Eragon shivered with fear.How could he do that so quickly, and with such a short spell? Still, whoever he might be, the new Rider certainly was not Galbatorix, whose dragon was black.

Eragon clung to that knowledge as he stepped forward to confront the Rider. As they met in the center of the plateau, Saphira and the red dragon circled in the background.

The Rider grasped his sword with both hands and swung it over his head toward Eragon, who lifted Zar’roc to defend himself. Their blades collided with a burst of crimson sparks. Then Eragon shoved back his opponent and started a complex series of blows. He stabbed and parried, dancing on light feet as he forced the steel-clad Rider to retreat toward the edge of the plateau.

When they reached the edge, the Rider held his ground, fending off Eragon’s attacks, no matter how clever.It’s as if he can anticipate my every move, thought Eragon, frustrated. If he were rested, it would have been easy for him to defeat the Rider, but as it was, he could make no headway. The Rider did not have the speed and strength of an elf, but his technical skill was better than Vanir’s and as good as Eragon’s.

Eragon felt a touch of panic when his initial surge of energy began to subside and he had accomplished nothing more than a slight scratch across the Rider’s gleaming breastplate. The last reserves of power stored in Zar’roc’s ruby and the belt of Beloth the Wise were only enough to maintain his exertions for another minute. Then the Rider took a step forward. Then another. And before Eragon knew it, they had returned to the center of the plateau, where they stood facing each other, exchanging blows.

Zar’roc grew so heavy in his hand, Eragon could barely lift it. His shoulder burned, he gasped for breath, and sweat poured off his face. Not even his desire to avenge Hrothgar could help him to overcome his exhaustion.

At last Eragon slipped and fell. Determined not to be killed lying down, he rolled back onto his feet and stabbed at the Rider, who knocked aside Zar’roc with a lazy flick of his wrist.

The way the Rider flourished his sword afterward—spinning it in a quick circle by his side—suddenly seemed familiar to Eragon, as did all his preceding swordsmanship. He stared with growing horror at his enemy’s hand-and-a-half sword, then back up at the eye slits of his mirrored helm, and shouted, “I know you!”

He threw himself at the Rider, trapping both swords between their bodies, hooked his fingers underneath the helm, and ripped it off. And there in the center of the plateau, on the edge of the Burning Plains of Alagaësia, stood Murtagh.

INHERITANCE

Murtagh grinned. Then he said, “Thrysta vindr,” and a hard ball of air coalesced between them and struck Eragon in the middle of his chest, tossing him twenty feet across the plateau.

Eragon heard Saphira growl as he landed on his back. His vision flashed red and white, then he curled into a ball and waited for the pain to recede. Any delight he felt in Murtagh’s reappearance was overwhelmed by the macabre circumstances of their meeting. A unstable mixture of shock, confusion, and anger boiled within him.

Lowering his sword, Murtagh pointed at Eragon with his steel-encased hand, curling every finger but his index into a spiny fist. “You never would give up.”

A chill crept along Eragon’s spine, for he recognized the scene from his premonition while rafting the Az Ragni to Hedarth:A man sprawled in the clotted mud with a dented helm and bloody mail—his face concealed behind an upthrown arm. An armored hand entered Eragon’s view and pointed at the downed man with all the authority of fate itself. Past and future had converged. Now Eragon’s doom would be decided.

Pushing himself to his feet, he coughed and said, “Murtagh . . . how can you be alive? I watched the Urgals drag you underground. I tried to scry you but saw only darkness.”

Murtagh uttered a mirthless laugh. “You saw nothing, just as I saw nothing the times I tried to scry you during my days in Urû’baen.”

“Youdied, though!” shouted Eragon, almost incoherent. “You died under Farthen Dûr. Arya found your bloody clothes in the tunnels.”

A shadow darkened Murtagh’s face. “No, I did not die. It was the Twins’ doing, Eragon. They took control of a group of Urgals and arranged the ambush in order to kill Ajihad and capture me. Then they ensorcelled me so I could not escape and spirited me off to Urû’baen.”

Eragon shook his head, unable to comprehend what had happened. “But why did you agree to serve Galbatorix? You told me you hated him. You told me—”

“Agree!” Murtagh laughed again, and this time his outburst contained an edge of madness. “I did notagree. First Galbatorix punished me for spiting his years of protection during my upbringing in Urû’baen, for defying his will and running away. Then he extracted everything I knew about you, Saphira, and the Varden.”

“You betrayed us! I was mourning you, and you betrayed us!”

“I had no choice.”

“Ajihad was right to lock you up. He should have let you rot in your cell, then none of this—”

“I had no choice!” snarled Murtagh. “And after Thorn hatched for me, Galbatorix forced both of us to swear loyalty to him in the ancient language. We cannot disobey him now.”

Pity and disgust welled inside of Eragon. “You have become your father.”

A strange gleam leaped into Murtagh’s eyes. “No, not my father. I’m stronger than Morzan ever was. Galbatorix taught me things about magic you’ve never even dreamed of. . . . Spells so powerful, the elves dare not utter them, cowards that they are. Words in the ancient language that were lost until Galbatorix discovered them. Ways to manipulate energy . . . Secrets, terrible secrets, that can destroy your enemies and fulfill all your desires.”