For Better or Worse Chapter 3: A hunter of shadows, himself a shade, an inheritance cycle fanfic

A/N: Murtagh, by nature, is not the friendliest, and with the slightly altered background I've given him here it's even worse. In this chapter, you'll meet the guy that the people of Alagaësia have come to fear. He is trying, even trying hard at times (but not always), but it can only be called that when compared to his standards… just so you won't sue me for some of the stuff he does here.

---xxxxx---

"Orúm" is a word of CP's ancient language meaning "serpent", and in my story it's the name of Murtagh's short sword. I named it thus to pay homage to the guy I consider the greatest warrior I've ever met in literature… If you know who/what book I mean, drop me a line.

A hunter of shadows, himself a shade - Homer

Chapter 3

12th Hay Moon

The large gate leading into Ceunon was heavily trafficked with all sorts of people going in and out of town. Poor farmers and merchants were carrying their goods on their backs, richer ones were seated on top of ox and donkey trolleys loaded with supplies. A small group of soldiers was pushing and shoving its way through, causing everybody else to jump aside and to cry out in protest. Dogs were barking, a donkey was complaining at the top of its voice, women were calling for their children, greetings were shouted, and there was a never-ending flood of inevitable cursing. The day was scorching hot yet again and the scent of many people crowded closely together was an affront to the nose.

Murtagh saw the crowd blocking the gate before he even reached the road leading to it, but he did not slow down. On the contrary, he leaned forward in the saddle, asking his stallion to go even faster, raising dust behind him that covered his men.

When he neared the entrance, people were lucky to hear the oncoming drumming of hooves, as his mount was a fully trained war horse and would not shy away from overrunning people. Still, the pace was slowed down noticeably once they were inside of town, as the streets were crowded and even though people tried, they simply could not make much room.

Many recognised who it was entering the town, and Murtagh was dimly aware of salutations and bows along the way, but he ignored them. He had been in Ceunon often, so he felt no need to pay special attention to his surroundings. His mind was still on the handsome, blond finding of his, and he made a mental note to buy him clothes later on. As much as he liked the glimpses he could get of the body, the boy deserved something decent. Murtagh half smiled to himself – he had no clue where that notion came from.

He slowed his horse to a walk and heard Grimgald and Marus do the same behind him. He sensed their excitement about being out of the endless forest, knew they were hoping for some spare time to stop at an alehouse, and he was in a mood to grant it to them. "Grimgald!"

The man rode up to his side. "Yes, sir?"

"I'll prefer talking to the messenger by myself. Why don't you and Marus take our horses and wait for me? We'll meet again in two hours."

Grimgald's eyes lit up for a moment. "Very well, sir."

Murtagh jumped off his horse and handed Marus the reins. "Oh, and Grimgald?" He reached into the little bag he carried at his belt, produced a coin, and tossed it to his surprised sergeant. "For bearing with me." He turned on his heels and walked away. Let them think about this. Their dead-hearted lord is paying for a round.

Taking a quick look around, he found himself at the intersection of two streets crossing Ceunon from north to south and east to west. Right next to it, almost at the geographical center of the town, was the market square with its usual busy comings and goings. It was just the place the man he wanted to meet would choose, because for some the easiest to hide was doing the opposite: being out in the open.

You better not make me search for long, Demeca, Murtagh thought grimly. After all, he wanted to return to the forest as soon as possible. He started scanning the crowd around the market stands, quite sure that the spy, as so often before, would be disguised as a beggar.

It was a system set up decades ago by Morzan, who had always liked using the poor and crippled to gain information, as nobody seemed to pay much attention to them. It was also a part of society where news spread fast – probably out of the need to react quickly to survive, Murtagh guessed. He was not sure how much the king knew or had once known about the system, because all he ever wanted was to get the information, no matter how. And as long as Murtagh was fulfilling his duty, Galbatorix never lost a word about it. It was likely that he would never bother about the poor.

Murtagh's eyes came to rest on a well at the side of the market place, or rather, on a figure there, crouched low and leaning against the wall of a house. There you are! Cleaving a way through the people, he steadily neared his target, his gaze never once leaving it.

