"Carver!" Captain Pevens called out.
Carver dropped his cards face-down on the table and hurriedly rose to his feet. "Ser!"
"Run this up to the main camp for me," the Captain said, holding out a sealed scroll. "Bring it to Teyrn Loghain's tent."
"Yes ser. Do I wait for an answer, ser?"
"No, just be sure it gets into his hands within the hour," the Captain said, then smiled thinly. "You don't have to come straight back down, just don't forget you're out on guard duty tomorrow morning."
"Yes, ser," Carver said happily, grinning widely as he tucked the scroll securely away in a belt pouch. Captain Pevens knew Carver's sister was assigned to a unit based out of the upper camp; he was pretty much giving Carver tacit permission to go visit Marian.
The climb to the upper camp was a long one, making his way up the rambling switchbacks of the wooden ramps and platforms wrapped around the towering cliff faces that overlooked the pass. At the top he had to show off the leather tab stamped with his unit's mark, and his name and rank burnt into the surface to identify him, and the sealed scroll clearly marked to the General's attention, before he was allowed through the gates and into the camp. It wasn't his first time running an errand up to the camp, so it only took him a few minutes to make his way to Teryn Loghain's tent. The General himself was there, speaking with some brown-haired elven man – a mage, by his robes – and Carver kept back, waiting politely until he'd left before making his way forward to deliver the scroll. The first time he'd handed something directly to the Teryn, instead of leaving it with his adjunct.
"From Captain Pevens' unit, are you?" Loghain asked as he accepted the scroll, and ran a curious eye over the crudely embroidered insignia on Carver's shirt. "Local militia auxiliary?"
"Yes ser, out of Lothering ser," Carver said, standing a little straighter and wishing he'd polished up and worn his armour instead of a tunic and pants, not that the well-worn boiled leather he had would take much of a shine, unlike the gorgeous set of Orlesian silverite plate mail the General was wearing. He knew the stories about Loghain; knew that the man had grown up in Lothering, that the rebels his father had led during the occupation had operated in the area, even knew which hill-top the majority of them were buried on, after their slaughter at the hands of the Orlesians. Knew that the plate armour Loghain was wearing had been stripped from the corpse of an Orlesian General that Loghain had defeated in hand-to-hand combat at the infamous Battle of River Dane towards the end of the occupation. He bit his lip, then smiled at the Teryn. "Dane's Refuge still serves the best ale south of the Bannorn."
Loghain's lips twitched briefly. "Do they," he said dryly, sounding just faintly amused.
"Yes ser!" Carver kept his voice as full of certainty as he could.
"Well, be sure and drink one for me the next time you're there," he said, and gave Carver a silver piece.
"Yes, ser!" Carver said happily, and quickly crossed his arms and dipped a shallow bow to him. Loghain nodded to him, lips crooking just slightly, before turning away and ducking back into his tent.
Carver found Marian with a handful of soldiers from her troop at the quartermaster's, the group of them closely examining a rather plain-looking sword.
"I don't know that I want to spend that much more for a sword just because he claims it's enchanted," one of the men was saying, as he tilted the sword back and forth, squinting down the length of the blade.
"How can we be sure it's enchanted, anyway," another asked suspiciously.
"That's easy," Carver spoke up as he peered over Marian's shoulder. "Check the maker's marks, if it's really enchanted there should be a chantry sunburst stamped on it somewhere."
Marian spun around, a wide grin on her face. "Carver! They let you out of your kennel for the day?" she asked, even as she pounded him on one shoulder with her fist before sweeping him into a one-armed hug.
Carver grimaced at her; she'd been teasing him non-stop ever since finding out about the mabari tattoo everyone in his unit had gotten. "Had an errand up here. Captain said I didn't have to head straight back."
"This that brother you're always talking about?" one of the women asked, and gave him a head-to-toe look, then grinned. "You never said he was handsome."
Marian grimaced. "Because he's my brother," she pointed out, then turned back to Carver. "Join me for supper? Barkus caught a couple rabbits this afternoon; I've got them stewing. He'll be pleased to see you."
"Sure," Carver agreed. Marian said a quick farewell to her companions, then led the way to the palisaded encampment where her tent was, vouching for him so that Carver could get by the gate guards. She led the way down the rows of neatly-erected tents, until she reached the cluster of them where hers was, Barkus stretched out on the dusty ground in front of it and gnawing on a length of branch as thick around as Carver's wrist, the dimples of teeth marks all over its surface making it clear it was his current favourite toy. The mabari dropped his stick and bounced to his feet as soon as he spotted Carver, and barked loudly in greeting. Carver grinned, hurrying forward the few steps to drop to one knee and give Barkus' ruff a thorough scratching, laughing as he dodged the hound's attempts to lick his face.
Marian lifted the lid of the covered pot hanging over the fire, and gave the contents a stir. "Should be about ready," she said. "Nice and tender, too."
Carver smiled. "You're lucky Barkus likes cooked rabbit too. Ket in my unit, his Hailey always eats everything she catches, guts and skin and all. Growls if anyone comes too close, including Ket."
Marian nodded as she rooted around in her pack, pulling out a wooden bowl, a tin mug, and a couple of spoons. "Barkus enjoys sharing," she said. "At least with people he likes." She spread out a bit of oilcloth on the ground, transferring several quarters of rabbit onto it before serving a mix of smaller chunks of meat and vegetables into the bowl and mug. Carver got the mug, while Marian kept the bowl for herself, the two blowing on spoonfuls of the good hot stew. Barkus sat with his nose hanging a couple of inches from his own meal, licking his chops in anticipation while waiting for it to cool down enough for him to eat.
"So how're things down in the lower camp?" Marian asked.
"Boring. Lots of us standing around on guard duty with thumbs up bums waiting for something to happen. Half of them wouldn't even believe there was any darkspawn around if it wasn't for some of the patrols dragging back a few bodies."
"A handful of darkspawn does not a Blight make," Marian pointed out, scowling.
"Yeah, but some of the furthest-ranging patrols have reportedly seen... things. Areas where it's clear the darkspawn have been in some number. And something has the Chasind spooked. Dunno if it really is a Blight or not, but I'm pretty sure it's more than just a handful of them around."
"I suppose we'll find out one way or the other if a real battle happens; if the darkspawn do want to go north, this pass is one of the few ways they can go in any numbers. If they push, it'll be here."
"You sound like you're quoting someone," Carver said, smiling.
Marian gave him a crooked grin. "Might be. Overhear a lot of talk while on guard duty. Mostly boring stuff, though sometimes our glorious leaders forget that the walls have ears and get into some pretty intense arguments."
"See much of them? Loghain and the King and the rest?"
Marian shrugged. "Enough. We're mostly kept inside the walls here except when we're on duty, but Teryn Loghain and King Cailan are both hands-on types, you see them all over the place up here."
"Nice. I hear they've visited the lower camp a time or two, but the only time I've seen either of them is when bringing reports to the Teryn, like I did today."
"He's all right, I hear. Bit strict but not one to waste soldiers if he can help it," Marian said approvingly. "King Cailan though... phwaaar!" She shook one hand for a moment, as if the fingers were burned.
Carver grinned. "You approve of our King, then?"
"I do like a man who knows what to do with his sword," she said, wiggling her eyebrows suggestively. "He'd be welcome in my bedroll any night."
"Ewww. More than I needed to hear, sister mine. Anyway, mightn't Barkus have something to say if he actually came sniffing around after you?" He smiled briefly, glancing at the mabari who was busily wolfing down his now-cooled share of the meal.
