A:N - I started to use double quotation marks when writing during my break, so I'm going to incorporate those into the story. It'll take a good while, but I'll eventually change to them in the earlier chapters as well. Sincerely, I hope it helps to please any American readers, although that's NOT why I've decided to change things.

Chapter Eleven – In the Shade's Shadow

Ensuring not to make direct eye contact with any of the guards on-duty, Murtagh carefully guided Tornac through the open gates of Gil'ead and into the fresh air of the countryside. He had no idea what to do now, but staying in one area for a prolonged period of time whilst on-the-run just wasn't advisable. Any sane person would know the importance of keeping on the move, else capture would surely become inevitable. Myros had shunned him, so he would have to make his own way. He had no other friends who weren't staunchly loyal to the king or the Empire, so they couldn't be trusted.

Hood masking his face as much as possible, his mind was abuzz with plans and ideas, none of which were very fruitful in their nature. He breathed a sigh of relief as the guards allowed him to pass without so much as a second glance. They began talking about Varden attacks on supply wagons to the capital, and Murtagh frowned.

He had only caught a second of their conversation as he was swept away in the flood of farmers and traders departing the city, but it was enough to begin turning the wheels and cogs of his brain. He despised the king and everything he stood for, but that didn't mean he was opposed to the Empire as a whole. Murtagh firmly believed that if its leader could be scourged, the system would return to a state of purity and the land could be unified once more.

Unfortunately, that wasn't ever liable to happen. The Varden despised the king for his actions against the Riders, a sentiment which Murtagh echoed subconsciously. They would fight tooth and nail to overthrow the old tyrant, and replace him with a more egalitarian system. Murtagh had studied the nature of politics as a child and quite liked the sound of 'democracy', but wasn't sure if it were possible. The people would have to be educated beforehand, or the entire land would go to seed under the mismatched rule of feckless peasants and thieves.

No, until the people could be taught by an impartial ruler, things had to be this way. But that was a thought for another time. Now, he instead desired the downfall of Galbatorix, and had to think of a starting point. The Varden would be the reasonable option, but he knew they were wild people and didn't want anything to do with them, or their inherently radical ideals. They were idealists and he was a realist, two types of people who didn't mix well.

He shivered slightly and pulled his cloak closer. Winter was fading, as evidenced by the growth of new plants and weeds throughout the fields. The snow had mainly disappeared, although the north was probably still blanketed. The Sun was starting to rise just a little higher in the sky each day, but still the cold wind persisted. It breathed its frosty breath upon him, causing his fingers to go slightly numb.

Carefully, he allowed himself to break away from the chatter of the traders and spurred Tornac onwards, overtaking the people around him. They either didn't notice or didn't care, and he was soon able to put a mile between himself and the group. It wouldn't do well to put other people in danger. He would fight the king from afar, he realised suddenly. There were many ways to disrupt the Empire's movements, and that would do until he thought of a more permanent plan. Perhaps he could start his own group of followers, those devoted to the downfall of the king but not the system itself.

That was not currently practical, however, and he instead decided to aim for self-preservation first and foremost. He suddenly recalled the shuddering presence of those foul abominations in the king's court a few months ago.

The Ra'zac.

The king had sent them north, to find one of his three mysterious stones, the blue-coloured gem. Murtagh didn't know much about it, although he had glimpsed two others in the king's trophy room, a room he was never permitted to enter. He knew not how anyone could have stolen the precious artefact, nor where it had gone, but the king had been in unspeakable rage that day. He had killed half a dozen servants for simply daring to approach him as they were supposed to, and would have turned on Murtagh, had he not quickly escaped.

Whatever the stone was, Murtagh assumed it was of great importance to Galbatorix, so that would be his starting point. He nodded to himself, knowing what to do. He didn't yet know how, but he would travel to Dras-Leona, and destroy the Ra'zac. It would surely infuriate the king, but if he could get a hold of that mysterious stone during the act, which he admitted was unlikely, it would put him in a very strong bargaining position.

He hoped.

He hesitated as he reached the crossroad. He needed to go south, but taking that path would lead straight through the great plain and possibly take him close to Urû'baen. That was a risk he couldn't afford to take, so he instead continued westward, intending to reach one of the villages on the border of the Spine and then follow the mountains until he reached the Toark River. From there, Leona Lake would be the only thing between him and Dras-Leona.

Murtagh frowned as he saw someone approach him on the road. Not that that was uncommon at all – travellers were frequent in Alagaësia, moving between towns at will. No, the unusual thing was that this man had no horse, and appeared to have no pack or supplies with him.

