*creeps* Er, hi everyone. Sooooooooo this is awkward. I suck. I really, really do. And I am very, very sorry. You all can beat me up now...

Part of the reason for the three-month hiatus is writer's block. I'm kinda stuck. I know where the story is going- oddly enough, I have the epilogue written- and how I want to get there. The hard part is actually getting there. But I'm working on two chapters right now simultaneously, so the muse has not abandoned me yet. Hallelujah?

So most of this chapter wasn't written until about five days ago, when I recieved a review from StrawHat, who told me that Book IV has been named and is coming out in November. I was like "Psssssh, this is CP we're talking about, he's not done yet."

And then I check, and hey, whaddya know, Inheritance is coming out in November- I have eight months to get this done before that happens. So yeah. If this chapter (and the ones that follow) seem a little odd, it's the caffiene. I've had roughly twelve pots of tea since Friday.

With that said, I want to thank all of you who've stayed for sticking with me, kicking me in the ass, and generally harping on my lazy, lazy butt until I got up and wrote something. You guys are the greatest people EVER. I LOVE YOU ALL.

To the Eldunari Betas: Okay guys, I'm gearing up for this whole editing thing. Expect PMs very, very shortly! Thank you for your service!

Thanks to Arya Shadeslayer for the beta and the confidence boost! You, my dear, are fantastic. :)

Also, thanks to Restrained. Freedom, as always, for your unerring support in everything I write, not just this story. :) And for helping me figure out how to bypass the error system! It's thanks to you that I actually got this chapter up!

Dedicated to StrawHat, for inciting the panic and opening my stupid eyes. I gotta beat CP with this guys, I gotta.

Disclaimer: I do not own Inheritance Cycle.

"Wrestling with the devil
Playing games
buring bridges
burning promises
All you have to do
Is watch your back…
Times like these it's hard to see
who your enemy is
who your friends are
So watch your back."

-Kara, Watch Your Back

Chapter Nine: Raltin

The earth was cool beneath his feet. His sandals had finally given out after seven months of near-constant walking and no amount of magic could salvage the frayed, broken leather.

The terrain had evened out into endless, soft grass a week ago, though, so the traveler didn't mind. The dirt was cool beneath his toes and after so long in the heat of the grasslands, it was welcome.

He was walking over another gentle hill, enjoying the feeling of green grass against his weather-roughened skin, listening to the sounds of a gentle stream bubbling not far from where he was walking. The water was clear and clean, far brighter than anything he had seen even in Du Weldenvarden. The animals here came up to him, their eyes bright, shining, and there was no rain, not that he'd experienced, but the land seemed to thrive without it.

He knew, deep in his chest, where the urge to go on was pulling at him, insistent, that he was getting close to the end of his journey.

He was almost glad. It had been months since he had seen his mate, his family and friends. He missed them, even though he knew that, when he returned (if he returned) that it would be a different world. The elves had had enough time to bond fully with the dragons by now, to meld their souls and minds and hearts, and when he returned to them, they would not be the same.

Already they were stronger. The magic of dragons was given to all, when before only some had been born with it, and they were a wilder people, faces longer, ears sharper, senses growing and stretching. Even here, hundreds, maybe thousands, of miles away from his people, the traveler felt these changes. He saw at night when before he could not, he smelled what he had never smelled before, he heard the sounds of the animals before they came close.

And in the water he saw his face, longer, almost hawk-like, his cheek bones angled and his eyes slanting where before they had not. His ears were the same, fortunately, tapered at the ends, and he was glad that at least the dragons had not taken those from him.

He had been one of the lucky few born with natural magic, with an ability that had only been strengthened by dragons. He felt it, that wild edge bubbling in his blood that was his own magic but stronger, far stronger, than it had been.

He assumed that it was the same for all elves everywhere.

It almost hurt him to think that he would come home to a different world. His friends might have become Dragon Riders, might have bonded their souls to the beasts that destroyed so much of elvish life.

The traveler knew that the dragons were not monsters—the elves knew that no thing was truly evil—but he could not erase the memory of his people screaming as they burned, crying as they were torn limb from limb.