He congratulated himself on how well everything had turned out. The latest order from Galbatorix had been simple, as Murtagh only had to return the stolen egg. But because even the king could not deny how difficult it was to accomplish this task, he had given the Rider a free hand on how to proceed, and Murtagh had jumped at the chance presenting itself. Seeking out the elves and searching for the egg in their cities he had wanted to do anyway, and combining it with a trip to Ceunon to gather information increased his chance to succeed – perhaps also in reaching his own goals.

The rag-clad bundle on the ground did not move, and Murtagh thought Demeca was doing a rather good job of impersonating a sick, unimportant beggar. He came to a stop in front of the man and waited for him to acknowledge his presence. He will certainly recognise my boots, won't he?

News from Teirm should have reached Ceunon about a week ago, Murtagh figured, news whether their assassination attempt had been successful. When the king had found out that the powerful trader Jeod was keeping contact with the Varden and was forwarding information to them, he had passed the death sentence. Then the egg had been stolen, sending Galbatorix into one of his most dangerous phases of madness, and he had sent a second murder commando right away, to make sure. He wanted his loss compensated by a blow against the Varden.

Of course the king knew by now whether Jeod was dead or alive; what he had no clue about was that Murtagh had sent one of his men with the second killers. The instruction had been to interrogate Jeod before killing him, ask him especially about the egg, then pass on the information to the spy system. Murtagh had a feeling that the trader was somehow involved in the theft. And for some reason he was convinced that this information had been gathered, because he judged Jeod to be a well-prepared person, surviving the first attack on his life.

Meanwhile, nothing had happened and Demeca remained motionless. People were passing Murtagh by, closer than he was used to, but in the jostle they did not see early enough who he was to make room. "Demeca!"

No reaction. Murtagh reached up with his left and drew Orúm, the short sword strapped across his back, and used it to shove back the man's hood to see his face.

Or what once was his face.

Murtagh turned to stone, dimly aware that next to him a young girl started screaming. Demeca, who was obviously dead, did not look exactly human anymore. Both eyes were gone and broad, nasty scratches marred his face. There was hardly any skin left unscathed.

Within seconds Murtagh found himself in the middle of a circle of agitated people, who were pointing at the corpse and giving him wary looks, so he forced his body to move again and dropped the hood. When he walked away, the crowd was parting anxiously before him, afraid of even the lightest physical contact. He had seen enough. And he had also smelled enough, because although Demeca had not been dead for long, he was already stinking like meat rotting for days. That scent, Murtagh had learned over the years, was always to be found after a certain way of a murder. After a certain murderer. One with claw-like nails at the end of his fingers.

Grinding his teeth, Murtagh began looking for Durza.

---xxxxx---

About an hour later he tore open the door of his preferred whorehouse, stomped inside, and slammed it shut again. He grabbed a lonely girl crossing his way and pulled her along, never once asking for her agreement, moving them both into a little room at the end of a long hallway. Without further ado he shoved her down on a straw mattress, turned her on her stomach, and pushed her dress up and his trousers down. All the while his thoughts were still on the Shade, whom he despised with a passion. How dare the ugly creature threaten me? Murtagh entered the fragile girl hard and raw, not caring whether he was hurting her, ignoring her attempts to make herself at least somewhat comfortable. How dare he? His blood was boiling.

Durza was easy to find, a Shade being present in the mind of every magic user nearby who concentrated hard enough and knew what to look for. He was awaiting Murtagh with a sneer, amused about the little game of his. "Oh, did I happen to catch your source, Morzanson?" he asked innocently. "Did you think no one would find out about your special arrangements? About you not following the king's orders as you should? And am I really the only one now who knows the truth about Jeod? Galbatorix will reward me…" His mad laughter filled the room.

Murtagh pounded harder into the body beneath him and used one hand to bury the girl's face in the mattress. The pain-filled screams were annoying him.

At first he doubted that Demeca had told Durza what he knew, but the latter informed him that every resistance had broken after he had eaten the first eye."No more first-hand news for you, Morzanson," the Shade said triumphantly, "no more praise from the king. Soon he shall see who is the most loyal of his servants, soon you filthy son of a whore will be banned from court." The maroon eyes were full of glee and malice.

Murtagh was angry, so angry. Screwing the whore hardly lessened his turmoil.