Murtagh blinked and carefully moved Tornac forwards slowly. This man could be part of a trap, or else he was in desperate need of help. In any case, Murtagh couldn't stop for long. He would make his greetings, if hailed, and then continue on his merry way.

The stranger nodded as Murtagh approached. "Good day, sir," he said, grinding to a halt.

"Good day," Murtagh said neutrally, inclining his head. He moved to continue, but the man held up a hand slightly, stopping Tornac in his tracks.

Murtagh blinked again, inwardly considering his options. He slid off the horse, deciding he would knock the man away if necessary. His creed was paramount to survival.

"Can I help you, man?" Murtagh asked impassively, eyeing the stranger carefully. He couldn't have been any older than Murtagh himself, and his face was also framed with brown locks of hair. He stood tall and noble, surprisingly kempt even without provisions such as a horse. He wore a simple shirt and trousers, and bore a most disarming smile.

Murtagh instantly decided he couldn't be trusted. He reminded him of the king's expressions.

The man looked at him carefully, still smiling. His eyes seemed to bore into Murtagh's, but he was used to the king doing the same thing by now, and neither blinked nor looked away.

"Yes, you can. I'm afraid I'm in trouble, friend," he replied carefully, annunciating each syllable as a nobleman may do. "I could do with help, including spare provisions if you have any."

Murtagh shook his head, never blinking. "I'm afraid I can't do that. I only just left Gil'ead and have a long way to travel, so I have need of all my supplies. The city is about two miles in that direction," he said, pointing over his shoulder. "Maybe you'll find someone there who can help you."

The man growled irritably, and Murtagh's hand tightened around his hand-and-a-half sword, which was currently in its sheath. The man briefly glanced at it, and then sneered.

"If you think your little play toy can help you against me, you are sadly mistaken," he said with incredible snobbishness.

"You aren't even armed," Murtagh stated. "You couldn't handle me. This sword, maybe, but not when I'm the one who wields it. Walk away. Now. Before I decide to hurt you."

They stared at each other, and Murtagh guessed that the man was a careful thief. He would kill him if necessary, but preferred that it wasn't. The man removed his hand from Tornac and held it slowly by his side. Murtagh hoped he would see reason and almost relaxed, but that proved to be a mistake.

In a flash, he brought his fingers together and struck Murtagh directly below the centre of his collarbone, exerting great pressure. Gasping in agony, Murtagh, clutched at the spot below his neck, his sword almost forgotten. The man punched him below the eye and he fell to the ground. He quickly removed Murtagh's sword and stood away, admiring it briefly.

"This is a most pleasing weapon, even if it does belong to a filthy Muggle," he spat.

Murtagh made no reply, but struggled to regain his breath. He couldn't believe the force that one blow had gathered, and growled in frustration as he attempted to rise. The thief, however, was prepared for that, and Murtagh felt the point of his own sword prick his neck.

He froze and looked up.

"If you move, I will kill you," the thief declared, glinting evilly. Then he closed his eyes, and Murtagh felt a powerful force begin to batter his mind. Thankfully, he had been trained by the king himself, and his defences held strong. The thief was shocked at his strength, and continued to press forth with a fiery rage.

As well as mental training, however, Murtagh had been trained in preventing such things physically, and was able to open his eyes even as the thief continued to bombard his mind. He saw his face contorted into a mask of fury, and quickly withdrew the hidden dagger from his boot, which had been concealed by his legging.

The thief heard the unmistakable sound of metal being unsheathed, and his eyes flashed open in panic. Murtagh felt the mental attack cease, but didn't let up. Before the thief could raise Murtagh's sword in defence, he lunged forward and stabbed him between the ribs.

The thief let out a gasp of shock and pain, before Murtagh withdrew the dagger and he fell to the ground. He quickly sheathed it and took back his sword, then mounting Tornac and galloping furiously away. It wouldn't do to be caught in such a situation, and the traders hadn't been far behind. He spared not a glance for the dying thief as he spurred Tornac onwards, while slowly massaging his throbbing collarbone.

My creed is my survival.

Harry felt a peculiar buzzing sound in his mind, but couldn't beat it away. It wasn't someone attempting to assault his mind; of that he knew. Riddle wasn't strong enough to employ Legilimency at such a long range, and Harry was certain he wasn't lurking in the shadows nearby. He rubbed at his temple absently, but the feeling persisted. Irritated, he delved inwards, trying to find the source of the commotion.

