osterreicher97: I'm glad he is. I'm planning to show more Gandalf's "detective" side, in a sense. We hear a lot about how Gandalf is constantly poking his nose into things, investigating this and that, rocking up in the nick of time to tell people that shit's about to go down, but we don't really get to see much of it – it's shown in the Hobbit films, and in the Council of Elrond in the books.

CRUDEN: You're right, although I'm not sure how I'll manage to incorporate it into the story.

Lord of Moons: I'm very glad you find the characters authentic. It's one of the biggest concerns for me: is it in character? As to your comment about change, I try not to change the story too much until I become a better writer. Although, I am going to start experimenting a bit with bigger changes, as you'll see.

The Misfortune of Fate

Murtagh slipped the whetstone back into the holder, and his sword into its scabbard, resisting the urge to yawn. He didn't need anyone to think he wasn't rested enough. He was as rested as he could afford to be, and had worked with even less before. He would rest when the Urgals were dispersed. Fortunately, this final tunnel should be quicker than the previous two. It was more built for Dwarves than Urgals, much less Kull. Most of the branched off tunnels wouldn't need to be searched.

He looked around, wondering whether or not Ajihad or Jörmundur were nearby. Or perhaps Gandalf or Elrond. The thought that either of them would be around sparked something he might call hope. To most, Gandalf probably seemed too old to participate in such hunts, but Murtagh had heard his tale about the hobbit Bilbo and the thirteen Dwarves and seen him in that brief battle with the slavers. Nasuada had also told him about what Gandalf did with the waterfall; a spell like that would have been tremendously costly; it had to, or Murtagh hadn't spent a week in the dark corners of the royal library. And yet Gandalf seemed but a little inconvenienced by it, able to swim afterwards where Murtagh had had to be dragged! Murtagh would fain go into the tunnel with Gandalf.

More importantly, however, his presence would provide Murtagh with a feeling of acceptance. With Gandalf, he didn't need to prove himself, didn't need to show he wasn't his father. It was refreshing. The wizard seemed also to be a fountain of wisdom – wisdom and pity. Strangely enough, Murtagh didn't really mind the pity part as much as he normally would. The pity of others was born out of contempt, embarrassment, disgust – an overall sense of superiority. When they saw a beggar on the street, they thought, 'Ew, let me try and get rid of that. I don't want to see that sorry sight when I'm on my morning stroll. This isn't the place for such misfortune.'

But Gandalf thought no such thing; Murtagh highly doubted he was capable of such thoughts. He would have thought, it seemed to Murtagh, only that it was wrong for a man to have to beg on the streets. He would have done something of value – taken him on an adventure, perhaps, to bring low an evil king. The gold found along the way would be completely incidental, of course.

And then he would probably browbeat the lord or lady until they addressed the issue, maybe even make them live a week in the streets themselves. The thought made Murtagh smile. He knew a few o-so-precious lords and ladies that could do with a week on the streets. Or a lifetime.

As for Elrond, although he had little time to get to know him, Murtagh had seen the elf-lord in battle, and that was far more than enough for him to hope that he'd come along. During the battle, Elrond was as a flame of hope and of destruction. Wherever he went, the spirits of Men and Dwarves alike were raised, and the Urgals faltered and were dismayed, and the tide was turned. Murtagh wasn't a religious man, but when he saw Elrond riding on his steed, cutting down Urgals and rallying the soldiers, he was reminded of the old tales Tornac told him about Mitthrawn, the god of battles and of wisdom and, curiously, of art, and his angels, the Ivanto.

Sitting now, in the dim aftermath of the battle, he recalled that the coming of Elrond brought something akin to madness to the Urgals. Murtagh supposed that Elrond had some sort of effect on the shade's presence on the Urgals.

"Murtagh!" The voice of Ajihad shook him out of his reverie. He rose quickly and saw him and Elrond walking towards him. The elf was clad in golden armour.

"Sir," he said, inclining his head. "Lord Elrond. I take it you're joining us."

"Murtagh," said Elrond. "I am. Are you ready for one last hunt?"

"I am. How is Eragon?" Murtagh asked.