"Shades no, Barkus and I have an agreement. I ignore him sniffing around the royal kennels, and he turns a blind eye to anyone I chance to invite into my tent. Not that I've done any of that," she added, wrinkling her nose slightly. "Don't think much of most of the men in camp here. Some of the Grey Wardens and Ash Warriors aren't bad for looks, but they're both clannish bunches."
Carver nodded, and scraped the last couple of spoonfuls of stew out of his mug. "I wonder how things are going back home."
Marian smiled. "I'm sure mother is still happily terrorizing the town merchants. While Bethany charms them all."
Carver nodded. "I miss them."
"Me too. But at least we have each other here. And Barkus."
"And Barkus," Carver agreed, then set down the empty mug. "I should head back down to the lower camp; I'm on guard duty in the morning. Might take a wander around up here first though."
Marian nodded. "Just don't run afoul of the guards in the main encampment; they're mostly part of Maric's Shield and seem to have had their sense of humour excised when recruited. They tell you to move along, you get."
"Yeah, yeah," Carver said, "I know. See you again soon, I hope," he said as he rose to his feet. Marian rose as well, and hugged him.
"Aye, soon," she agreed, and smiled. "Hopefully this will all be over and us on our way home to Lothering soon, right?"
"Yeah," Carver agreed, leaned down to ruffle Barkus' ears in farewell, and headed back to the main encampment, once again having to show off his tag to show that he wasn't one of the soldiers who was supposed to remain within the palisaded encampment.
"Don't linger on your way back to the lower camp," the gate guard said sternly. "We have enough people here without those that don't belong here lolly-gagging around."
Carver nodded. "Just going to stop at the quartermaster's first before I head back down," he claimed. "Heard he has an enchanted sword for sale." He headed off in that direction, pausing briefly to listen to one of the chantry sisters who was standing on a raised platform, blessing a small gathering of soldiers.
He did stop briefly at the quartermaster's area, but only to pick up a couple of potions. He looked at the few greatswords the man had on hand, and frankly didn't think much of them; barely a step above pot-metal, in his considered opinion, and as he'd worked for a while with the Lothering blacksmith, trading months of heavy labour for the sword he currently owned, he felt his opinion was actually worth something.
He crossed over the bridge to take a look at the Tower of Ishal afterwards, and was disappointed to find that it was currently off-limits; he should have come and taken a look last time he was up here, he grumbled to himself as he crossed back over the bridge again, eyeing askance the places where parts of the ancient stonework had crumbled away, and keeping well back from the open edge.
The sun was going down behind the western ridge of mountains now, so he found himself an inconspicuous place along the southern edge to watch it from; a far better view from up here than down in the lower camp, where the looming trees and towering cliffs blocked much of the view. It was already shadowed down there, he could see, the cook-fires glittering among the tents; almost full night already, while up here on the heights it was only twilight.
He heard a soft sigh as the last of the sun disappeared behind the mountains, only the fading colours of the clouds remaining, the eastern sky already given over to star-sprinkled darkness. Turning his head, he saw an armoured man leaning against a broken-off pillar nearby, all that could really be made out about him in the gathering darkness being that he had light-coloured short-cropped hair and wore heavy armour, a sword and shield slung on his back. The man straightened as he noticed Carver's attention, and smiled crookedly. "Beautiful view, isn't it?"
"Yeah, I suppose it is," Carver agreed. "Too bad we're not here for mere sight-seeing."
The other man snorted and grinned. "Yeah, kind of wrecks the mood knowing we're here because of darkspawn sightings and a potential Blight. The forest down there looks a lot darker once you start wondering just what might be lurking in the shadows."
Carver made a face. "Don't remind me. I've seen a couple of the darkspawn bodies that were carted back... you'll be giving me nightmares."
"I'll be giving them to myself too," the man agreed, then looked Carver over interestedly. "I don't recognize that insignia... militia?"
"Yes. From the Lothering area," Carver said, then explained further. "I'm from the lower camp, just up here on an errand. I should be heading back down before they shut the gates for the night."
"You're too late for that," the other man told him. "Gates shut as soon as the sun went down; no passing through without an official permit. Hope you're not on duty tonight, 'cause you're going to miss it."
Carver cursed shortly. "No, but I am on duty first thing in the morning. Seeing as I doubt the gate guard will let me back into the palisade to stay at my sister's tent I guess I'll have to find a corner somewhere to curl up for the night, and hope I don't get shoved in the stockade by some overly officious guard," he said, grimacing. "And hope the gates open early enough in the morning for me to make it down in time for duty. Captain Pevens will have my head if I miss."
The other man grinned, and tilted his head back towards the interior of the camp. "Come on, you can spend the night by our fire; none of the guards will bother you there. I'm heading out on a patrol first thing in the morning and can see to it you wake in time to be out the gates as soon as they open again."
"Thanks," Carver said, and held out one hand. "Name's Carver."
"Alistair," the other man said, and shook his hand. "This way."
As they walked away from the edge and back towards where the tents were set up, the light of a torch revealed that the man's armour was blue and silver, marked on the articulated chestplate with a griffon insignia. "You're a Grey Warden?" Carver asked, startled.
Alistair gave him a brief crooked smile. "Yes. Don't believe all the stories you hear about us though, most of it's wrong."
"I suppose that depends on what stories I've heard," Carver said, smiling back and earning a short bark of laughter from Alistair.
"Good point. Anyway, that's our fire over there," he said, pointing ahead of them to a large bonfire not far from where the Teyrn's and King's tents were. "Most of the wardens are down in the lower camp, there's just me and our commander and a handful of recruits up here."
As they drew closer, Carver could see a collection of bedrolls near the fire, three of them already occupied. There was a covered pot standing beside the fire, the lid ajar and giving off a delicious odour.
"You eaten yet?" Alistair asked quietly as he removed the lid.
"Thanks, but my sister fed me earlier," Carver answered.
Alistair nodded, and served himself a bowl full of stew, gesturing for Carver to join him as he sat down on a nearby log. "If you ever hear stories about how much Grey Wardens can eat, that one is true," he said, before starting in on eating his food. "Though oddly enough so's the one about us being able to go for days without food if we have to."
"Giving away all our secrets, Alistair?" a deep voice asked, just before another man approached the fire out of the darkness. He had the dark skin of Rivaini ancestry, his hair pulled back in a short ponytail, with a neatly barbered beard. He looked curiously at Carver. "Who is this? He's not one of mine."
"Carver, a militia soldier mislaid from the lower camp," Alistair said, waving his spoon at him. "Carver, this is Warden-Commander Duncan."
Carver hurriedly rose to his feet and bowed in salute. "Ser!"
Duncan looked at him curiously. "Mislaid?"
"I was up here on an errand and lingered too late," Carver confessed, flushing slightly. "I'm stuck up here until the gates open again in the morning. Alistair kindly invited me to share your fire."
"Ah," Duncan said, and took a closer look at the patch sewn on Carver's shirt. "Captain Pevens' unit?"
"Yes ser."
Duncan nodded. "You're welcome to stay for the night," he said. "Alistair, I've a meeting to attend; don't stay up too late, you have..."
"...a patrol through the wilds starting first thing in the morning, yes," Alistair said, wrinkling his nose. "Never fear, I'm hitting my bedroll as soon as I finish eating."