He felt a surge of shock as he did so, for a mysterious presence entered his mind. It hadn't been the mysterious Fírnen from earlier, and it wasn't any of his three companions. The truly unusual thing was that it bypassed his defences effortlessly, and also that it felt like... him.

Harry gasped quietly as an onslaught of thoughts and memories came to form inside his mind, and then did so again when he realised what was happening.

Riddle must be dead, he thought, feeling his heart lurching in excitement.

He almost laughed aloud as images of Ginny, Ron and Hermione sprung into being instantly, but merely contented himself with a smile several leagues wide. The bloody, snake-like fool must have gotten himself gutted by an outlaw or a soldier he had given lip to. Harry couldn't believe he hadn't considered such an eventuality previously. Riddle had also been in a strange land, and he had been without a wand. If Voldemort's impulses existed in his mind, which was doubtless, he would have been a cheeky bastard on more than one occasion.

It had obviously cost him.

Saphira extended her mind towards his as she felt his jubilation extend beyond the confines of his own body, and her thoughts registered both surprise and happiness as she felt what was happening.

"I am glad for you, little one," she said with evident joy.

"So am I," he replied happily. "I thought that would last a lot longer than it did."

She snorted as she shifted her position beside the fire across from him, understanding his words succinctly. "That little insect was never going to last long; not when he acted as a mouse in a den of vipers. If the Sun had shone any more dimly upon him, it would have been pitch black. Besides, these things are not nearly so climatic as you humans seem to think."

Harry grinned at her use of metaphors, and looked towards Brom and Eragon. Eragon's face was a picture of concentration, and his brow was sweating slightly as he magically held the pebble in the air once more. They had both grown much stronger in using the Ancient Language, and Eragon had taken to actually hunting with the pebble. He would cast it forcefully at any game he came across, and the blow would kill it almost instantly. Harry refrained from doing so, instead using his elevated senses to communicate more with nature.

Brom had shaken his head at that, stating irritably that survival was more important. But it had been two days since they had found the flask, and Harry showed no signs of letting up. It was impossible to lie when speaking the Ancient Language, and so he found the connection with the surrounding wildlife quite remarkable. He couldn't speak much yet, but even brief words of relaxation and calmness helped to earn their trust.

It was merely an interesting hobby, and he knew that it would be a part of his life from now on. He had guessed correctly that plants and animals also had their own minds, stipulating individuality, and had communicated quite easily. They bore no defences, but their alien minds felt unusual to his own, and it had taken some adjustment before he felt comfortable. Currently, he sat around the fire surrounded by birds and squirrels.

That is, until Saphira casually snapped at one of them, and the lot scurried and flew away quickly.

"Okay, maybe I'm getting a little obsessed," he admitted sheepishly, scratching the back of his head. "But it is fascinating, you have to admit. Imagine being able to call on nature to help you in a fight."

Saphira blinked, and began to do something strange with her mouth. She was showing her rows of pointed teeth, but not threateningly. Eragon, who had just dropped the pebble before collapsing, spared her a glance.

"What's up with you?" he asked curiously.

"Nothing," she replied simply. "But our friend here believes an army of squirrels and pigeons would be useful in a battle situation."

Harry felt his face begin to burn as he realised she was laughing at him, and quickly smiled awkwardly. "It was only a joke," he said, not entirely truthful.

Eragon shook his head in mock disdain, smirking at him. Harry rolled his eyes in irritation and turned to Brom, who was lighting his pipe. They decided not to spar that evening, instead practicing magic.

"My memories have returned," he said aloud.

Brom froze in the act of adding the tobacco and looked at him carefully, as Eragon did the same thing.

"Are you certain?" Brom asked, taking the pipe out of his mouth.

Harry nodded. "I know you didn't see that thing, but it was real. It's dead now, though, and I have my memories back. I finally feel normal again."

Brom shrugged, but then narrowed his eyes. "What do you mean 'it's dead now'? How do you know it's dead, and not merely incapacitated or powerless? I thought you couldn't feel it?"

Harry hesitated. He hadn't told them about Fírnen, but it looked like now might be the time. He quickly summarised the conversation he had had with the mysterious presence, and Brom looked both thoughtful and concerned.

"That doesn't make sense," Eragon said confusedly. "I thought distance affected mental communication?" Indeed, he had found it difficult to talk with Saphira when she went hunting at times, and the bond they shared was much stronger than any normal one.

"I have no idea," Brom shrugged. "At the very least, it sounds like this 'Fírnen' helped you immensely, and that's something fortuitous."

Harry nodded in agreement, staring at the crackling flames. It was a few moments before he spoke again. "At least now I feel whole again, and I can focus."