Elrond's face was inscrutable, and he said, "He is healing sooner than I expected – the magic in his veins aids him. I expect now that he will be able to run and fight as easily as he did before, if with some mild discomfort; if I am correct, you will see him when we return. The discomfort should fade with time, but I can do nought to stop the flare-ups, only reduce the length of their occurrence. Unless there is some knowledge in Ellesméra that would let me heal him, or some more knowledgeable elf heals him, then I fear he will not be able to participate in any more battles.

"Nevertheless, one does not need to be a great warrior to turn the tide of war," said Elrond. "Indeed, war is not fought only by sharp blades or by cunning spells. It is fought with careful thought and consideration, with tactics, strategies, negotiation. Moreover, a leader, learned in the lore of Alagaësia, could inspire the people, soldier and countryfolk and city-dweller and hermit alike; such a leader would lead the hearts of all folks. But we have tarried here too long. Come, and as we hunt, I would have you tell me what you know of the Urgals."

The light from Gandalf's staff shone dimly so that it would not alert any wary onlooker. But to the wizard's eye, it was light enough. He went down each branched-off tunnel in turn, Glamdring in hand, searching for any signs of the Twins, any spell of concealment or illusion.

But carefully though he searched, he found neither hide nor hair of the Twins.

Or robes, as it were, thought Gandalf with brief amusement.

Returning to the main tunnel, Gandalf's thoughts turned to the young Eragon and Saphira. Eragon had explained to Gandalf what the dragon riders were, but his knowledge of them was clearly limited. He spoke of them as defenders, mighty warriors astride dragons who were wise beyond kings. Of their might and power did he spoke chiefly of. But for a brief while, he also spoke of them as scholars, passing it off as unimportant. Yet Gandalf suspected that the scholarly aspects of a dragon rider were of far greater importance than the warrior aspect, important though it was. Of little use are warriors in times of peace, save to keep it from time to time.

Perhaps his days with the scar will teach him that, he reflected sadly, Alas! that so many good things are taught through suffering and pain. Yet that is the way of the world. Who may go through life unharmed? All must go through their own trials, their own furnace. Nienna teaches pity and endurance through grief, not through ease. Nienna! How I long for thy halls once more, and for the rest of Estë.

He wondered then what Saphira's trials would be? She was the last of her kind, save for the black dragon of Galbatorix. Perhaps her trials shall come the nearer they drew to Urû'baen; of all those in Alagaësia, she stood the greatest chance of killing Shruikan.

He sighed. I am getting ahead of myself, he thought. Let me find the Twins in the near future before I worry about the more distant one.

Elrond turned into the narrow side-tunnel, Hadhafang held before him. Torchlight shone dimly behind him, but it was enough to illuminate the tunnel. When he was confident there were no Urgals lurking there, if only because it was too small, he exited, returning to Ajihad and Murtagh, and the ten dwarves and nineteen men. They were in the final tunnel, and it was too small for any more to be of much use. As it was, they walked five abreast, with Ajihad in the lead, and Murtagh, and Elrond walking at the front.

"My apologies, Murtagh," said Elrond. The young man bowed.

"As I was saying, the Urgals have made treaties with other races in the past, but they are far in the past, and never had any lasting effects," said Murtagh. "After all, when your entire culture is one of war, it's hard to be peaceful."

Murtagh continued on for a little while in that manner, telling what he knew or what he felt he could guess of the Urgals. Elrond listened as attentively as he could, but always kept a watchful eye out for any risks; if Gandalf did not find the Twins in the middle tunnel, then they were in this one, if they had not already fled the land. And if they were in this tunnel, they were trapped, and therefore all the more dangerous. What powers they wielded, he knew not, for it was clear that many things were different. What was called wizardry in this world was not wizardry in Middle-Earth, it seemed.

And so it was, that even as Murtagh spoke of their chieftains, Elrond's eyes lit upon a part of the tunnel. He froze, and Murtagh stopped as well. The two dwarves had passed it by, and he called for the party to halt.

"Lord Elrond?" asked Ajihad, but Elrond motioned for him to be silent. He pulled him and the two Dwarves back gently.

Holding Hadhafang aloft, he stabbed suddenly into the wall of the cave! No resistance stopped him, and there was a choked cry. He pulled his sword back. It was stained with blood.

Alarm gripped the party, but ere they could move a roar was heard from behind Elrond! He spun around and ducked, just as an axe swung for his neck! Hadhafang struck out, and a hand fell to the floor.