"I can live with that," he replied with a snort. "I, for one, am self-dependent." While circling the Shade, his mind furiously tried to breach some of the other's barricades. It was unfortunate to lose Demeca, but he had experienced worse and Durza had seen better, so that could not be the reason for the creature's triumph. Durza, he knew, was hiding something.

He stopped his thrusts for a second, wondering how to get rid of the rage burning within. Someone had to suffer along with him, and for his taste the girl was not yet suffering enough, so he turned her around again and pulled her close, enjoying the fear and hurt he saw in her face. He pushed his cock against her unwilling mouth and slapped her hard when she did not immediately take it.

His secret made Durza so jubilant that eventually he shared it with Murtagh. "The egg, Morzanson. Jeod has talked about the egg. And I, only I, know what he has said. It's the end of the Varden, I tell you, and it will be me bringing it about. The king will praise me forever. You, on the other hand, you have failed, you two-faced, disloyal-" The flash of red hot light hit Durza unprepared and shut him up effectively, but the mouth with the foul teeth managed another nasty smile when he took his leave. "Is that all you can do, Morzanson? This little magic? No wonder your dragon is not around. I'd be ashamed as well for a Rider like you…"

Murtagh rammed into the throat until the gagging and choking he both heard and felt satisfied him. Shoving himself deep down, again and again, he finally found his release. Only when he noticed the girl's face to become slightly blue did he let go of her head, pulled up his trousers, and went away without a word. He left a coin with the keeper of the place, knowing exactly that the whore would never see it. Once outside, he took a deep breath and tilted his face up to let the sun warm his skin. He felt a lot better.

If someone else was to surpass him in the king's favour he would not mind. Quite the opposite, actually. He would be very content to be left alone more often, to have time to figure out his place in this turbulent world. Then again, he knew that it would never be possible. He was the only Rider apart from the king, which meant being a mighty weapon in battle, and also that Thorn was a possible candidate if there was ever a female to mate with. This led back to the blue egg: Galbatorix had once mentioned that it felt female, although he had not been sure. If Durza, however, decided to inform the king not only about the connection Murtagh suspected between Jeod and the theft, but also about the fact that Murtagh was trying to gather information behind Galbatorix' back… It could get dangerous, even more so than every move of his already was. At the same time, Durza could only be bluffing, but Murtagh knew better than to take such a risk.

He found Grimgald and Marus exactly where he had expected them, which was in an inn not far from the place he had just visited. They were chatting away merrily with strangers, a long table filled with food and drink in front of them. To think that I have financed all this… but no. They deserve it.

He walked towards his men with a few long strides, a plan forming in his head. It was time to take matters into his own hands. "Grimgald!"

His sergeant had not seen him coming and flinched and immediately jumped to his feet. "Yes, sir!" Marus quickly stood up as well, cleaning his mouth on a corner of his shirt.

"I want you two to travel to Teirm. You leave today. Demeca was in no position to tell me about his findings, so I need you to learn all you can about the trader Jeod, especially who he was in contact with on a daily basis and who his business partners were."

Grimgald nodded. "Yes, sir!" He paused. "There has been word about a mutilated corpse. Was it… the Shade?"

Murtagh only grunted in response, his dislike for Durza not unknown among his men.

"Milord! What of that Eragon?" As so often, Marus avoided his eye.

"Oh, we like him again?" Murtagh asked sarcastically instead of answering.

"No… I mean, yes… I don't know. I don't know him. I just… what of him?"

Murtagh chuckled. Making the young man feel uncomfortable on purpose was quite amusing. Which was not right, he knew that not only since his oath a few days ago, but still. It helped his mood. "I'll take care of him. If he's a messenger, I dearly want his message." And if he is not, he added silently, if he truly is a runaway pleasure slave… I won't mind. Not at all. "I'll take him along with me, we'll go back into Du Weldenvarden, and I'll see what I can find out about the egg. It's ridiculous how well the elves have kept quiet in the past weeks. Durza said that… well, I need to find the damn egg. Or at least learn about its whereabouts."

