Originally, "The Turning Tide" would have been posted before "Usurper King, Zant." I decided Eragon's two chapters in the Twilight Realm flowed better together, so I shifted the order a little.

Song of the Chapter: Fate - Kokia

The declaration of a full-on assault upon the Empire's borders sent shock waves through the front. Roran's comrades were torn between relief that their ranks would no longer be slowly whittled away by the undead in an endless siege or else cursed that they were all marching to their deaths and would return home only as more of the King's mindless soldiers.

Their admiration and pity was directed upon him in equal measure, for Roran had been ordered to the vanguard. Storm Surge allowed him near unprecedented power against the undead. It also made him an obvious target.

There was no time to ride back to Cithri before the march north to bid his family a final farewell. Roran had been forced to content himself with a brief conversation through a scrying pool, a magician on both ends. His status as Eragon's cousin and Storm Surge's bearer allowed him such privilege. Most of his comrades could exchange no direct words with their loved ones. Roran still ached to hold Katrina in his arms and to rest his hands against their unborn son. He might never get such a chance again.

In the privacy of his tent Roran wondered if he should pray to any gods. Sur's power kept the King's spirit at bay. She had given him Storm Surge. She had forced its oppressive power upon him.

Mutterings broke out at the sound of a dragon's wing beats overhead. Hope kindled in Roran's breast. He knew now Eragon lived but still intended to name his son for him. Perhaps Saphira carried a direct message from him. Perhaps she could even carry him to Cithri for a more intimate goodbye.

Roran peeked outside his tent. In the sunlight the dragon's scales glittered ruby red instead of sapphire blue. Hope curdled into disgust even before the dragon landed and its rider dismounted.

Eragon had revealed his terrible revelation from the Burning Plains to him. His father was Morzan, last of the dreaded Forsworn, and the Red Rider who had cruelly cut down so many in the battle had been his older brother Murtagh.

On the Burning Plains Roran had only glimpsed Murtagh Morzansson as a distant speck upon his dragon. Up close he saw how strongly he resembled Eragon, from the blue-gray eyes to the pointed ears and angular features granted by their status as Dragon Riders. It pained Roran to see Morzansson even bore some similarity to himself, a reminder he shared close blood with such a man.

For a so-called knight Morzansson wore little finery. His only armor was a shirt of chain-mail. Over it he wore a simple black tunic with odd tracings of orange and bluish-green. A red blade was strapped to his side. Eragon had wielded the sword before Morzansson had mockingly claimed it as his inheritance.

Roran refrained himself from bashing the man's head in with his hammer. He had heard the rumors about how Morzansson had turned on his master and had fought alongside Eragon Shadeslayer in a foreign land. It was the only reason he didn't strike the bastard down then and there.

Morzansson dipped his head. "Roran Stormhammer."

Aware their growing audience, Roran bit back his first accusations. Eragon's relation to Morzan and his one acknowledged son was not common knowledge. He intended to keep it that way.

"Murtagh Morzansson," he ground out. "Why are you here?"

"To seek you out." Murtagh's lip quirked. "I have news of... a mutual associate best delivered in person. Preferably from aboard Thorn. We are short on time."

His fingers felt reassured on Storm Surge's grip. "And where are we heading?"

"The vanguard," Morzansson replied. "Doubtless you can ride there yourself, but I have business in Cithri first. Only a dragon can travel so fast."

Damn him, Roran thought viciously. He knows about Katrina.

He looked to Morzansson's dragon. The dragon looked stonily back. Roran's stomach tumbled at the mere memory of flying. He had sworn to never mount a dragon again after returning from Helgrind with Katrina. At least Saphira had been safely saddled. The red dragon's back was bare.

Yet, if these days were his last...

Roran nodded stiffly. He vanished only to grab the bag intended for Snowfire's saddle. When he returned Morzansson had already mounted.