But more came, and Elrond was pushed back. Ten at least there were, and more were coming from other side-tunnels, all Kull – a madness blazed in their eyes. Fire sprang from behind them, and the party was hard-pressed to avoid the flames. The screams of burning Dwarves and Men could be heard from behind.

Beside him, Ajihad and Murtagh fought valiantly, and around them many bodies were strewn.

A ball of fire came towards Elrond as he blocked a sword stroke and nearly struck him. The momentary distraction was enough for the Kull to kick him, sending him flying back!

Winded though he was, Elrond rose again as swiftly as he could. But though he lay for only a brief second, it proved enough.

The two Dwarves that were beside him were slain, and Murtagh was knocked into the wall, and fell limp. Ajihad was beset with Kull, and yet he fought them off, though he was tiring. But as he fought, a cry was heard from behind the Kull.

"Letta!"

Ajihad cried out and fell on his side, clutching his breast. His face was pained, but the pain passed soon, but too late! Three of the Kull hacked at his legs, and Ajihad cried out.

Now the anger of the Dwarves and Men was roused, and they charged with renewed energy, heedless of sorcery or blades. But as they charged there was another cry, unheard for the commotion, and the dust rose from the ground and fell from the roof and walls, and all were blinded.

Elrond held back, and he called out, "Wait! Fall back, fall back!"

He coughed as dust invaded his lungs; as he coughed, he felt suddenly a mind cry out to him. Eragon must not…Varden…to chaos! He…promise this! He must…strong! He must—

Then Elrond heard no more of the mind, and the sound of battle ceased. Slowly, the dust settled, and the remaining Dwarves and Men were made visible. Their faces were filled with lingering rage, but also with growing sorrow and realisation.

The elf-lord sighed, a sudden, familiar, weariness coming upon him, and he looked around. The company of thirty were now ten, eleven if he were counted.

He frowned. No, he was wrong. They were nine now. Murtagh's body was nowhere to be found! He strode forth past the soldiers and looked at where Murtagh had fallen. There was a bit of blood on the wall, but on the ground there was a trail where he had been dragged.

A sudden suspicion occurred to Elrond, and he spun to where Ajihad fell. He too was missing. Elrond furrowed his brow. So, the Twins have stolen away both Ajihad and Murtagh. Thus sealing their fates, he felt. Gandalf had little love for them before, and now they had stolen a boy he felt responsible for. He would catch them now, and they would feel his wrath, unless some greater event occurred.

The more pressing question now was whether or not the small company should go after them, or return to the mountain-city to bury their dead? Elrond decided the latter.

"Come, let us return to Tronjheim," he said at last, sheathing Hadhafang. "Gandalf the Grey shall chase after the Twins, and it is unlikely the Urgals will remain here. Our work now is to bury the dead."

He stooped and picked up one of the Men; he was burnt, the metal armour deformed. Memories of the battle against Sauron, the last stand against the enemy made by the Free Peoples of Middle-Earth; the burnt body of Gil-Galad flashed before his mind, his friend and king.

Elrond pushed back the memory; little would it avail him now. He carried the body back to the mouth of the tunnel.

As he and the others walked, Elrond's mind turned to the leadership of the Varden. There would be a vacuum that needed filling, and if the leaders of the Varden were capable of working together, then this could be easily resolved. But if not, then Galbatorix may have already won. They would need to ensure that there was no infighting. There needed to be a clear and absolute authority if the Varden was to survive.

But who was worthy of such authority? They would not accept an Elf, and he would not ask for it. Gandalf would disappear long before they asked him, and if they offered he would not be seen by the Varden until there was a leader. Who then? Eragon? He could scarcely spare the time to rule the resistance. Nor would they think to ask Saphira. Some more prominent figure? One of the council members? No, they could not risk upsetting their peers.

Nay, it needed to be someone beloved, someone wise and with a desire to aid the people. Someone beyond the council.

But the council would want someone they could control, or thought they could control. They could not choose someone unknown, from the commonfolk of the Varden, for they could not hope that their chosen leader would not make some mistake in public.