Knowledge was all he had. It was the most powerful, but also almost the only weapon against the king. Knowledge kept him alive whenever he was being doubted, whenever others pointed their fingers at him, calling him a traitor at heart. So far, he had always been able to convince Galbatorix of the opposite, although this had become unbearably hard when he had started losing faith. When he had begun to see the errors of their way. Which, of course, did not mean he sympathised with the Varden… He spat to the dirty ground when the thought of the rebels crossed his mind. To him, they were a bunch of unorganized fools, seeking power only to throw the country into the next madness, a madness ruled by chaos and anarchy.

The system of the kingdom is sound, it is just the king that is… not so sound. And creatures like Durza should not be allowed to exist, let alone be given power. Murtagh fought hard not to let his anger get the better of him again. Even if the Shade momentarily gained an advantage, he would win it back. He simply had to gain more information, make himself irreplaceable. Then he could deal with the king; he knew how to handle him. He was a Rider. He was the Rider. And he judged things differently than Durza had: news about the whereabouts of the egg would not be the end of the Varden, only a hard blow to their hopes. It was a lot, but not enough. Murtagh actually had to find it, because only that would make the difference.

"Milord," Marus tried again, his voice entreating. "What of my cloak?"

For a second Murtagh was stunned by the unimportance of the matter. "Wasn't it you who argued that it was so warm and no one really needed one?" He saw Marus remember the incident and wince, which was enough of a victory for Murtagh to pull himself together. "Here." He tossed him money. "Go buy yourself another one. But make haste, I want to see you two gone as soon as possible."

Marus eyes lit up. "Yes, milord. Thank you!" He bowed and was gone.

Grimgald, however, stayed longer and gave Murtagh an inscrutable glance. "You know," he began tentatively, "you'd probably get further with him if you were more often like that…"

Murtagh regarded him quietly for a moment. There was nothing left that the sergeant could teach him – Murtagh had overpowered him years ago – but the older male still held one dangerous weapon: Grimgald and Tornac had been of the same people, with the same grey eyes. And in those, Murtagh could sometimes catch a glimpse of his late trainer, his mentor, his spiritual father. It was always an angry Tornac, a disappointed Tornac. Right now, though, Grimgald, and thus Tornac, was appeased…

Murtagh nodded. "I'll try and remember that. This world does not need another Morzan."

Now it was Grimgald who was too stunned to speak. After a moment he bowed as well and took his leave. "Go with the Gods, sir!"

"Thank you," Murtagh murmured, feeling oddly moved. It was not something he heard on a regular basis. People simply did not wish for him to return unharmed – or return at all.

When Grimgald was gone and the moment had passed, Murtagh went to get his horse, which was tethered to a pole outside of the inn. The afternoon light made the town look friendlier than it really was and reminded him of the other purpose why he had visited Ceunon, the purpose that had not been there until the arrival of a certain blond…

He directed his horse towards the quarter of the craftsmen and stopped in front of a tailor to buy clothes for the boy. He was a bit lost when it came to sizes and measurements – usually he had people doing all the purchases for him – but with the help of a tailor who was sensing good money he eventually decided on garments. He thought he was doing exceptionally well in terms of his vow, especially after the agitating meeting with Durza and its possible consequences.

Loaded with goods ranging from leather boots to cheese, Murtagh left Ceunon, again in a cloud of dusk. He longed to get back to the woods, although it did not hold the promise of quiet and solitude. But for once the thought of prolonged talking and company did not bother him. He was not sure what it was, but something about the youth was special. And even if not, there were still his good looks.

He left the road after several miles and rode cross-country in the direction of where he had abandoned Eragon in the morning. His men had been against it, doubting the boy would obey, but Murtagh had been firm in his belief. He knew Eragon wanted to go back to the place he had come from; however, he also knew that the youth had no idea where that place was. And they had made such amiable conversation this morning… No, Eragon would be there, Murtagh was certain, and he would appreciate the things bought for him. Murtagh's mind jumped to the possible ways of payment he could ask for, and he was busy with rather dirty dreaming until he got to the place he was looking for. With no Eragon in plain sight.

He jumped off his horse and scanned his surroundings. "Eragon!" His call faded away without answer. Estimating that they had left the youth on his own for nearly six hours, he wondered what a disorientated and helpless person would do in the meantime. Probably try to orientate himself.