"Good. Good-night to both of you, then," Duncan said, nodded at the pair of them, and disappeared back into the darkness.
Carver resumed his seat. "Thanks, I hope my being here isn't getting you in trouble...?"
"No, if Duncan was unhappy about you being here he'd have already said so," Alistair said, then scraped a final spoonful of stew out of his bowl, and rose to refill it while still chewing. He continued speaking once he'd swallowed. "He's pretty easy-going most of the time, unless it's anything to do with training or fighting. Those he has some pretty strict ideas about, as in, be prepared, be well prepared, always be prepared."
Carver laughed. "Sounds like he and my Captain are two of a type."
Alistair grinned as he resumed his seat. "Yeah, well, it's a common type in the armies of Ferelden, or so I'm told; Teyrn Loghain's influence. Though it's not him that Duncan learned it from; it's also a common type in the Grey Wardens, at least among those that survive long enough to become leaders. If you're not well prepared, you won't last long against the darkspawn."
Carver nodded, and shifted forward to warm his hands at the fire. "So what got you into the wardens?"
Alistair made a face, and swallowed the mouthful of stew he was currently chewing. "A long story and one I'd rather not talk about, frankly," he said. "What got you into the militia?"
"My sisters," Carver said, and made a face as well. "I have two; an older sister named Marian who's a bit of a rogue, and thought that joining the army would be an interesting opportunity to travel a little with someone else paying the cost of it, and a twin sister named Bethany who thought I should go with Marian to keep her out of trouble. What about you – any siblings?"
"Well, there's a half-brother, but we weren't raised together so I can't say that I actually know him – or our father. He's the legitimate one of us, you see," Alistair said, frowning.
"Ouch. Messy."
"Yes. Anyway, you were saying about your sisters?"
"Yeah... Marian, like I said, decided that joining the army would be interesting. Get some real training under her belt – more than what she could wheedle out of the village veterans anyway – see a bit of Ferelden on the King's copper, and then at the end of her hitch she could decide whether to continue with the army, go back home, or become a guard or mercenary. It sounded like a good plan, but when word of the possible Blight down here started circulating, my sister Bethany didn't like the thought of Marian being here on her own. I somehow got talked into joining up as well, though I came with our local militia rather than joining the army too."
Alistair nodded, and looked Carver over. "What sort of fighter are you? I'm guessing from those muscles you swing something fairly heavy-weight?"
Carver flushed, pleased. "I do, though most of this is from working back home – I worked for the village blacksmith for a while in order to earn a decent sword from him. A two-hander; I like the weight of it, the momentum when you get her going... what about you?"
"Sword-and-board man," Alistair said, smiling and patting the shield leaning up against his leg. "Those two-handers can be a bastard to stop, even with a shield; you have to know how to deflect the blade just right so it doesn't end up in your face."
Carver nodded in agreement. "Hit a shield right and you can turn it into so much kindling, or at least break the arm it's on, after which it's not much use. Two-hander is a slow weapon though, I have to worry about more agile fighters getting in close, and know how to make good use of my hilt and elbows if anyone does."
"Exactly," Alistair agreed. "Had that happen to me once in training – the getting the arm broken part – it was a couple months before I could use a shield again. Taught me never to brag around a bully," he added, frowning darkly.
"One of the Grey Wardens?"
"Oh, no, most of them are alright, if a little rough around the edges. Wardens believe the only fair fight is one you win; darkspawn don't give a damn about rules; fighting dirty or fighting fair, it's all one thing against them. No, this was before I became a Grey Warden, when I was still in templar training."
Carver gave Alistair a surprised look. "You're a templar?"
"No. Not technically, anyway. I had the training and learned some of the basic abilities, but then I ended up becoming a Grey Warden instead of being sworn in as a Knight of the Chantry. Just as happy to be a warden, frankly – I didn't much like the idea of becoming a templar. But being a ward of the chantry I didn't exactly have any say in the matter. So you and your sister both ended up here, but in different units?" he asked, obviously changing the subject.
"Yeah," Carver said. "Like I said earlier, I'm not interested in signing up for the long term, so while she's in the regular army, I'm just signed up for our local militia unit. I'll be going back home as soon as this is all over, which is more than Marian can say – she signed up for a two-year hitch."
"Are you not interested because you don't like fighting, or just that you don't want to be a soldier?"
"I'm not sure. A little of each, I guess. I do like fighting, but I want my fighting to have a purpose, you know? Not just be fighting for the sake of fighting, like some people seem to do. But I'm also not sure I want to be a soldier, either. I mean, fighting to defend our country, that does have a purpose and I suppose someone has to do it, it's not like the Orlesians aren't still thinking of us as bit of ripe fruit they'd love to swallow whole or anything. Just... I don't know. I'm not sure I'm cut out to be a soldier. Too much running around in big groups and following orders. Being a guard might suit me better, that's just small patrols."
"Still a lot of following orders involved," Alistair pointed out. "Not as much marching and fighting though, depending on where you work."
"True, but it's for a good purpose – keeping the peace and stopping crime and all that. Unfortunately Lothering doesn't have any guards outside of the Bann's knights, which I'm far too low-born to have any hope of joining, so I'd have to go some place bigger to get into a city guard. Denerim, Amaranthine, Highever... but most of them prefer sword-and-shield men from what I hear."
"A two-handed weapon isn't much good for subduing someone without killing them," Alistair agreed. "I suppose being in the militia is good practise for all the patrolling and standing around on guard though."
"No, only the regular army goes out on patrol, they just have us militia on hand for the extra bodies if an attack does come."
"Not just the army," Alistair said, smiling slightly.
"Sorry, that's right, you said you have a patrol tomorrow, didn't you? What's it like out there – we hear rumours, and I've seen some of the darkspawn corpses that were brought back to prove they're actually out there, but..."
Alistair made a face. "I don't really know, actually... this is the first patrol I'm going out on, myself. And since I've been stuck up here in the upper camp while most of the wardens are posted down below, I haven't really heard much from the others about what they've seen out there. Just enough to know that the darkspawn are out there. Duncan says we've likely only seen the outer fringes of their force yet; he believes that somewhere out there is a whole army of them on the move, though so far no one has been able to get close enough to get a look and come back with word; not and survive the experience anyway, there's been a few solo scouts gone missing, and at least one patrol is now well overdue on returning. But I shouldn't say anything more about that," he suddenly said, looking abashed. "Duncan would have my hide for spreading rumours."
Carver shot him a grin. "Rumours? What rumours? I haven't heard any rumours!"
Alistair snorted. "You need to work on your innocent look," he told him.
Carver's grin widened. "Bethany has always been the one of us who was any good at that. Mind you she's also the one of us most likely to get us into trouble in the first place, so it's a good thing she's almost as adept at getting us out of it."
"What's it like, having a twin?" Alistair asked curiously.
Carver shrugged; it was a question he'd been asked a number of times in the past. "Nice. Not in the sort of 'us against the entire rest of the world' way that people seem to think it must be most of the time, but... well, she's always there, isn't she? Except when she's not," he added a touch glumly.
Alistair smiled at him. "I wish I knew my sister. I've got a half-sister on my mother's side, to go with the half-brother on my father's... but I never knew her either. My mother died birthing me, and she left..." He trailed off, then sighed. "I wish I knew her. Having a sibling, someone I was actually close with... that'd be nice."
"Mostly it is," Carver agreed. "Though along with things like meaning there's almost always someone around to play with, it also means things like there's almost always someone around. Very little privacy, if you know what I mean. Especially when you live in a small enough cottage that you have to share the loft with your sisters," Carver added, grimacing.