An idea came to mind: Nasuada. He had seen her about the battlefield, fighting with the archers. Her skill with a bow and arrow were admirable, but more admirable was her dedication. No doubt her father had ordered her to stay back. Dedication to the Varden like that would endear the people of the Varden, soldiers and common folk alike, and she would be viewed favourably by other leaders.

Yes, Nasuada would be a good candidate for the leadership of the Varden. Or at least, she would be popular. But would she be good? His mind turned to their meeting. What had Gandalf said? 'From her tales, she does almost as much work as her father.'

So, Nasuada would be a good candidate indeed. But would she be selected? He knew too little of her history with the Elders; did she behave intelligently before them as well? Did she show forth the strength of her spirit?

If she is elected, let us hope the strain of the Varden does not prove too much, thought Elrond. And let us hope she has good advisors. And if she is not elected, may whoever is be wise.

Finally, they came to the entrance of the tunnel. He saw afar Arya, speaking to a general. Placing the body down, he bent his mind towards Gandalf and explained to his old friend what had happened. Gandalf said nothing, beyond that he would be there as soon as possible, but Elrond felt the wave of emotions – it was akin to the feeling of fire, and to being stuck in the depths of the ocean.

Gandalf severed the connection and Elrond went to Arya. She had espied the party and seen the dead.

"You found the Twins," she said when they met, guessing already the cause for the anguish.

"We did," said Elrond. "They were concealed in side-tunnels, hidden by illusions. Poorly designed, but enough to fool Dwarves and Men. But they had with them a host of Kull. They kidnapped Ajihad and Murtagh."

Arya's frown deepened. "Did you not go after them? Why?"

Elrond shook his head. "The Kull were many, and the Twins were there too, and the company too injured or tired. Gandalf shall go after them – he is the better option. He has great skill in matters such as this. If any can find them, and rescue them, it is he."

Arya's lips thinned, and she looked past him to the tunnel. "How many Kull?"

"A score remained if memory serves correctly," answered Elrond. "But it was chaotic, and I fear my memory does not serve correctly. Even if you can overtake them, they will be too many for you, Arya. Let Gandalf go! You must guide us to Ellesméra."

The young elf's frown deepened further, and she rebelled at the idea. At last, however, she relented and nodded. "I shall inform the king and the council of elders. Do you think we should tell Eragon and Saphira?"

"It would be unwise not to," said Elrond. "I think, once you have informed the king and the council, you should come to Eragon. He will need the comfort of friends."

Arya furrowed her brow ever so slightly but nodded, and the two headed back to Tronjheim. Arya asked him if Ajihad managed to say anything before he was abducted, and Elrond told her he would inform Eragon alone; if the Dragon Rider wished to share the information, he would. Elrond knew well enough how a few misplaced words might affect the future.

The rest of the walk was silent, save for when they spoke of the trip to Ellesméra. Arya explained that they would stop by Tarnag, one of the Dwarven cities, to get rafts. They would take the river Âz Ragni to Hedarth, then make their way to Ceris, a small Elvish settlement on the fringe of Du Weldenvarden, on foot or on donkey back.

She said nothing about afterwards, and Elrond perceived that she was nervous about the journey through the woods of her home. But there was something else, something that eluded him.

It was around the afternoon when Gandalf rushed out of the centre tunnel. A curse upon the long tunnels of the Dwarves! He put away the frustration, running down the long path to the library. Right now, he needed maps of Alagaësia. Both the continent as a whole, and every single stop between here and Urû'baen – for that, no doubt, was their final destination –, from the largest city to the smallest hamlet. From newly built inns to ancient and abandoned churches.

He was going to hunt down those Twins, and then they will see Gandalf the Grey uncloaked!

He came at last to the library, while above Farthen Dûr the stars came out, and soon surrounded himself with maps. The Twins had to get to Orthíad first, ere they could leave the tunnels. They had direct access to Orthíad, and from there follow a valley out of the Beor mountains.

From there, they would go, most likely, as directly as they could to Tüdosten lake, and camp there, before going to one of the small villages that surround the lake for supplies, and then to Furnost.

But from there, their options increased. So far, the villages were fairly close together; Gandalf could've hopped from one to another if he so wished, searching them within a few days. Now, however, there were villages and towns scattered far apart, and Gandalf couldn't simply guess or hop from one to another. He would have to learn what he could from the residents.