He noticed a little cliff to his right, surrounded by bushes and wild flowers, and thought that if he were that boy, he would go there to take a good look around. He left his horse and climbed the rocks, only to find… nothing. "Eragon?" Now Murtagh used the outlook himself and shaded his eyes, casting a long look in all directions, eventually using his magic to help him out.

He was the only human around.

Murtagh cursed heavily and his good mood vanished in the blink of one eye. How dare the little thing go against my order? He jumped down and returned to his horse, which stood exactly at the place where he had left Eragon. At least he doesn't have a clue how to cover his tracks. Within an instant he found the boy's foot prints on the forest floor and followed them back and forth until they went straight in the direction of Ceunon. "Oh, really clever." He hurried back and mounted his horse. "Just wait till I get you," he threatened the thin air around him, thinking of Eragon.

Soon he found out that the boy had taken the same way they had, which was, after all, the swiftest to town. Murtagh was quite angry at himself for overlooking all traces on his way back. He hated losing time, even more so now, with Durza ahead. If the most unlikely thing happened and there ever was a new Rider, he had to make contact before the king did, no matter how dangerous that was. Therefore he had to find the egg, the sooner, the better.

Murtagh was already back on the road and rapidly nearing Ceunon when he caught sight of 'his' boy in the distance: Eragon, in his most ridiculous attire, had been intercepted by a group of soldiers not far away from the town's gate. Halting his horse a good deal away from them, Murtagh watched how the youth was gesturing wildly and how the men obviously did not understand him. How should they, if I have not? Before long the soldiers stopped listening and simply grabbed the boy and dragged him along into Ceunon. Eragon struggled and kicked his legs, trying everything to break free, but to no avail.

Murtagh spurred his horse to a slow trot. His first thought had been to interrupt; only a word of him was needed for the soldiers to hand over Eragon. A moment later, however, the idea of the boy spending a night in a cell was alluring. I have falsely treated him as an honoured guest for far too long. This night will teach him to be obedient in the future, and to appreciate how I've handled him.

Then again, he still felt the urge to deal out punishment, to make the boy feel his anger. Yet he stayed back, postponing it, and only followed the troop in a safe distance without being seen. He claimed a room close to the garrison and drowned his irritation in ale, meanwhile imagining what he would do to Eragon the following day.

Generally, people defied him once, only once. After that, they did as he told them to or they did not do anything ever again.

Murtagh was not even aware that he delayed his trip once more only because of Eragon.

---xxxxx---

"Murtagh!"

Murtagh stopped dead on entering the room and hearing Eragon call his name with so much joy and relief. That's not possible! He beckoned the guard commander holding the keys, who came running and opened the cell, as worried as the rest of his men that they had done something to evoke the anger of the Rider.

Eragon had been sitting with his knees drawn up to his chin on a layer of dirty, old straw, but now he got up quickly and moved towards the open door. "…Hello!" he remembered when he passed the row of iron bars, then stopped in front of Murtagh, looking like a dog who had lost its master and then, against all odds, recovered him. Only once did he look back, and a visible shiver ran down his spine.

Murtagh was more than a little perplexed. Should he not be crouching in one corner, afraid of my wrath? For punishment did await the boy, and it would be severe. So he refrained from returning the greeting and instead glared at Eragon, wanting the other to feel bad. Eragon, however, either ignored him or did not even notice his hostile expression. It dawned on Murtagh that he would make a greater impact with his look if he was a friendlier person in general – now the difference was not exactly big.

He shrugged; Eragon would realize soon enough what he was in for. "Leave us!" he barked at the soldier, who hurried out of the room. "Here," Murtagh turned to Eragon, "clothes. Wear those." He tossed the items he had bought the previous day to the ground and watched the youth put them on. When Eragon got to the boots, Murtagh saw that his feet were raw, had been bleeding a little, but he did not do anything about it. It hurts to run away? Good.

"Thank you," Eragon said while dressing. "Talk?"

"No, not now," Murtagh growled, sounding worse than he felt. The fact that the boy was completely unafraid, seemingly wanting to continue where they had ended yesterday, astonished him, and – to his absolute surprise – appealed to a part of him he had not known existed. Someone trusted him outside the battle field?

Eragon was ready and watching him. "Go?" Murtagh was not blocking the way, but something kept the blond in place, although his posture still showed no fear. Suddenly there was a noise from another cell, a soft whimpering, and Eragon flinched, his eyes widening. "Go?" he asked again, this time almost pleading.