"Oh. Oh," Alistair said, and flushed pink, then suddenly grinned. "Having spent most of my own life in dormitories, I get what you mean."
Carver grinned back at him. "I'm sure them being chantry dormitories made it even worse."
Alistair laughed. "Probably," he agreed. "Not that that prevented everyone, but..." He broke off, flush darkening to a bright red.
Carver laughed. "Yeah. Wouldn't have been so bad if I was sharing a room with two brothers, I suppose, we could have just... ignored each other. But sisters. It was kind of a relief to sign up; I may currently live out of a mildewed canvas tent only just barely big enough for me to fit in feet-first, but it's all mine and mine alone."
Alistair snickered. "Been making up for lost time?"
"May have been. Might have been," he answered as blandly as he could, then grinned.
They both laughed. Alistair, having finally finished eating, took a moment to clean his bowl with a splash of water from his waterskin and a bit of rag, propping it up against a stone near the fire to dry.
"So how does one become a Grey Warden, anyway? Generally," Carver asked.
Alistair shrugged. "Numerous ways. Myself and one of the current recruits both competed in tourneys for the honour of joining up. One recruit tried to pick-pocket Duncan and ended up being conscripted on the spot, more fool he. The other... well, he was about to be sent off to Aeonar for assisting a blood mage; Duncan's always on the lookout for more mages for the wardens and decided to give him a chance with us instead."
"A blood mage?" Carver asked, stilling.
"He's not one himself. But a friend of his... he turned out to be one, is what I heard. Nasty business."
"I can imagine," Carver said darkly, thinking of some of the things his father had said on the subject over the years. "Brrr!"
"Yeah."
"So that's how most wardens become wardens? Either through competing to get in or through being caught doing the wrong thing at the wrong time?"
"Pretty much, yes. Grey Wardens don't believe in letting people with potentially useful skills go to waste, and there's... less fuss, I suppose, when most of our recruits are culled from the dregs; from condemned criminals and the like. A Grey Warden's life isn't usually a very long one," he said, sounding a touch melancholy. "Still... it's something that needs doing. There are worse ways to die than making things safe for everyone else."
"I can agree with that," Carver said, nodding thoughtfully. "I'd do anything to keep my family safe, even if it killed me. Dying for my neighbours is a little more... abstract, I suppose. But I knew when I joined up that there was always a chance I wouldn't be going home."
"Well, let's hope it doesn't come to that; frankly I'd almost be happy to have Teryn Loghain turn out to be right and Duncan wrong, and this all be a false alarm over a larger than normal group of darkspawn having wandered out of the Deep Roads somewhere south of here."
Carver grinned. "You sound like one of the old farmer's at the town watering hole – 'just you watch, m'boy, it'll all be a false alarm an' you'll be back home hoeing the fields agin a week later!' – not that I ever did much hoeing, us having an orchard, bee skeps, and some small livestock mostly, and only enough field space for our home garden."
They talked a little while longer, then Alistair rose, stooping to pick up his now-dry bowl and move it away from the heat of the fire. "I'd better turn in. We'll see you're awake in time to be out the gates the moment they open. Do you need a blanket or anything?"
"No, this is fine, thanks," Carver said, moving off the log he'd been sitting on to stretch out sideways on the ground near the fire. "I've slept worse, when travelling."
"All right... see you tomorrow then. Good-night, Carver."
"Night, Alistair," Carver said. He closed his eyes, listening to Alistair moving away and getting into his own bedroll, the faint sounds of the encampment around them, soon dropping off to sleep.
A nudge in the ribs with a booted foot awoke him in the pre-dawn darkness the next morning.
"Who's this then?" someone asked suspiciously from the other side of the fire. "We got another recruit?"
"No, he's not one of ours," Alistair said, glancing that way, then smiled at Carver and offered him a hand up. "Gates should be opening shortly. I'd offer you breakfast but," he turned his head to the shapes clustered on the other side of the fire and raised his voice a little. "Someone forgot it was their turn to start the porridge and overslept, and someone else finished off the remainder of the stew in the middle of the night."
There was a discontented mumble from the other side of the fire, including what Carver was pretty sure were directions for Alistair to do something anatomically impossible.
"I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that, Daveth," Alistair said sternly without turning his head to look at whomever had spoken. "Get the pot cleaned out and put away, we're supposed to be heading out into the wilds within the hour; no time for a hot meal now, we'll have to make do with travel rations." That led to a chorus of groans, and some not-very-subdued muttering by someone with a deeper voice than the one Alistair had called Daveth.
Carver smiled at Alistair, able to see the mostly-amused expression on his face at the grumbling of his recruits. "Thanks for the place to sleep," he said. "Good luck on your patrol."
"Thanks. With this bunch, I'm sure I'll need it," Alistair responded, grinning briefly.
Carver dipped him a shallow bow of a salute, then hurried off to the gate down to the lower camp. The guards eyed him suspiciously, until he showed his tag again, demonstrating that he was supposed to be down there, not up here. That gained him a little good-natured ribbing before they finally opened the gates for the day, and he was able to hurry off down the walkways and staircases. He got back to his own tent with just enough time to chew on some jerky while he hurriedly changed into his arming jacket, fastened on his boiled leather armour and dragged his sword out of his tent, attaching it to its hanger on his back before hurrying to his post, near the gate leading from the lower camp to the surrounding woods.
He'd been there about a half hour when he heard a now-familiar voice and looked around to see Alistair leading his trio of recruits toward the gate, all of them carrying heavy packs in addition to wearing their arms and armour. There was a middle-aged heavy-set balding man with the look of a knight about him – he was wearing half-decent plate armour, anyway – a rangy-looking dark-haired man with a longbow, and a brown-haired elven mage who seemed in imminent danger of tripping over his own robes, the pack on his back appearing huge in comparison to his slight stature, though it wasn't any bigger than what the three humans carried.
Alistair spotted him, and gave him a distracted nod when Carver raised one hand in greeting, before turning to bark something at the archer.
"Hmmph. Wardens," said one of the other men on guard duty, and spat.
"We can't all be such fine fighting men as you, Kirin," Captain Pevens said dryly, making them both jump, he having moved up nearby without either of them noticing. "Your eyes are supposed to be on the forest, not on what's going on inside the walls," he reminded both of them, giving them each a piercing head-to-toe look. "Carver... keep a closer eye on the hour next time I send you off on an errand, hmmm?"
"Yes Ser," Carver answered, straightening up as he flushed in embarrassment. Though he was relieved that Pevens had at least indicated that there likely would be a next time; he'd messed up, but not unforgivably. Keeping his eyes carefully fixed on the distant tree-line, he wondered only briefly about how Alistair and his recruits would fare on their trip into the wilds, before turning his mind to more pressing matters, such as the number of hours he'd be on duty before he could get away to have a proper meal, and maybe some quality time with a bit of soap and water.
Carver retched, and retched again, prevented from vomiting only by the fact that his stomach was already well-emptied. The smell of blood and viscera from the dead and dying was strong enough that even the heavy rainfall couldn't mask it; the flashes of lightning and occasional still-burning torches and bonfires revealed horrors everywhere, men and women broken open like a dropped squash. The darkspawn were little better; worse, if anything, their flesh seeming discoloured, their blood as black as a bruise and smelling half-rotted already.