The red dragon hunched as low to the ground as he could. Willfully ignorant to the whispers and jeers from the soldiers around him, Roran grit his teeth and clambered up a scaly side. He imagined the same curses running through his mind were shared by the dragon. Morzansson was a respectful distance back but there was only so much room atop the beast. Roran grabbed an ivory spike in a death-grip, shimmying as close to it as possible. He was all too aware of the stranger behind him that could put a blade through his back or order his dragon to drop him in midair.

Morzansson choked back a chuckle. "Thorn asks if you're secure. He doesn't want you flying off when he does. And if you 'scream like a fucking girl' he's likely to throw you off himself."

Thorn snorted for emphasis. Roran knew he was a beast of his word. Through clenched teeth, he forced the words. "Aye. Now let's get out of here."

During her take-offs and landings Saphira had always moved slowly and smoothly to make him more secure. Thorn had no such regard for novice passengers. He snapped his wings open and hurled himself into the air, fighting gravity with angry wing thrusts.

Roran clenched his eyes and held on for dear life as the ground spun away. Only when Thorn's course had stabilized did he bite back the bile and turn to face the other man. Morzansson's nerves were not from the flight. He was a damned Dragon Rider.

"How is Eragon?" he demanded.

"At this moment facing a threat even greater than the one we are about to march into," the Rider replied with damnable honesty. "Galbatorix means only to swallow Alagaesia. The evil Eragon faces means to make himself a god over this world and all others. It is the power Galbatorix swears to."

Roran gripped his spike tighter. "And yet you're the one that returned."

"Because I'm not the brother ordained by the gods of Hyrule to face that evil!" Morzansson snapped. "Eragon bears their mark upon his very flesh. If he doesn't kill it now it will keep killing until it tracks him down and kills him. And then it will come for us. We are the last of the Hero's bloodline."

He recoiled. "Your father was no hero, Morzansson!" Thank the gods he only shared blood with the bastard's mother.

"The last Chosen Hero was a man named Link Veles. His power was passed down through his bloodline. Garrow and Selena were his only grandchildren. It found a suitable host in Eragon. Should he die before his destiny is fulfilled, his burden shall fall to one of us."

Roran's first impulse was to retort he had no such ancestor. Both Garrow and Marian had descended from simple farmers of Carvahall and Therinsford for generations. Then he more fully recalled his paternal grandfather. From elders he'd heard how late in life Cadoc had been born to Gavin and Annah, how little he had resembled to either of them, how people had once whispered him to be a foundling instead of a miracle baby. Cadoc had died when he was only a young boy. Eragon couldn't remember him. Roran himself only had faint memories of a wrinkled, smiling old man bouncing him on his lap.

"I intend to toss Storm Surge away when this madness in Alagaesia is over," he answered instead. "I'll spit on whatever else the gods foist upon me."

"Who says you'll have a choice?" Morzansson asked hollowly. "Our great-grandfather was chosen as a child. He cast this evil down once. It refused to die. It also vowed to destroy every last one of his descendants such power could never be wielded against it again."

Roran's blood froze when he recalled his own descendant, little more than a bump in his wife's belly. He envisioned a thousand faceless horrors closing in.

Murtagh's blue-gray eyes searched his. "Eragon mentioned you have a new wife, Katrina. Is she pregnant?"

"Aye," he rasped. "She is."

From a pouch on his belt Murtagh brought forth a small gem. It glittered innocuously in the sunlight. Roran knew magicians used such stones.

"Usually stones like this store energy, but this one holds my memories. Any person with the barest mental training can access them. It's enchanted to only reveal its secrets to members of our bloodline. With your permission, I would give this to your wife for safe-keeping until your child is old enough to bear such knowledge."

Roran eyed it distrustfully. "What memories are so important?"

"At first I only meant to record my training sessions with Eragon. There are hidden skills only the Hero's bloodline possesses. Eragon only taught the two of us. All three of us are risking our lives. Should we die, the knowledge cannot be lost again." He paused. "Then Saphira and I thought to store every memory that relates to a Hero's burden and powers."

A burden thrust upon his descendants until the end of time. "Perhaps some secrets should die with their keepers."

Murtagh's gaze grew distant. "They did once, with our great-grandfather. Then he passed them down to Eragon."