It was Eragon who had saved them, Eragon who had sold his own soul and chosen the life of an in-between, a creature of both worlds.

The traveler hoped he was happy. He knew he would not be, bonded to a dragon. The traveler had seen his whole village go up in flames, and the thought of glittering scales and teeth and claws made his skin tight and his heart hurt.

Don't think such things, he thought to himself, and instead he felt the grass under his feet and the animals that wandered around him, and he heard the sound of the water and he felt the tugging deep in his bones.

He closed his eyes, briefly, and felt his pain and his weariness stir in his heart.

Please, he thought, let me be close to the end.

And when the traveler opened his eyes, he saw, in the distance, flecks of golden light.

Murtagh awoke with a gasp, and then he promptly fell to his knees and threw up.

His stomach was rebelling, throat spasming, fingers curling and uncurling uselessly in the harsh cold underneath him.

He couldn't breathe.

His lungs burned and he gagged, trying to calm down, to settle his stomach.

Thorn! He shouted, instinctively, but the dragon did not answer because he was still gone.

Finally, after a minute of retching, gagging and shaking, Murtagh managed to get his rebellious stomach under control and he collapsed, face pressed against something very cold and comforting.

He felt like he was on fire. His chest was too tight and his damn leg burned, shuddering underneath his fingers.

Angvard take Galbatorix, Murtagh thought, shivering, his stomach still churning and his skin too hot. The lightning wounds throbbed, burned, and his mouth tasted like ash and prickles raced down his spine as he shook like a weak newborn.

When the fierce, burning ache finally started to fade and he could move again, Murtagh wearily opened his eyes, and the first thing he noticed was that he was outside.

Again.

Barely suppressing a groan, he rolled over, staring up at the black sky. The heavy clouds hid the moon and the stars so it was pitch dark, the kind of blackness that clung to the skin and choked the air.

The snow underneath him wasn't uncomfortable, just cold, and against his hot skin it felt good. He was somewhere outside Belatona, because he could see the pricks of fire the sentries used to warm themselves and see out into the night.

He was going to have a serious talk with them in the morning. They obviously weren't paying attention if a sleeping crippled man could limp past them.

It took Murtagh a few seconds to sit up and look around. He was in a field, one of the many of Belatona, and the dead grass was tramped down by the snow.

The wall was maybe a half-mile behind him, the lights glimmering faintly along the top. He could see his own footprints for maybe five feet before they faded. He closed his eyes.

He was exhausted. The dreams of traveling, of walking for months and months, on and on until he didn't know the stars in the sky anymore, wore him out. He wasn't sleeping anymore, not really. He was walking.

He tugged a hand over his face. Stubble scraped his skin roughly. He hadn't shaved since Thorn left.

Thorn, he called quietly, tugging at the bond between them.

There was no answer. Thorn was gone, far out of Murtagh's reach. He wasn't hurt or in trouble, because his Rider would have felt it, but he was gone, and the absence was yet another ache in Murtagh's chest.

I should go back, he thought. It will be morning soon. And if it was morning and he wasn't there where the Varden could see him, they would think that he'd run again. With his hold on his clan already fragile and under scrutiny, he couldn't afford to let them think he'd betrayed them again even for a few minutes.

If he did, he would lose the Dragon Riders, and frankly, they were one of the only things keeping him going. His clan was small and young, mostly inexperienced, but that was part of their appeal—he was teaching them and they were learning. He was living up to Eragon's legacy.

He loved the Riders. He loved being with them, and he loved the Varden even though the vast majority hated him in return.

They'll understand one day, Murtagh thought. I hope.

"What are you doing out here?" A sudden rough voice startled Murtagh so badly that he turned and nearly fell over, his leg sending fire racing to his brain.

"Raltin," Murtagh snapped through clenched teeth, recognizing the other immediately. "I could ask you the same question."

In the near-darkness, the red Rider couldn't make out Raltin's shifty eyes or soured expression, only the thin, wiry man's general shape.

A soft growl let him know that Talon was there also, his indigo scales melting into the darkness.