It had all gone so wrong so quickly; the darkspawn approaching at dusk, instead of some more sensible hour, the storm rolling in at the same time and quickly rendering many of their weapons useless – bows, crossbows, and most siege engines worked poorly if at all once their string was well-wetted. While catapults could only fire once, twice, maybe thrice before the wet stilled them, the arms of the huge ogres stalking across the battlefield were not similarly affected; they flung boulders, large branches, small trees, whatever came to hand at the defending forces, unaffected by the wet.
The torrential downpour and heavy wind also lessened the range of vision so that one only knew what was happening close-by, most of the battle-field lost to view, while the water turned what had been dry well-packed soil underfoot into a sticky morass, clinging to feet and quickly being churned into ankle-deep muck in the more heavily-trafficked areas, soft and treacherous. It slowed movement, and tripped up the incautious, at a time when a failure of footing could mean having a darkspawn's weapon in your gut.
Worst of all, perhaps, some panicking fool had ordered a charge, moving men out of the narrow, easily-defended mouth of the pass and out into the face of the darkspawn's advance, where they'd quickly been cut off and decimated, few if any making it back to the comparative safety of the lines. That had weakened the centre of their defence, a weakness the darkspawn hadn't hesitated to take advantage of, pouring forward to pound against the line while it bent, deformed, and finally broke, the main body of the darkspawn pouring into the narrow defile, rapidly turning it into a killing ground.
The things he'd seen, since... the things he'd seen...! He retched again, and gulped for air, doing the only thing left to him and the remaining survivors; fleeing north through the pass, the darkspawn on their heels, hoping that he would be fast enough to get out and get away before falling to the monsters chasing after them, knowing that he was only still alive because others hadn't been fast enough...
He was only dimly aware of the towering cliffs lowering down and spreading off to other side, the long up-hill run through the pass finally levelling off in a field speckled with ruins, the remains of a trading centre that had once flourished here ages ago, protected by Ostagar to its south. He fled through the grassy lanes that had once been streets, hearing still – more distantly now – the occasional screams and cries of men dying, the howls and roars of darkspawn on the hunt. Catching glimpses of movement here and there, others fleeing north just as madly as he was. It was only once he reached the northern edge of the ruins, where the remains of one of the old roads cut through the eaves of the forest to join with the old Imperial Highway heading north, that he finally slowed and stopped for a moment, finding himself bending over with his hands on his knees to catch his breath among a spread-out group of other survivors doing much the same thing.
The only sounds now were the rain, occasional sobs and swears, the pained whimpers of the wounded.
A sudden barking was the only warning he had before a compact, solidly-muscled form knocked him off his feet, sending him sprawling in the mud, only barely preventing himself from ending up on his face in it. He laughed, startled, delighted, as he squirmed enough to roll over and throw his arms around Barkus, certain that if the mabari was here and in good spirits that Marian could not be far behind. He sobbed in relief as she staggered out of the ruins nearby, looking just as tired and shocky as he felt.
"Carver!" she cried, her whole face lighting up as she spotted him and the dog. She stumbled forward as he pushed Barkus aside and shakily rose to his feet again, the two throwing their arms around each other in a fierce hug. "I though you must be dead," she said, shivering, her teeth chattering. "I saw... I saw... oh, by the Maker, Carver, you're alive."
He blinked, clearing his eyes of more than just rain. "I feared the same of you," he said tiredly, then looked around. "We should keep moving," he said.
"Yes," Marian agreed, immediately. "The darkspawn can't be far behind. We... we need to get home, get mother and Bethany on the move."
"What?" he asked, as they started limping toward the nearby ramp up to the Imperial Highway. "Why?" He felt thick-headed, and knew he wasn't tracking things very well at the moment. The shock, he thought, and wished desperately to be home by the fire, wrapped in thick blankets and with a warming mug of well-honeyed tea, mother and Bethy fussing over him...
"The darkspawn, Carver," Marian said, her voice hardening. "They won't stop here, and the army is gone. If they follow the easy route north, the highway... that'll lead them right to Lothering."
He froze for a moment. "Fuck," he said softly.
"Exactly. Come on... it's a good few days travel even at a good pace, and the sooner we get there, the sooner we can get mother and Bethany to safety."
Leaning on each other for support, Barkus trotting ahead-behind around them on guard, they hurried north at the best pace they could manage. Carver felt guilty for hoping that the darkspawn would remain behind for a while before starting north, doing... whatever it was that darkspawn did with the bodies of the dead or those unfortunate enough to be captured alive. He'd heard rumours, before the battle, and could only be glad not to know the truth of them one way or the other.
They were not the first to reach Lothering with the news, though they weren't more than half a day behind the foremost survivors of the slaughter. Many of the townspeople were still gathered near the chantry, talking in panic, when they trailed in.
"Mother and Bethany are probably here somewhere," Marian said as they looked over the gathered crowd. "We should look for them here before heading home. Barkus, find them."
The mabari gave a single subdued bark – Barkus was as tired and footsore as they were – then pushed his way into the crowd, his nose most likely to find the others first. Carver looked tiredly around, hoping to spot their heads, though as neither mother nor Bethy were the tallest of people that was likely a futile endeavour.
Marian muttered a low curse. He turned and frowned at her, then followed her glare to someone standing on an upturned crate off to one side. Drunk, by the look of him, and ranting about deserters and the danger they presented to the good folk of Lothering. Carver's own jaw set when he realized it was people like Marian and himself the man was talking about; accusing the survivors from Ostagar of being base cowards, because they'd fled rather than standing and dying in the face of a hopeless battle. Accusing them of showing the darkspawn where to go...
Before either he or Marian could react to that, someone else did, rising up in front of the drunk and hitting him in the face so hard he went stumbling backwards off of his crate, the centre of his face a bloom of red from his shattered nose.
It became a minor riot after that, until the templars from the nearby chantry waded into the screaming crowd to try and enforce peace, the villagers and the groups of exhausted soldiers at odds with each other. Carver was starting to wonder if he and Marian were going to get sucked into the fight as well – fighting their own neighbours – when Barkus suddenly galloped back up to them, looking pleased with him, mother following behind him and looking frightened at the melee going on around her.
"Mother!" Marian cried, and the two hugged tightly for a moment, before mother drew apart enough to free an arm and draw Carver in as well, to his pleased embarrassment.
"Where's Bethany?" he asked worriedly.
"I left her at home," mother said. "Come, let's get out of here... let's go home." Even as frightened as she clearly was, she grabbed each of them by the arm and all but dragged them away from the seething fight, as much their mother now that they towered over her by a head as when they were much smaller.
"You both need rest," mother said firmly. "And I need time to pack up a few things to take with us. Bethany, heat water for baths for the two of them. You reek," she informed them sternly, then turned to look over the contents of the kitchen. "I suppose we might as well roast that duck for dinner, though I'd meant it to hang another day... I'd better get some biscuits baking, what we don't eat we can take with us..."
Marian rolled her eyes, but set to helping Bethany fill the copper with water and getting a fire laid under it, while Carver went out to the shed to fetch in the heavy wooden tub that served double duty for both washing laundry and washing themselves.
"How long do you think we have?" he asked Marian quietly as he set it down.
"At least a day or two, maybe three," she said only a little worriedly. "You know mother though, once her head is set on something there's little changing her mind. And Maker knows we could both use a bath, a change of clothes, a good feed and a rest before we move on again. If we leave tomorrow morning it should be in plenty of time to get away safely."