Roran frowned. "Our great-grandfather was a man, aye? Men don't come back from the dead." He considered Galbatorix's rotting soldiers. "Not as men, at least."

"Our great-grandfather died a young man. His infant son survived and was spirited away. The Hero's bloodline survived but the Hero's skills did not. His soul could not rest until his knowledge had truly been passed down. And now that Hero is Eragon."

He pictured his brother in all but birth rotting upon a distant battlefield, his restless spirit wandering the earth in a vain hope for deliverance. Roran choked back his bile. "Oh, gods."

Better the burden rest on an inanimate gem than Eragon's shade. Sensing his acceptance, Murtagh dipped his head and stowed the stone away.

Then he explained exactly how Roran's hammer could shatter a spirit's stalemate.


Saphira smelled the dead long before she sighted them. A wet wind blew from the north. It reeked of death and decay and a magic far fouler. Even the human soldiers below wore rags over their noses to guard against the stench.

Before the Battle of the Burning Plains she had stood still for intricate armor, a gift from the dwarves, to be carefully applied. Now she had neither armor nor saddle nor rider. Such unnecessary things would only have slowed her down. Her protection came from the wards woven thick around her by Oromis and his elves.

Deep down Saphira knew her life was not at risk even without defenses. Thorn and Murtagh had assured her Galbatorix hungered for a new Order above all else. She would have to be seized alive. After all, death could not beget life, and her heart of hearts told her Jarnunvosk was no more alive than the rotting foot soldiers sent their way.

When the army lurched over the horizon the scouts gave warning. Trumpets blared. Men shouted devotion to loved ones and gods and the very need for life to not succumb to death. Saphira and Glaedr bellowed in unison. Their war cry was almost loud enough to drown out the shrieks and moans carried on the wind.

Saphira and Glaedr surged forward with the vanguard, their flames razing through the ranks. To fly too far ahead risked seperation from their ground support and being downed over enemy territory. They remained just ahead of the rebellion's first lines. Those troops that survived their burnings faced the vanguard.

Kulls and Urgals smashed through brittle bones. Dwarven steel cleaved through sloughing flesh. Elves surged forward to hunt down those too swift for mortal reflexes. Zar'roc still gleamed beneath a foul coating of black blood as a fiery spear slashed through the rotten ranks. Nasuada and Orrin, their peoples' hopes personified, fought with them. They were not the kind of leaders to hide behind an army when they ordered a march against hell's castoffs.

Wave upon wave descended upon them like the sea upon the shore. Slowly but surely, they pushed through the onslaught.

Clouds gathered overhead as they neared the border. The wet north wind grew cold and biting, gusts like wingbeats buffeting her and the men below. The howling gales rose into a shriek as the true storm descended upon them.

Saphira surged ahead of the ranks to meet it head on. Empty yellow eyes fixated upon her. The monstrosity flared ragged wings as he raised its talons-

And screamed as Storm Surge's full fury was hurled into his face in the form of a lightning bolt. Drawing back, his electric gaze searched for the source of such power, and once again honed in upon Saphira when she fluttered tantalizingly close. Orders were orders, after all.

She dove for the border as the spirit swooped down upon her. His icy talons nearly closed around her wings until a warm, wet wind blew him back. Rain screamed and thunder roared as Sur met her brother head-on. Below the fought still raged on. A sudden glow of flames in the fray was muted by a flash of lightning.

Beneath the winds Saphira swore she heard the faintest strains of a now familiar song. Squinting against the downpour she just made out a small shape slip beneath the clashing spirits' noses. Galbatorix's pet did not even realize Thorn had escaped his notice for the second time.

The storm had grounded Glaedr. Up ahead he gleamed like a beacon as he simply burned his way through the ranks. A protective wall of elves and others had closed around him and Oromis.

Her paws squelching in the mud and the wind ripping at her wings, Saphira exchanged her bulk for speed and grace. The rain dampened dragon-fire but a spin attack cut through the undead like a scythe through grass.

She and Roran had done their parts in the distraction. Now it was up to Thorn and Murtagh to truly break the stalemate.

And so it begins...