Murtagh decided quickly. "Yes, we'll go." He led the way out to his horse, thoughts running in his head. He would still carry out the punishment, but refrain from humiliating the other by doing it in front of people. 'Tis as much as I can do, and he will be grateful, which can't be bad…

Soon they had left the town far behind and were nearing the forest again, for Murtagh was planning to head east, deep into Du Weldenvarden, to pay a secret visit to the elven cities hidden there.

When they had passed the first trees, he abruptly halted his horse and, as on the day before, shoved Eragon unceremoniously down the croup, making him stumble. Just wait, boy. Your troubles haven't even started yet.

Eragon was protesting in his language, not having learned the relevant words in the common tongue so far. However, when he glanced up at Murtagh, he finally seemed to understand that something unpleasant was up. He moved a step back and shook his head. "No."

"I'm not even sorry for this," Murtagh murmured when he jumped to the ground. He strode towards Eragon, dropping his sword belt and grabbing the second belt underneath, slowly unfastening it. He smirked when he saw blue eyes grow larger. "You ran. You brought this upon yourself."

"No!" Eragon declared again, pointing at the strap of leather in Murtagh's hands, backing away further. "You… no!" He tried to sound authoritative while at the same time picking up speed moving backwards.

"Stop!" Murtagh called. "Don't run, fool. I'm not even that mad, but if you continue like this…" He knew he was not understood, but it felt good telling someone that he was not that evil. Eragon, however, did not react to it; instead, he suddenly turned around and started running.

Murtagh cursed. Can't the boy take it like a man? Before he even thought about it he had reached for his magic, and a red bolt shot out from his hand, following the blond and knocking him to the ground.

---xxxxx---

In the end, Eragon did take it like a man, astounding Murtagh once more. Nothing about the youth ever turned out the way he expected it to; never before had he been so wrong in predicting another's actions.

He roughly grabbed Eragon and pulled the dazed boy to his feet. Then he used his belt and bound the other's hands over his head and to a tree. "I will only hurt you, not mark you for life. But I don't want you to writhe away," Murtagh explained the usage of the belt, and added as an afterthought, "Believe me, I know what that's like… The marking, I mean. I carry a scar big enough for the two of us." The words sent a chill through his body. He could not remember when last his mouth had been so uncontrolled. He left the tied up Eragon waiting for a moment and rubbed a hand over his face. Have I truly just told a stranger about my scar? Do I… do I want to save him from the sort of pain that I suffered from? The shame that is still there? Never had he cared before.

Eragon was watching him, lips pressed together, showing recognition at the word 'hurt'. Yet he did not falter and only awaited the inevitable quietly, accusing Murtagh with every look he gave him.

So Murtagh dismissed the strange thoughts and begun punching Eragon, fist to stomach, each and every blow delivered with precision and force. Any second he expected the other to crumble, to whimper, to plead – just as people in the boy's situation usually did. He was prepared to close his heart to this strange person, to ignore his every attempt at lessening the punishment.

Which Eragon did not do.

His face was contorted with pain and he had to gasp for air after every blow. Soon sweat broke out on his forehead and eventually he stopped glaring at Murtagh, who noticed the other's eyes becoming wet. But nothing. No sound passed Eragon's lips.

Normally, Murtagh would have increased the intensity at that point. He wanted his victims to cry out, to beg. Yet somehow Eragon's quiet defiance impressed him right away and continued to impress him the more he thought about it. The boy was helpless only at first glance – behind his pretty face he hid a strength matched only by a few.

All of a sudden, Murtagh stopped. He would not carry it out until Eragon fainted. True, he was never disobeyed, but also never before had it felt so wrong hurting someone. He studied the other for a while, but the boy was keeping his gaze averted. No, not boy, Murtagh corrected himself. He is a man.

He untied Eragon and steadied him when he nearly fell. "You." When he had the other's full attention, he noticed resistance and – finally – pain in the angry and sad eyes. "You will not challenge me again!" He licked his lips, realizing that he had to reword it. "You walked to Ceunon. That was wrong! Bad! I say stay, you stay!"

Eragon inhaled deeply, then spat him in the face.