Carver nodded, and grabbed one of the empty buckets to go out to the well and fetch more water. As filthy as the two of them were, he thinks they're likely to need separate baths, rather than one of them bathing in the water leftover from the other as they'd normally do.
Mother soon came out and sent him off to tend to the animals – as if there was any real point to that any more, when they'll be having to leave the animals behind when they go – though as he's the only man left in the household, he knew it was mostly to get him out from underfoot while Marian bathed and changed, it having been quite a few years now since he was still young enough and innocent enough to be allowed to remain around while his sisters washed. He dawdled over feeding the animals, then took a walk through the orchard, feeling slightly stunned to think this might be the last time he ever did so.
By the time he returned to the house, Marian was sitting by the fire, dressed in a sleeping gown and towelling her hair dry. He carried out most of the dirt-clouded water a bucket-full at a time, until enough was gone that he could drag the tub outside and dump it out, rinsing it with a bucket of cold well water before taking it back indoors to refill for his own bath. Bethany and Marian had disappeared upstairs to the loft by then, the quite murmur of their voices just barely audible.
"Don't take too long, dear," mother said as she hung up her apron and headed in the direction of her own room, tucked in under the loft. "I need to take those biscuits out in a bit."
"Yes, mother," he said, and waited politely until she was out of sight before stripping out of the soiled remains of his arming jacket and leggings, the leather armour having been abandoned days ago to speed their journey north. He dropped his filthy clothing on the ground outside the back door, seeing no point in attempting to clean it, and poured a couple of buckets of well water over himself to rinse off the worst of the grime before ducking back indoors and sitting down in the tub. The water was only a little better than lukewarm, really, but compared to the spring-fed well water it felt almost blissfully hot. He scrubbed quickly with a bar of the hard soap his mother made every year, following what she said was an old family recipe. It was gentler on the skin and sweeter-swelling than the lye soap most people he knew settled for, and he made a mental note to make sure and put at least one bar of it away in his pack, thinking it was the little luxuries like this that they'd likely miss most until they found a safe place to settle again.
Rising to his feet, he poured another bucket of water – this at least verging on hot, like the bath water – over himself to rinse off, then towelled himself dry with an old sheet someone had thoughtfully left out for him, before pulling on the waiting drawstring pants. "All done," he bellowed afterwards, then slicked back his wet hair and started on emptying the tub again.
"Let me do that," Bethany said tartly as she climbed down the ladder from the loft. "You're going to get your feet all muddy if you go outdoors again."
"And you won't?" he asked, amused.
"I am wearing clogs, and shall hike up my skirts," she said, suiting actions to words and doing so before snatching the bucket out of his hand and carrying it off.
By the time the tub had been emptied and left leaning out of the way against the wall, the biscuits were out of the oven, and the whole house smelling deliciously of the cooking duck. They snacked on warm biscuits spread with honey from their own bees, he and Marian both tired enough to be almost nodding off where they sat, only kept awake by mother's voice as she ordered Bethany around. The two of them hauled some old canvas packs out of a trunk and examined them to be sure they were sound, Bethany sitting down to patch some moth holes chewed in one while mother repaired a strap on another that was coming loose.
Barkus came back in from whatever he'd been up to outside, and demanded his share of the biscuits before curling up near the fire to rest.
"I'm tired enough that I wish I was still young enough to join him on the floor," Carver said blearily, remembering napping on the floor with his head resting on Barkus' flank when he was younger.
Marian smiled crookedly. "I was just thinking the same thing," she admitted tiredly.
Somehow they stayed awake until after the meal, the roast duck served along with a mix of root vegetables and some of the last of the fresh things available from their garden.
"I could just swear," mother suddenly said partway through the meal. "All that work on drying or canning things for the winter... just last week I remember looking at the shelves of preserves down in the root cellar and thinking how well-prepared we were, and now we're just going to have to walk away from it all. What will we live on, wherever we end up at?"
She started to cry. Bethany moved closer and pulled mother's head against her shoulder.
"We'll manage, mother, you know we will," Marian said reassuringly, rising to her feet and going around the table to sit down on the other side of mother, putting her arms around her. "We always do."
Carver rose as well, uncomfortable, and at a gesture from Bethany started clearing the table, scraping the plates into the bucket to slop their one pig with. They'd have been slaughtering it for the winter soon, he found himself thinking, or at least mother and Bethany would have had to, or had a neighbour do it for them in exchange for part of the meat, and now the pig would be just another thing left behind.
"Leave those," mother said tiredly when he started to stack the dishes in the sink. "I'll wash them later. You and Marian look about ready to fall over sideways; get yourselves up to bed. Bethany and I will take care of things down here, and start on packing what we'll need for travel."
"All right, mother," Marian agreed, and kissed Leandra's temple before rising to her feet. "See you in the morning."
"Good night, mother," Carver said, stopping by the table to lean down and hug mother as well, brushing a kiss over her cheek before heading upstairs, Marian following close behind.
He turned back the sheets on his own bed, when Marian spoke up. "Leave that alone and come sleep over here," she told him, patting the ticking beside herself. "I think Bethany and I would rather have you share with us tonight, like we did when we were kids. Unless she decides to spend the night with mother instead."
"She might," he agreed, and abandoned his own bed to go and crawl in beside Marian, feeling self-conscious about it; he'd had his own bed for years now, and apart from just after father had died had mostly stuck to it. It didn't feel proper to share with his sisters any more. Though maybe Marian was right... it would be comforting to be with them tonight.
They didn't leave first thing in the morning.
"The town is filling up with refugees; food will be running short," mother explained firmly over breakfast the next morning. "We might not be able to take the contents of the root cellar with us, but if we take it into town and sell what we can, we can take the money from that along so that we can buy food wherever we end up. Even if we can't sell all of it, and only get a pittance for what we do... every little bit will help, yes?"
"Yes, mother," Marian agreed.
"Good. Bethany and I have put aside the food we'll want to take with us, you and Carver can load up the rest on the waggon and take it into town to sell. Bethany and I will finish packing while you do that, and we can leave once you return."
"Yes, mother," Carver agreed as she lifted an eyebrow at him, and stuffed the rest of his breakfast – a rewarmed biscuit stuffed full of cheese and ham – into his mouth, wiping his hands on his shift as he rose to go start hauling.
"Carver! Your clothes!" she exclaimed.
"I'll change before we leave," he told her, feeling surprisingly good-humoured for a moment. "These are going to be all over dust and cobwebs by the time the waggon's loaded anyway."
Between himself and Marian, with Bethany helping carry the lighter things, they soon had the waggon fully loaded. "I'm coming into town with you," Marian informed him. "I don't think it's safe for you to go alone. Barkus will stay here to guard mother and Bethany."
"All right," he agreed, then frowned. "Though in terms of keeping them safe, wouldn't it be better if Bethany went with me, and you stayed home?"
"Maybe, though I expect most of the danger to be nearer town – desperate men will do desperate things, and not all of the survivors from Ostagar will have been good people; in fact despite ourselves having among the survivors, I'd hazard a guess that most of the truly good men and women died on the field, standing their ground. Anyway, I've always been a better haggler than Bethany. Apart from with the ones who trip over their tongues the moment they see her," she added tartly, rolling her eyes. "Anyway, we'd best get changed and on the move, I want us back here in time to leave today, not be stuck here a second night."
