Disclaimer: I do not own The Inheritance Cycle. I only own the OC Michael/Ancalagon.

A new routine was set to accommodate Murtagh's presence in the group, but it wasn't just Eragon and Brom who had to adapt. Saphira and Ancalagon had to adapt their hunting routines, going longer without food but when the need to eat came, they had to fly long until suitable prey was found. They took turns hunting for the both of them and it helped ease their companions and themselves to have at least one of them out on long patrols. It was one of these patrols that helped the others avoid the large military presence when they had to pass near Urû'baen.

Nights were entertaining with Eragon and Murtagh dueling and, on a few occasions, Brom as well in a one versus one versus one or two on one bouts. Those became my favorite, even though he was old, Brom held both of the boys back with relative ease for a good while, but again, he was old and tired easily. Often backing out to let the youngbloods finish.

When they stopped for a break during the days, both Eragon and Murtagh practised their archery and often it turned into a friendly competition of who could hit a target the farthest, loose the most arrows the quickest, or when in need to hunt, make the fastest kill.

Soon enough, they arrived at Gil'ead and made camp two miles away from the city so they weren't close enough to be spotted. From a distance they could see the city was a rough, barbaric place, filled with log houses and yapping dogs. There was a rambling stone fortress at its center. The air was hazy with blue smoke. The place seemed more like a temporary trading post than a permanent city. Five miles beyond it was the hazy outline of Isenstar Lake.

"There it is." Brom said grimly before he looked at Eragon. "Alright, you stay out here, Eragon. Murtagh and I will enter the city and speak to Dormnand. With luck, he'll send a message to the Varden and help in relocating Murtagh to Surda." Murtagh nodded thankfully at the old man, getting a nod back, before the dup went onwards towards the city while Eragon and the dragons remained where they were.

Eragon sighed in disappointment before he dismounted and got to work on setting up camp. Once that was done, he stared sullenly at the distant city and Saphira did her best to comfort him, knowing he had wanted to go with Brom and Murtagh.

Do not worry little one, they can take care of themselves. She said, laying down and resting her head next to him. Ancalagon simply sat on his haunches, staring at the city intently. This is how they were for several hours as they waited for their companions to return. Eragon paced around the fire, Zar'roc in hand, while Saphira and Ancalagon watched Gil'ead attentively. Only their eyes moved.

Finally, Ancalagon noticed movement and knew it was Brom and Murtagh on their horses. They're coming. He relayed to Eragon and Saphira who perked up.

Once they were safely in the camp, they dismounted and Brom was quick to speak. "I've spoken with Dormnad. He's agreed to send the letters but also wished to join us. Seems the tension within the Empire is starting to get dangerous and he wants out before it's too late. I know him and he's trustworthy, he has to finish his business here and tomorrow he will join us."

Murtagh spoke up next. "Just as well, the store owner didn't have what we needed but he promised he had more that should be arriving early tomorrow morning, so we would have to wait anyway."

Eragon, Saphira, and Ancalagon accepted the delay. So much had happened now that Ancalagon had no idea what to really expect. That night, they chose not to spar or have the fire remain lit at nightfall. As usual, Ancalagon remained awake and kept his senses spread out around and within the city. Within, he could vaguely sense two exceptionally powerful beings that had to be Durza and Arya and often they were in the same room. That made the black dragon's blood boil more than it already did, he was torturing her and it took all Ancalagon's willpower to not storm the city, burn it, destroy Durza by ripping his heart and saving Arya.

When morning came again and we looked at the city's distant walls there was an addition. A severely bruised and bloodied man swung slowly from a noose.

"Well." Murtagh remarked when I reported what I saw.

"It's either someone who attempted to desert or a thief." Brom grunted. "We should be able to find out when we get close. We'll meet back up with you at the chosen location you three." With a nod from Eragon, Brom and Murtagh took off back to the city at a canter.

"I don't like this." Eragon admitted to the dragons.

Neither do I. Ancalagon said with narrowed eyes. We should get moving.