Alas that there were no Rangers here, none of the Dúnedain. They would be useful, if only as a guide. But there were no Rangers that he knew of, and he could not waste time finding a suitable guide or companion. If he knew where Angela was, then perhaps he would ask her. Perhaps Saphira knew. He'd ask her when he explained his plan.

Gandalf pulled out his pipe and started smoking, silently going over his options. If he went now, he might overtake them. The path from Arya's memories was still fresh enough in his mind. But once he came to the Bear Tooth Lake, things would get fuzzier.

He got up and searched for a map of the mountains, hoping to find one that would show a path, hidden or well-known, rocky or smooth.

"If you're looking for a path between the western mountains, you won't find one," said a voice. Gandalf spun around, startled. It was the witch, Angela. She was dressed in a cloak of green and brown; she threw back her hood. At her feet stood an unusually large cat.

"Oh, it's you," he said, then sighed. "So, you know why I'm here."

"I do," said Angela, a faintly forlorn look on her face. "You won't find a path between the western mountains, not on any of these maps. The Dwarven trading routes are almost as closely guarded as their names; they're kept in a vault in a room with a door that has six locks, four of which require extremely complicated spells to open, two of them nearly ensure death if improperly opened. The door locks need keys made from platinum and osmium. The vault itself has nine, three of which require keys so elaborate it takes months to make a single one, four which will alert the guard if something in your mind, voice, eyes, and fingers are wrong, one that will fill your lungs with bile, and one that will turn your fingers to lead if unlocked incorrectly and also turn your blood into molten gold."

She pulled a rolled-up parchment from her cloak. "Or, in other words, a lovely Tuesday afternoon." A satisfied smirk danced on her lips as she handed it to Gandalf. He took the map and we back to the table, moving the other maps out of the way, and rolling it out.

True to her word, a pathway between the western mountains was shown, forking at the end. One way led to Surda, and another went to Furnost. The paths were both narrow and winding, but they were there, and clear. Gandalf smiled.

"Thank you, Angela," he said. "I am in your debt."

"Oh, well, in that case I have a favour to ask of you," she said, flopping down on the chair opposite Gandalf.

"Indeed?" Gandalf frowned. He didn't have much time for favours at the moment. Hopefully it would be something that he could put off until later. "What is it?"

Angela leaned forward on the table. "Let me go with you."

Gandalf's eyebrows raised in surprise, and he made to answer when the large cat sprang up. Its intelligent red eyes bore into his. Its mind pressed against his, and he let it in.

'I would like to accompany you as well, Gandalf Vindr-Antha.'

Gandalf furrowed his brow, and replied, 'Who are you, may I ask?'

'If you want my proper name, you shall have to look elsewhere, as I no doubt would have to for yours,' he said. To his side, Angela had taken an interest in a map of the country. 'But I am commonly known as Solembum. I am a werecat.'

Gandalf raised his head, squinting slightly, his eyes wandering. 'I should be glad to have your company.'

Gandalf spoke aloud now, saying, "I would be glad to have the company of the two of you."

Angela looked up, a little surprised. "Oh! He asked to come along, did he?"

"Yes," said Gandalf. "But tell me, why do you want to come along?"

"Oh, to act as a guide," answered Angela, sitting back. "And I like being where things are happening. I can't say I'll go all the way to Urû'baen with you – I have things to look after in the Varden. But I can go a little way, and set you on the right path when I have to leave."

Gandalf mulled this over. There was a strange power within Angela, like and yet unlike his own. He would like to get to know this mysterious woman; she, evidently, had an interest in him - he didn't believe those were the only reasons she had. And the werecat held a strange power as well, and wisdom and knowledge beyond, it seemed, most others of Alagaësia. He would be an interesting companion. And he did need a guide, after all.

"I would be glad of both your company," said Gandalf at last. He stood up. "We shall leave at the break of dawn. I will speak now to Eragon; will you accompany me?"

Hello! Thank you for your patience. I hope you've enjoyed this latest chapter. Please leave a review. Constructive criticism is always welcome.

So yes, Ajihad has been taken as well. This means he will come back in some form or another; what particular form remains to be seen. I have an idea at present which I will probably run with. You'll probably realise what my plan for Ajihad is once the idea comes to fruition.