"Right," Carver agreed, and the two hurried indoors, Marian stopping to inform mother and Bethany of their plans while Carver headed upstairs and changed. He'd put on a lot of muscle while at Ostagar, he noticed, and most of his clothing was tight across the shoulders, leaving him deciding on a sleeveless shirt with a padded leather mantle over top, as the most comfortable of several possible options.
"Should I bring my sword?" he asked Marian as he tied on his boots.
"I'm bringing my daggers," she informed him.
"I'll take that as a yes then," he said, and went downstairs to fetch his weapon harness and blade while she changed, putting them under the bench seat of the waggon where they'd be in reach but not obvious.
The trip in to Lothering was, thankfully, non-eventful, though as soon as the town came in view they could see it had changed considerably even in last day. Groups of tents had sprung up everywhere, as refugees and surviving soldiers streamed in from further south as news as the debacle at Ostagar spread. Several of the houses in town were boarded up, their owners having obviously fled. Small groups of people stood around everywhere, speaking in worried tones about whether to stay here or move on.
As soon as their waggon pulled to a stop, people came hurrying over to buy from them. Marian moved to stand in the bed of the waggon, hands resting near her daggers. "Slow down, one at a time," she called to the people clustering around them. "We'll sell you what we've got."
A heavy-set man pushed through to the front of the crowd. "I'll buy the whole lot from you, waggon and oxen and all," he called out loudly. "Ten gold pieces!"
Marian ran an evaluative eye over him. A chantry sister struggled closer in his wake. "Don't do it! This... this vermin will turn around and sell it for five times the price to desperate people," she called out.
The man turned and gave the woman an ugly look. "It's my right to set my prices at whatever I want to," he pointed out. "If these two want to turn a faster profit by selling it all to me, that's their right."
Marian and Carver exchanged equally disgusted looks. "It's also our right to choose not to sell to you at all, thank you very much, but no thanks," Marian said firmly, then smiled at the woman. "Sister Imogen. Are you well?"
The sister gave her a warm smile. "Quite well, Marian. Thank you. Your mother and sister? They are both well?"
"Mother and Bethany are both fine," Marian assured her. "Here... for those you can help," she said, and hefted up a large sack of dried peas, passing it down to the woman.
"May Andraste bless you and light your way, my child, in thanks for your generosity," Sister Imogen said, smiling warmly at her, before turning and heading back to the chantry, the sack clutched in both arms.
They sold out quickly, and while they didn't quite make the ten gold coins the man had offered, they came close, and that was without selling their waggon and oxen. "Wait here with the waggon," Marian told him when they were done. "I'm going to stop in at the Refuge for a minute, and see if I can pick up any more recent news from the south."
"All right," Carver said, and smiled. "Bring me back an ale?"
Marian snorted, then smiled. "Perhaps. Don't let anyone walk off with our waggon or oxen while my back is turned!"
"I won't," he agreed, and settled down on the seat to wait, watching her until she disappeared into the tavern. He sat and waited patiently, sure that Marian wouldn't take too long, not when she wanted them to move on today.
He was watching a group of small children playing nearby, seemingly oblivious to the frightening events going on in the wider world around them, when a familiar voice startled him out of his reverie.
"Carver? It is you!"
He turned, surprised, to find Alistair standing a couple of feet away, grinning widely and accompanied by a bedraggled-looking elven mage and a haughty-looking woman with dark hair, startling golden-yellow eyes, and clothing with a vaguely Chasind look to it. A mud-spattered white mabari bitch sat beside them, scratching at itself with one hind leg.
"Alistair!" Carver exclaimed, grinning, and jumped down from the waggon to exchange fore-arm clasps and shoulder-blows with the man. "Maker, man, I never thought to see you again, after..."
"After Ostagar," Alistair said, his face darkening with strong emotion. "I didn't expect to see you again either. I'm amazed – and gladdened – that you've survived. And your sister?"
"We only just made it out, the pair of us," Carver said, making a face. "I'm glad to see you too. So some of the wardens have survived after all? I thought you all dead on the field..."
Alistair grimaced. "Just me and Alim here," he said, gesturing at the mage, who gave Carver a shy smile and a nervous head-bob. "We were told off on a separate mission instead of being down on the field with everyone else. We almost died anyway, but... well, we didn't. As far as I know there's just the two of us left now," he finished glumly.
The elf edged closer to Alistair, looking half-inclined to hide behind the much larger man, and whispered something to him. Alistair nodded, then looked thoughtfully at Carver. "This isn't over yet; we've got some plans to try and counter the darkspawn – old agreements the wardens have with various potential allies and the like. We could use some good men to help us," he said quietly, one eyebrow lifting enquiringly. "Good women too."
Carver frowned. "I wish I could tell you yes, but... well, I told you my sister and I were from Lothering. We've got to get our own family clear of here, first – neither of us think the darkspawn are going to stay down south much longer."
"Neither do we," Alistair agreed, frowning. "We ran into a couple of small groups of them on the way north; the main group of them are likely moving slower, but it can't be too long until they overrun here as well."
"That's what Marian and I figured," Carver said. "We've only come into town to sell off what we can't take with us before we go; we'll be leaving the area as soon as we get back home. But good luck on finding the help you need – and on whatever it is you're up to."
"Good luck to you and your family as well," Alistair agreed, and smiled crookedly. "If you change your mind, or just happen to end up going the same way as us... we're likely headed west to Redcliffe next."
"I think mother and Marian were talking about heading east, actually," Carver said regretfully. "To Denerim; if the capital city isn't safe, than nowhere in Ferelden is. Plus we can take ship from there if we have to."
"All right. Well then... best of luck to you," Alistair said, and held out one hand.
"And to you," Carver agreed, exchanging a final arm-clasp with him and nodding respectfully to the other two before climbing back up on the waggon. He watched them walk away, and saw Marian pass them on the bridge from the inn. She had a leather jack in one hand, and handed it to him as she swung up to sit beside him. "One ale, as requested. You owe me a copper for the cost of the jack, since we won't be back here to return it."
"Of course," he said, smiling crookedly at her before taking a deep drink while she picked up the reins and switch and got the oxen moving, turning the waggon around to head back home.
They saw smoke and heard screams and barking as they rounded the final turn toward home. Marian paled, and flicked the switch at the oxen, moving the normally placid beasts to a much faster pace, Carver having to grab hold of the seat to prevent himself from being flung out by the juddering from the rough road.
The house was on fire, he saw, as they burst out of the trees, the barn too, the dry wood and straw progressing from "on fire" to "towering inferno of flame and smoke" even in the short time it took them to reach the house. He leapt off before they'd even come to a full stop, running around the house in the direction of the barking. He found the three of them there, mother hiding behind Bethany who was wielding her staff, sending blasts of magic at a small group of darkspawn capering around them, Barkus dashing back and forth in front of them trying to keep the monsters away. By the look of a pair of bodies sprawled motionless on the ground, Bethany had done more than just keep the darkspawn at a distance.
He already had his sword in hand, automatically howling his unit's battle-cry as he charged forward, on the darkspawn before they could properly register his presence, lopping the head off of a tall one – a hurlock, he vaguely remembered learning back at Ostagar – before engaging a pair of the shorter, stouter genlocks. He heard Marian's matching shout as she plunged into the fight as well, dancing back and forth to keep him between her and the worst of the threat while taking what hits she could around him. Between the pair of them, Bethany, and Barkus, they managed to kill all of the darkspawn.