"I asked first." Raltin's soft, dark voice was unmistakable and Murtagh had to physically squash the urge to snarl. Raltin was, out of all of the Varden, the one Murtagh worried about the most. The man was ambitious, fierce, and intelligent, surprisingly so for a hill man.

He also hated Murtagh. If it was just hate, Murtagh could handle that. He'd been hated his whole life—one more time wasn't really a problem.

Unfortunately, it was much, much more than that.

"Walking," Murtagh replied, as nonchalantly as he could.

"Where's Zar'roc?"

Damn him. "I'm trying to walk without it."

"You can't even stand," Raltin said cruelly. "I see you wobbling. You're weak."

"Remember who you are speaking to," Murtagh snarled. "I lead you, Morlansson."

"By default," the other sneered. "You weren't the one we chose to follow! We only follow you because your brother died and you're the second-best option."

Murtagh barked a harsh laugh. "True," he said. "But do you remember what happened in the courtyard, right after Eragon died?"

Raltin was silent. His eyes would be narrowed and he would be clenching his fists, reaching almost reflexively for the dull metal sword he kept at his side.

"You had your chance," Murtagh plowed on. "I asked you if you wanted to take my place. You did not step up."

They all clearly remembered that day—Murtagh had challenged Raltin, and Raltin had stepped down, seeing that he did not have the support of the other dragons and Riders.

Talon snarled softly, his claws scratching softly at the snow.

"You think you could lead them better? Erik and Vé and Lovissa? You think they would follow you before they followed me, Morlansson?"

Raltin's lip curled, though Murtagh couldn't see it. "They don't know any better," he snapped. "They've lived in a cave for a hundred years."

Perfect, Murtagh thought. I can use this.

"So have you, Raltin," Murtagh said as gently as he could though his teeth were gritted in pain and magic was slowly seeping out of his skin, warning the indigo Rider not to try anything. "You and Talon have lived in the caves for your entire partnership. Fighting a war like this is still new to you, and most of the clan. Thorn and I have been fighting our whole lives."

Raltin was still silent.

"You don't have the experience to lead the clan," the red Rider continued. "You are still very young."

"Older than you," Raltin said suddenly. "I'm twenty-three and Talon's four. We're older than you and Thorn."

"I'm not talking about age, Raltin." Murtagh kept his voice as calm and gentle as he possibly could, trying to force the tension out of his rigid spine. "I'm talking about experience."

In the dark, Murtagh felt more than saw Raltin nod once, very slowly.

"You should go back," the wounded Rider suggested. "It will be light soon. We have work to do in the morning." I win.

"If I were to attack you right now," Raltin said softly. "Would you be able to stop me before I crippled you again?"

Murtagh froze.

"I don't think you could," Raltin pressed on, almost conversationally. "You might be able to, though, and that's what's stopping me from attacking you right now."

Talon snarled and it was a dark, warning sound.

"You're talking treason," Murtagh snarled, calling his magic. It rushed and bubbled to the surface, hot and bright and wild. "Betrayal."

Raltin dipped his head. "Yes," he agreed. "If we were normal soldiers, it would be rebellion. But we're Dragon Riders. It'd just be the order of things, wouldn't it? The strong usurping the weak."

"Do you think they would accept you?" Murtagh made his voice cold, chilling. "If you attacked me, crippled, tired, and weaponless as I am, would they support you? You don't seem to understand, Morlansson. Eric and Vé are my friends. They trust me to lead them, to keep them safe. If you strike me now, they will never trust you like that. You'll just be another Galbatorix to them."

"Don't ever say that!" There was the shing of a sword sliding free of its scabbard; instinctively Murtagh hissed a spell and dragged the blade from Raltin's hands.

"Watch yourself," he said lowly. "You are a good warrior, Morlansson. We could use you, and in a few years, you could be great. But do not make the mistake of thinking that we need you."

Talon snarled something and Murtagh threw a spell at him too, pining him in place. The dragon roared, but he could not move.

"If you threaten me or any member of the clan again, Morlansson, we will throw you to the dogs." Magic billowed around him in flashes of light, swelling until the air burned with it.

For the first time since the Battle of the Falling, Murtagh felt powerful.

"I will throw you to the dogs."

