dodged the light whenever possible. Thankfully, the Ra'zac continued with their aimless shuffling and did not notice him.

Beyond a heavy door was a room carved out of stone. It was small, and he had to keep his head down to get through it. Ceramic dishes were shattered on the floor and pieces cracked under his heel. Not much else remained of the ones who lived here long past. Likely thieves had a hand in that.

On the other side was another vast room nearly as large as the mountain itself. There were at least ten different levels to the room, all connected by wooden stairs that spiraled along the walls. Beneath were more Ra'zac, though these were louder and more energetic. Murtagh crouched on the stone bridge to conceal most of his form from their sight, creeping along the short wall until he reached the other side. Another room waited for him, followed by another expanse. Orthíad sprawled through many mountains.

Beyond several empty guard rooms, Murtagh entered pitch black darkness. Despite the dry heat of the desert, the air had a wet and chilling bite. He allowed his disguise to vanish and created a faint red glow to light the way. Prison cells sprawled in front of him far beyond where his light shone. Most of the cells were broken and empty, save one.

A single cell remained intact at the very end of the corridor, and crammed inside were trembling, sobbing children.