Eragon mounted Cadoc and went off in a wide detour around the city, while Ancalagon took to the air with Saphira, who he allowed to go on ahead while he would bring up the rear to ensure there was nothing waiting to surprise them from behind. He was as tense, and felt as coiled as a snake preparing to lunge and sink it's fangs into it's prey. He looked down at the city below him, narrowing his eyes as he felt this sudden desire to see it burn into the ground but he shook it off.

Ancalagon! Saphira screamed in his head, startling him. It's an ambush!

Ancalagon sprung into action and flew where he saw Saphira land and saw she was right. There had been an ambush waiting for them. Eragon and Saphira were attacked by Urgals and a few Kull. Eragon was doing decently well but Saphira had some cuts along her body and wings, which made Ancalagon furious as he swooped down and crushed an Urgal under his paw with a roar of anger, picked another up in his mouth and crushed it within before spitting the corpse out. He swiped his tail, taking out several more, used his claws to gut open three Urgals at once and showed ny remorse when watching them clutch their guts before they toppled over, dead.

Upon hearing a bellow of victory, Ancalagon whipped his head around and saw a Kull with a massive double headed ax raised and aimed right at Saphira's neck.

As soon as he saw that, the black dragon saw red.

The Kull didn't get the chance to go for the kill as Ancalagon grabbed him with such force that he lost his breath and his grip on his weapon. Ancalagon lifted him to his muzzle and roared point blank into his face. The fear was palpable from him and with a loud growl, Ancalagon broadcasted to all there.

No one touches her…

He clenched his paw, his talons sinking into the Kull's flesh and ripping the body apart when Ancalagon jerked his paw open, sending several parts of the body flying before he flicked the remains off his talons. Ancalagon looked around and saw the Urgals and Kull were either dead or the survivors had retreated when seeing their numbers drop. However, there was one glaring problem.

Eragon was gone.

The first things Eragon noticed were that he was warm and dry, his cheek was pressed against rough fabric, and his hands were unbound. He stirred, but it was minutes before he was able to push himself upright and examine his surroundings.

He was sitting in a cell on a narrow, bumpy cot. A barred window was set high in the wall. The iron-bound door with a small window in its top half, barred like the one in the wall, was shut securely.

Dried blood cracked on Eragon's face when he moved. It took him a moment to remember that it was not his. His head hurt horribly—which was to be expected, considering the blow he had taken—and his mind was strangely fuzzy. He tried to use magic, but could not concentrate well enough to remember any of the ancient words. They must have drugged me, he finally decided.

With a groan he got up, missing the familiar weight of Zar'roc on his hip, and lurched to the window in the wall. He managed to see out of it by standing on his toes. It took a minute for his eyes to adjust to the bright light outside. The window was level with the ground. A street full of busy people ran past the side of his cell, beyond which were rows of identical log houses.

Feeling weak, Eragon slid to the floor and stared at it blankly. What he had seen outside disturbed him, but he was unsure why. Cursing his sluggish thinking, he leaned back his head and tried to clear his mind. A man entered the room and set a tray of food and a pitcher of water on the cot. Wasn't that nice of him? thought Eragon, smiling pleasantly. He took a couple of bites of the thin cabbage soup and stale bread, but was barely able to stomach it. I wish he had brought me something better, he complained, dropping the spoon.

He suddenly realized what was wrong. I was captured by Urgals, not men! How did I end up here? His befuddled brain grappled with the paradox unsuccessfully. With a mental shrug he filed the discovery away for a time when he would know what to do with it.

He sat on the cot and gazed into the distance. Hours later more food was brought in. And I was just getting hungry, he thought thickly. This time he was able to eat without feeling sick. When he finished, he decided it was time for a nap. After all, he was on a bed; what else was he going to do?

His mind drifted off; sleep began to envelop him. Then a gate clanged open somewhere, and the din of steel-shod boots marching on a stone floor filled the air. The noise grew louder and louder until it sounded like someone banging a pot inside Eragon's head. He grumbled to himself. Can't they let me rest in peace? Fuzzy curiosity slowly overcame his exhaustion, so he dragged himself to the door, blinking like an owl.