Talon made an angry sound in his throat and Raltin hissed through clenched teeth. "Tyrant," he spat.

"I am going to leave now," Murtagh said strong and clear. "If you try and attack me, if I hear you behind me at all, I will do my damndest to kill you, do you understand? I will drive you to the gates of Uru'baen and leave you there."

Raltin laughed, high and hard. "You think you can lead us forever," he said. "You think we'll ignore all your flaws forever. You think you could lead us better than Eragon?"

"Shut up," Murtagh said quietly. "Didn't your mother ever tell you that it's not nice to insult others?"

"My mother is dead," Raltin snarled.

Murtagh blinked. Mine too, he almost said.

"Morzan did it. He burned my village to the ground when I was a child. You're the son of a monster, and you're a monster too!"

The scar on his back seemed to tingle and Murtagh smiled sharp and humorless. "I know," he said. "Remember what I said, Raltin. All of it. We could use you. We want you to be a part of our clan, to be a part of the Riders. You could be great with us. You could be a hero."

Raltin did not reply.

Murtagh sighed heavily, tired and aching. "Go," he said wearily. "Be gone. I will see you at noon."

He cut the spell holding Talon and the dragon bared his long white teeth menacingly.

Murtagh did the same. "I fought Galbatorix, little dragon. You don't frighten me."

Raltin made a sound in his throat and wordlessly clambered onto Talon's back. The ink-dark dragon snarled one last time and unfurled his wings, beating them once, twice, and then the pair vanished into the sky, their minds fading rapidly.

Murtagh waited for several more minutes, his skin prickling and magic crackling around him, before he slumped, allowing his power to drain away.

Shit, he thought.

The last two months, Raltin had been silent. He had been surly, of course, and bitter, gathering around him a small group of Varden warriors, but he had never expressed an outright desire to defeat Murtagh and take his place.

He's very angry, Murtagh thought. At my father, and at me. Smiling bitterly, he fingered the top of the scar on his shoulder.

Are you satisfied, father? It's been eighteen years and you're still hanging over me.

Sighing heavily, he began the long limping trek back to Belatona.

Raltin cannot defeat me, not right now. I am crippled, but I am more experienced and stronger than he is, and Erik and Vé are loyal to me. Even if I did fall, they wouldn't follow him.

Lovissa, on the other hand, was a mystery. The elf-woman was respectful and obedient, but she was reserved. Murtagh could not seem to connect with her—every time he tried, she pulled politely away—and where her true loyalties lay was anyone's guess.

Murtagh personally suspected the elves, now that Ophelia was dead. Lovissa was not like Vé, who had chosen to leave the caves and accompany Murtagh and Eragon on their journey. She and Deloi had chosen to stay with Ophelia.

And Raltin and Talon.

He sighed again, rubbing his leg and keeping it stiff as the snow slowly soaked through his boots.

There was a good chance that, if push came to shove, Lovissa and Deloi would side with Raltin, and that was dangerous. That would fracture the clan and possibly send four able-bodied members of it to Galbatorix.

It would be disastrous.

Against Halflings and former pack mates, they wouldn't stand a chance.

I must keep Raltin in the clan, he thought, limping a little faster. But how?

He snarled to himself in frustration. He wasn't good at this sort of thing. He could lead hundreds of soldiers, but a group of eight was too—small, perhaps, too interconnected with each other for someone like Murtagh. A small group needed careful handling, otherwise there would be fights and fractures and divisions cut through them.

Eragon could do it, hummed the dark voice that lived in the back of his head. It sounded like fire and Morzan, rolled into one. Eragon was strong enough.

I' m not Eragon, Murtagh told it. And you are not welcome here, creature.

The voice laughed and Murtagh saw two coal-bright eyes gleam at him in the darkness. How do you know I'm not a part of you?

I've seen you in others.

Eragon, you mean. Bright lines of fire seemed traced the outline of a dragon and wicked glowing teeth bared in a grin. You're certainly smarter than he was. It took him weeks to discover that I was not simply a figment of his tortured mind.

Don't talk about him, Murtagh hissed at it, furious. Be gone.