"Can you... eh, disapparate?" Eragon asked suddenly, remembering the word and sitting up straighter.

Harry blinked, and immediately tried to disappear and reappear beside Saphira. To his unfathomable annoyance, nothing happened. He sighed in resignation and shook his head.

"Hmm... that is a powerful curse indeed," Brom said with interest, now happily puffing away. Clouds of smoke surrounded the camp, mostly lost in the darkness.

"I know," Harry replied with mild irritation. "I don't think I'll ever be able to break it... but," he continued, speaking louder and standing up, "we all knew that already, so I'm not too upset."

Saphira, who had been silent, suddenly raised her head and stared at him. Harry looked back, feeling apprehensive at the look she was giving him.

"Err... is everything all right?" he asked, measuring the question with utmost care.

She projected her thoughts for all three men to hear. "I knew there was something strange about your mind... and now I know..." she trailed off.

"What are you talking about?" Brom asked, eyeing her carefully.

She hesitated. "This... presence is unusual, and it has made your mind feel very strange indeed. I have not felt the minds of many humans, but it is different to how I would imagine one is."

"How so?" Harry asked mentally.

"It... feels like... it has been laced with another's mind," she said quietly in their heads. "But not a human mind..."

"Well... what, then?" Harry asked out loud, feeling apprehensive.

She blinked, continuing to look into his soul itself. "I thought your mind felt a little like mine... like the mind of a dragon," she declared.

The forces of Alagaësia are mysterious indeed. Many believe in the power of the Sun and stars as wards against the darkness, whilst others worship them as evil and all-powerful gods. With regards to evil, an act caused by its most vile and degenerate form had occurred shortly before Saphira's shocking revelation.

His hair and eyes blood red, he bore upon his face a terrible expression of hatred and twisted malice. He stared down at the whelp before him, before rounding on the captain.

"This little insect is almost dead. Why should I care if he passes or not?"

The captain, Nyos, garbed in the traditional armour of the Empire, swallowed nervously. He eyed the Shade with a mixture of fear and determination.

"I... I am a magician, sir. I tried to read his mind to see what had happened, but found it blocked."

"So?" the Shade asked, growing bored.

"He's remarkably strong, sir. I... forgive me, my lord, but I think he is almost as strong as you are."

The Shade glared at the man, who gulped visibly, before staring down at the boy lying on the table. The captain had bypassed the healers and brought him straight to the Shade, covering the floor and furniture of his garrisoned office in blood. He had been stabbed between the ribs, and wouldn't survive long.

Shutting his eyes in concentration, the Shade extended his mind and gasped audibly. The boy's mind was packed with energy, as though he had been storing it for many months. The captain hadn't been lying – he was almost as strong as the Shade himself. Almost, but not quite.

With a groan, the boy rolled over slightly, still unconscious.

The Shade's eyes snapped open. "Get out," he hissed. "All of you. Now!" he shouted, and they scurried out of the room, probably pissing themselves in fear. The Shade smirked and turned back to this incredible discovery.

He made a mental note to have the captain rewarded for his intelligence, and slowly extended the palm of his hand over the boy's head. It bore a red diamond inlaid upon a personal ring, once which he used for exactly this purpose.

"What... what are you doing?" the boy gasped defiantly, eyes flickering open. "I demand you release me at once."

The Shade smiled grotesquely. "You are full of precious light," he breathed. "And you are a threat to me. I cannot have that."

Then, he began to utter mysterious words Riddle had never before heard. He felt unusual, as though something were pressing upon his heart, and then felt something grip it firmly.

He screamed in pain as his heart and brain were twisted around from the inside-out, and howled in anguish as his mind began to fade. He felt himself choking on his own blood, as the Shade growled in satisfaction. The jump from the boy to his ring took the form of shadows merging together, the boy's soul and his evil spirits. His face contorted in pain and began to lose form as Durza laughed manically. His bones were crushed to dust, and his skin was laid open with a thousand bleeding wounds. He choked and spluttered, helpless. It felt like he was creating a Horcrux, but was going much too far.

Outside, Nyos and his men had shuddered and one even vomited at the sounds emanating from the Shade's room. Nyos knew what was happening, but never dared to make any inquiries. If the boy was really that powerful, the Shade would double in strength. He would doubly jeopardise any who dared cross him.

When he was recalled into the room, the body had vanished. Only a pool of blood remained.