Through the window he saw a wide hallway nearly ten yards across. The opposing wall was lined with cells similar to his own. A column of soldiers marched through the hall, their swords drawn and ready. Every man was dressed in matching armor; their faces bore the same hard expression, and their feet came down on the floor with mechanical precision, never missing a beat. The sound was hypnotic. It was an impressive display of force.

Eragon watched the soldiers until he grew bored. Just then he noticed a break in the middle of the column. Carried between two burly men was an unconscious woman.

Her long midnight-black hair obscured her face, despite a leather strip bound around her head to hold the tresses back. She was dressed in dark leather pants and shirt. Wrapped around her slim waist was a shiny belt, from which hung an empty sheath on her right hip. Knee-high boots covered her calves and small feet.

Her head lolled to the side. Eragon gasped, feeling like he had been struck in the stomach. She was the woman from his dreams. Her sculpted face was as perfect as a painting. Her round chin, high cheekbones, and long eyelashes gave her an exotic look. The only mar in her beauty was a scrape along her jaw; nevertheless, she was the fairest woman he had ever seen.

Eragon's blood burned as he looked at her. Something awoke in him—something he had never felt before. It was like an obsession, except stronger, almost a fevered madness. Then the woman's hair shifted, revealing pointed ears. A chill crept over him. She was an elf.

The soldiers continued marching, taking her from his sight. Next strode a tall, proud man, a sable cape billowing behind him. His face was deathly white; his hair was red. Red like blood.

As he walked by Eragon's cell, the man turned his head and looked squarely at him with maroon eyes. His upper lip pulled back in a feral smile, revealing teeth filed to points. Eragon shrank back. He knew what the man was. A Shade. So help me... a Shade. The procession continued, and the Shade vanished from view.

Eragon sank to the floor, hugging himself. Even in his bewildered state, he knew that the presence of a Shade meant that evil was loose in the land. Whenever they appeared, rivers of blood were sure to follow. What is a Shade doing here? The soldiers should have killed him on sight! Then his thoughts returned to the elf-woman, and he was grasped by strange emotions again.

I have to escape. But with his mind clouded, his determination quickly faded. He returned to the cot. By the time the hallway fell silent, he was fast asleep.

As soon as Eragon opened his eyes, he knew something was different. It was easier for him to think; he realized that he was in Gil'ead. They made a mistake; the drug's wearing off! Hopeful, he tried to contact Saphira and use magic, but both activities were still beyond his reach. A pit of worry twisted inside him as he wondered if she and Ancalagon were okay. And what about Brom and Murtagh? He stretched his arms and looked out the window. The city was just awakening; the street was empty except for two beggars.

He reached for the water pitcher, ruminating about the elf and Shade. As he started to drink, he noticed that the water had a faint odor, as if it contained a few drops of rancid perfume. Grimacing, he set the pitcher down. The drug must be in there and maybe in the food as well! He remembered that when the Ra'zac had drugged him, it had taken hours to wear off. If I can keep from drinking and eating for long enough, I should be able to use magic. Then I can rescue the elf... The thought made him smile. He sat in a corner, dreaming about how it could be done.

The portly jailer entered the cell an hour later with a tray of food. Eragon waited until he departed, then carried the tray to the window. The meal was composed only of bread, cheese, and an onion, but the smell made his stomach grumble hungrily. Resigning himself to a miserable day, he shoved the food out the window and onto the street, hoping that no one would notice.

Eragon devoted himself to overcoming the drug's effects. He had difficulty concentrating for any length of time, but as the day progressed, his mental acuity increased. He began to remember several of the ancient words, though nothing happened when he uttered them. He wanted to scream with frustration.

When lunch was delivered, he pushed it out the window after his breakfast. His hunger was distracting, but it was the lack of water that taxed him most. The back of his throat was parched. Thoughts of drinking cool water tortured him as each breath dried his mouth and throat a bit more. Even so, he forced himself to ignore the pitcher.

He was diverted from his discomfort by a commotion in the hall. A man argued in a loud voice, "You can't go in there! The orders were clear: no one is to see him!"

"Really? Will you be the one to die stopping me, Captain?" cut in a smooth voice.