The creature threw back its head and roared. I am not one of your Riders, little human, it snarled. I am far older than any of you and your kind. You cannot order me to leave.

There was the sound of claws scrapping against rough stone—the ice was cracking.

Go, Murtagh told it as strongly as it could. I do not need you.

I saved your life, said the creature, flickering slightly. Murtagh frowned. Now that he looked at it, it looked almost fragile.

I am the one who dragged the lightning from your body. Remember that, child of fire. Remember what I did for you.

Eragon did that for me, Murtagh told it savagely. It was Eragon, not you.

The lines of fire flickered yet again, wavering.

It's too weak, Murtagh realized. Why…?

It is not your concern, said the dragon. It will be remedied shortly.

You have no power here. Go.

Keep thinking that, said the beast as it faded away. Don't turn your back to your enemies, little human. I will be waiting for any cracks in your armor.

And then it was gone, leaving Murtagh angrier and more alone than ever. The fire dragon left the scent of burning things in his nose and the echo of roaring in his ears. His skin tingled and he felt hot, like he was going to be sick again.

Stay away, he told the beast, but there was no answer. It was gone.

I hate my life, Murtagh decided, closing his eyes and dragging a hand down his face.

Fire-demons were talking to him and angry Riders were threatening him. Roran was still missing, Arya was a problem, and Thorn had apparently decided that Murtagh didn't need him and he could go off and do whatever he pleased.

And Eragon was still dead.

This is a mess.

He kept walking.

It was still dark enough that, with magic, Murtagh could open one of the smaller iron-wrought doors in the side of the wall—not everyone went through the front entrance, that simply wasn't practical—and slip inside, locking the door again behind him.

He limped back to his home just as the sun was starting to turn the horizon gray. The city, protected by its thick walls, was still dark and asleep, most of his neighbors (the few who remained, anyway) still curled silently in their beds.

No one had noticed him missing, then. That was good. He didn't need anyone to start to watch him. He had too many problems to deal with.

First and foremost among them was Raltin.

How do I convince him to follow me? Murtagh thought, pushing open the door to his current home and limping towards the bed. How can I turn him away from betrayal?

He wants leadership. He wants to lead, to prove himself worthy… But who to trust him with? Think like Eragon.

He sat down heavily, rubbing the injury to his leg. Very faintly he heard the fire-beast growl in the back of his mind.

I'll let him lead a reconnaissance mission. It was simple—give Raltin the opportunity to lead and make him feel useful and part of the clan while at the same time removing him from Belatona so Murtagh had time to think and come up with a long-term solution.

Who to partner him with?

Sunna and Vé were off the table, as well as Lovissa and Deloi. Vé and Sunna were too important to Murtagh to trust with Raltin, and he was not sure that they could fend off a surprise attack.

Lovissa and Deloi were too close to Raltin already; if the indigo Rider did end up turning away, Murtagh didn't want him to take the pair with him. They were the oldest out of the cave dwellers, now that Ophelia was dead. Their experience and support was vital.

Eric and Konungr, then. Satisfied, Murtagh laid back down to try at catch a few more minutes of sleep. They'll be fine with him—they are strong enough to handle him and Talon, smart enough not to be fooled, and they'll try their best to make him feel like he's part of the clan. It won't work forever, but for now, it's a good plan.

I'll let them know when they get back.

At least one problem was solved, then. Raltin needed a firm hand. He wasn't an enemy (not yet, whispered the fiery dragon), just an angry child. Murtagh knew about angry children. If they had support, had family, then they could be turned around. Raltin could be part of the clan.

I'm doing the right thing, he told himself forcefully. I'm preventing him from becoming a traitor.

Keep telling yourself that, the voice hissed softly. When he cuts out your heart, remember who told you otherwise.

Go away, Murtagh snapped at it.

The voice growled once, low and deep, and then it was gone.

I'm doing the right thing, he thought again. I know it.

But as he lay there, watching the sun slide up from his window, Murtagh couldn't shake the feeling that he was making a mistake.

There are two more chapters on the way! I'm going to try and get them out by the end of the week, but with my track record, I better not promise anything...

XD If you have any questions, review or drop a PM! Thanks!

~WSS