Eragon stared in amazement at the sight before them. The city of Teirm was obscured behind a huge curtain wall, approximately one hundred feet high and thirty feet thick, if Eragon had to guess. He guessed that because groups of watchmen and archers strode across the top in even lines, casting watchful eyes of the influx of people below. The wall's smooth surface was riddled with arrow slits and divided only by two iron portcullises, one facing the sea on the west and one opened to the road on the south.

Brom had sung a tale of the sea for Eragon, who had never before seen its vast and magnificent form. Harry, who had, paid it little mind as they rode towards the city, but Eragon couldn't help glancing over every few seconds to examine the frothy and restless surface.

They hadn't spoken of Saphira's revelation, as Brom had merely scoffed and labelled it 'complete nonsense,' before rolling over and going to sleep. Harry had raised an eyebrow at Eragon, and the two had seen through the old man immediately. They didn't press the point home, however, or even talk about it with each other and Saphira. There would be time for that later, when they may have a better idea of what was going on. For now, they wordlessly agreed to press on, hoping Brom would speak to them eventually.

As they neared the massive city, Brom caught sight of a few guards and leaned in closely.

"This is our first test," he said. "Be careful."

Eragon nodded. "How big is this place?" he asked with awe.

Brom smiled. "Bigger than any place you have ever seen."

Harry blinked, examining the city closely. The only visible section above the walls was a huge citadel, undoubtedly the home of Teirm's Lord. In truth, he had never seen anything bigger either. Well, you could include London, which must have been bigger than Teirm, but a solid structure was debatable. The stadium of the Quidditch World Cup final had been huge, as had Hogwarts, but this was a packed city, and would probably hold a few of the stadia itself.

Harry focused as they approached the gates. Eragon quickly relayed a message to Saphira, telling her to be careful.

Her response had been simple: "if you get into trouble I'll pin you to my back and never let you off."

"Halt!" one of the guards exclaimed, holding up an armoured palm. The guards had been routinely questioning all incoming travellers, so they had needed a cover story. "What business have you in Teirm?"

"Wer here t' visit meh uncle," Harry said, adapting a thick and somewhat ridiculous accent.

"What's your name?" the guard asked, sounding bored now. Apparently he had better things to do than fraternise with the common peasants.

"I be Remus, son of Sirius."

"Remus Siriuson?" the guard asked incredulously. "Never heard of either name before."

"We're from far away," Brom said, dropping his voice into a thick, wheezy impersonation. Harry almost started at the face he was pulling – it made him look about twenty years older. Harry thought he probably should have had a better cover also. In a land like this the names Remus and Sirius were probably unusual enough to have him arrested.

"Oh, really? Where do you hail from, then?" the guard asked.

A thought of inspiration hit Eragon very suddenly. "We come from Yazuac. But it were burnt by those Urgals a wee while back."

Eragon, meanwhile, sounded so comical that Harry would have to laugh at him later. He neglected the speech impediment that Harry had used, but utilised ridiculous tenses and words that made no sense.

"We be there when it burn, geddit? We say: no more corn nor flock, but a life fit for sewers."

The guard stared at him impassively, before shaking his head in disbelief. He stood to the side and allowed them to pass, muttering "bloody foreigners" under his breath as they passed. He had obviously heard of Yazuac and what had happened, and so decided to let them pass.

Once they were safely through the gates and out of earshot, Brom rounded on them both. "You bloody fools. A child in a pantomime theatre wouldn't have believed either of you back there. I see you need training in the art of deception."

Eragon looked embarrassed. "We're not as accomplished as you are in fooling people."

"That... was roughly my point," Brom grumbled with sarcasm, lighting his pipe.

"So... what now?" Harry asked, as they watched the crowds of people moving to and fro. "You said your friend was a merchant in this city?"

Brom nodded. "Yes," he said, talking around the mouthful of smoke. "Jeod can help us... if he's still alive," he muttered, walking off.

Harry and Eragon quickly followed, both aware they were now firmly in enemy territory. For Eragon, this city was magnificent and he would want to explore its wonders, including the marketplace. For Harry, who was used to such feelings, it was the closest to suffocation and entrapment he had felt since Malfoy Manor. If they were to leave this place alive and unscathed, there would be a lot of work to be done.

"First, we have to find the Ra'zac," he told Eragon.

Eragon nodded, not looking around. He was determined.

With a loud clank, the gates behind them shut. Harry took a glance back, and saw the guards barring the wooden frame for the night. He sighed gently, wondering whether they would eventually have to break them down in order to escape.

Needless to say, he wasn't optimistic.

A:N - Ah, Durza... one of my favourite villains of all time, simply because I think Robert Carlyle is awesome.