There was a subdued, "No... but the King—"

"I will handle the King," interrupted the second person. "Now, unlock the door."

After a pause, keys jangled outside Eragon's cell. He tried to adopt a languorous expression. I have to act like I don't understand what's going on. I can't show surprise, no matter what this person says.

The door opened. His breath caught as he looked into the Shade's face. It was like gazing at a death mask or a polished skull with skin pulled over it to give the appearance of life. "Greetings," said the Shade with a cold smile, showing his filed teeth. "I've waited a long time to meet you."

"Who—who're you?" asked Eragon, slurring his words.

"No one of consequence," answered the Shade, his maroon eyes alight with controlled menace. He sat with a flourish of his cloak. "My name does not matter to one in your position. It wouldn't mean a thing to you anyway. It's you that I'm interested in. Who are you?"

The question was posed innocently enough, but Eragon knew there had to be a catch or trap in it, though it eluded him. He pretended to struggle over the question for a while, then slowly said, frowning, "I'm not sure... M'name's Eragon, but that's not all I am, is it?"

The Shade's narrow lips stretched tautly over his mouth as he laughed sharply. "No, it isn't. You have an interesting mind, my young Rider." He leaned forward. The skin on his forehead was thin and translucent. "It seems I must be more direct. What is your name?"

"Era—"

"No! Not that one." The Shade cut him off with a wave of his hand. "Don't you have another one, one that you use only rarely?"

He wants my true name so he can control me! realized Eragon. But I can't tell him. I don't even know it myself. He thought quickly, trying to invent a deception that would conceal his ignorance. What if I made up a name? He hesitated—it could easily give him away—then raced to create a name that would withstand scrutiny. As he was about to utter it, he decided to take a chance and try to scare the Shade. He deftly switched a few letters, then nodded foolishly and said, "Brom told it to me once. It was..." The pause stretched for a few seconds, then his face brightened as he appeared to remember. "It was Du Súndavar Freohr." Which meant almost literally "death of the shadows."

A grim chill settled over the cell as the Shade sat motionless, eyes veiled. He seemed to be deep in thought, pondering what he had learned. Eragon wondered if he had dared too much. He waited until the Shade stirred before asking ingenuously, "Why are you here?"

The Shade looked at him with contempt in his red eyes and smiled. "To gloat, of course. What use is a victory if one cannot enjoy it?" There was confidence in his voice, but he seemed uneasy, as if his plans had been disrupted. He stood suddenly. "I must attend to certain matters, but while I am gone you would do well to think on who you would rather serve: a Rider who betrayed your own order or a fellow man like me, though one skilled in arcane arts. When the time comes to choose, there will be no middle ground." He turned to leave, then glanced at Eragon's water pitcher and stopped, his face granite hard. "Captain!" he snapped.

A broad-shouldered man rushed into the cell, sword in hand. "What is it, my lord?" he asked, alarmed.

"Put that toy away," instructed the Shade. He turned to Eragon and said in a deadly quiet voice, "The boy hasn't been drinking his water. Why is that?"

"I talked with the jailer earlier. Every bowl and plate was scraped clean."

"Very well," said the Shade, mollified. "But make sure that he starts drinking again." He leaned toward the captain and murmured into his ear. Eragon caught the last few words, "...extra dose, just in case." The captain nodded. The Shade returned his attention to Eragon. "We will talk again tomorrow when I am not so pressed for time. You should know, I have an endless fascination for names. I will greatly enjoy discussing yours in much greater detail."

The way he said it gave Eragon a sinking feeling.

Once they left, he lay on the cot and closed his eyes. Brom's lessons proved their worth now; he relied on them to keep himself from panicking and to reassure himself. Everything has been provided for me; I only have to take advantage of it. His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of approaching soldiers.

Apprehensive, he went to the door and saw two soldiers dragging the elf down the hallway. When he could see her no more, Eragon slumped to the floor and tried to touch the magic again. Oaths flew from his lips when it eluded his grasp.

He looked out at the city and ground his teeth. It was only midafternoon. Taking a calming breath, he tried to wait patiently.

And that's it for this chapter.