"Oh, Maker, I thought we were dead for sure," Bethany exclaimed once the fight ended. "There were so many of them... they came out of nowhere, it seemed, and had the barn on fire before we even knew they were here. We only just got out of the house in time..." She broke off, trembling and wide-eyed.
Mother hugged her, looking over her shoulder at the house. "All that work to get things properly packed away and it's all burning up," she exclaimed, sounding choked up. "We've nothing now but the clothes on our backs."
"And the money from selling our goods in Lothering," Marian pointed out, stepping forward to give the pair each a hug, though her attention remained on their surroundings. "Come along, where there was one group of darkspawn, there's likely more... we need to leave, now."
They hurried back around to the front of the house, only to find one of their oxen gone entirely – broken its traces and fled in fright, perhaps – and the other dead in its harness, its throat torn bloodily open and chunks hacked crudely out of it. Mother gasped and swore – rare for her – while Bethany retched and turned her back.
"This way," Marian said grimly, and led them on. "We'd better hurry – as dry as things currently are, that fire is likely going to spread fast."
It was not the only plume of smoke visible, Carver couldn't help noticing grimly as they headed north and then east; there were definitely more darkspawn about.
Carver crouched on a boulder, his blade balanced across his knees, watching the forest fire creeping across the hills to the south, the orange and red light of it reflecting off the thick dark clouds overhead. He thought a glow behind a hill off to the southwest might be Lothering, burning, unless he'd gotten completely turned around as to what directions they'd moved in.
He heard someone moving up behind him, and knew without looking that it was Bethany – Marian he'd never have heard, and mother was humming to herself as she mended a tear in her dress with the needle and thread that had been in the little leather pouch on her belt that she habitually carried everywhere with her.
Bethany sank down to sit beside him, tucking up her legs and wrapping her arms around them, resting her chin on them as she looked out across the hills as well. "It doesn't seem real," she said softly. "It all happened so fast... one day mother and I were talking about whether you and Marian would be back in time to help with slaughtering the pig, and the next... it's all gone, isn't it. The farm, our animals, the orchard, the bees, the town..." She stopped, voice breaking. Carver shifted and put one arm around her shoulders, pulling her close.
"It's gone," he agreed. "But we've kept all the most important things... you, Marian, mother..."
"That dratted mabari..." Bethany said, smiling weakly.
"Barkus too," Carver agreed solemnly, and turned to kiss her temple. "We'll survive. We're Hawkes, and that's what Hawkes do, isn't it?"
"I suppose," Bethany agreed tiredly, then sighed and slumped against him. "Maker, my feet are killing me. I haven't walked so far in one day in ages. If ever."
"Mine are killing me too, and I've walked a lot further, and recently," Carver pointed out. "And more walking ahead; it's a long way to Denerim from here."
"Please don't remind me," Bethany said, and made a face, then sighed and leaned her head on his shoulder. "Tell me it'll be all right."
"I'm sure it will be, eventually."
"Tell me that like you believe it."
He chuckled, and squeezed her shoulders gently. "I do mean it. Things may be ugly for a while, but as long as we all have each other... we'll be all right."
She sighed, and said nothing more, but simply leaned against him for comfort. He sat there, arm around her, watching the fires and thinking.
He knew his history; they might have been poor all their lives, but mother came from people, somewhere up north, and had had a real education in her youth, much of which she'd passed on to her own children. Blights ended because of Grey Wardens, he knew, mentally telling off the string of names in his head from the old stories, the legends. Every Archdemon that had ever been had been killed by a Grey Warden in the end. And while the wardens weren't quite entirely wiped out in Ferelden... there was just the two of them left.
He hoped two would be enough.
They'd hit a swale the next day, the ground and woods wet enough and isolated enough by the surrounding steep hillsides to have not been burnt off by the spreading fires yet, despite the leaves on the aspens that filled it having turned to yellow already. Bethany was helping mother across a particularly boggy stretch of ground, while Marian scouted ahead with Barkus and Carver brought up the rear.
He stopped for a moment, looking at the smoke-streaked sky behind them. Were it not for the smoke and smell of burning, their own tiredness and lack of supplies, it might almost be possible to believe that they were just out on a walk in the autumn wood. That they weren't trampling through the heart of a nightmare, fleeing death and horrors.
He wondered how far along toward Redcliffe the wardens were by now; somehow he doubted that they'd lingered in Lothering long enough to be caught up in the disaster there. He found himself thinking of that night by the fire, Alistair's easy friendship, their agreement that there were things worth protecting, people worth dying for.
Ferelden might not fall into that category for him; he was only attached to it in that it was the country he'd grown up in, the place where his family lived. Mother was already making noises about leaving it behind, heading north to Kirkwall where, she said, they still had family and the potential of a new home, far from the spreading Blight.
And the Blight would spread, if left unchecked, he knew. Potentially all of Ferelden might end as a wasteland, if past Blights were anything to go by. It could even spread well beyond Ferelden, making even Kirkwall a place that wasn't far enough away, wasn't safe enough; some Blights had lasted for decades, leaving vast areas of Thedas rendered all but lifeless, the soil sterile and unable to bear crops even ages afterwards.
He didn't realize how long he'd been standing still, looking back the way they'd come, until Marian spoke right beside him, making him jump in surprise. "What is it? Something on our trail?" she asked anxiously.
"No, nothing like that, just..."
"Just what?"
"Just... remember that Grey Warden I told you about?" he asked, feeling a little desperate.
"The one at Ostagar? He's probably dead, Carver, the wardens were in the vanguard..."
"No, he's not. When we went into Lothering the day before yesterday, he was there, him and another warden, a mage. Headed to Redcliffe, he said. He... he asked me to join the pair of them. To help them."
There was a painfully long silence before Marian spoke again, her voice hardening. "And these wardens are more important than your own family?"
"What? No! Just... dammit, Marian, I just find myself wondering if I'm doing the right thing, okay? Is it better to run away and hope the Blight doesn't follow us to wherever we go, or is it better to stand and fight? I... I don't want to leave you and mother and Bethy on your own, but you don't really need me, do you? It'd be one less fare to have to pay, too."
"Carver? Marian? What's keeping you?" he heard mother call out from up ahead.
"Come on," Marian said, grabbing his arm and pulling. "I'm not leaving you behind. The pair of them would have my guts for garters if I did."
Carver sighed, but allowed himself to be pulled forward, across the boggy bit to where mother and Bethany waited, mother sitting back against a boulder while Bethany poked around in the undergrowth, looking for anything that was safely edible. She looked up as they approached, then suddenly froze, before straightening abruptly.
"You're staying," she said, face paling. She was his twin; she'd always been better at reading him than anyone else.
"What!" mother exclaimed, levering herself to her feet. "No he's not!"
Carver drew a deep breath, feeling the... the rightness of the choice settling over him. "Yes, I am," he told them.
Bethany stepped over and threw her arms around him, hugging him tight. "Dolt," she said, voice hoarse.
"I know, I'm an idiot, but..."
"Enough of this, you're coming with us, Carver," mother snapped angrily.
"The three of you should be able to make it to Denerim from without too much problem," Carver said firmly, looking back and forth between his sisters before turning his attention to his mother. "Go on to Kirkwall; start a new life for yourselves there. I'm... there's other people here that need help. This Blight isn't over yet; it's barely begun. I intend to stay here and be what help I can."
"Oh, you fool... you're my son! I don't want to lose you, let someone else worry about it..."
"No, mother... I'm staying. My decision has been made. Anyway... we're all someone's son or daughter, aren't we? If all of us leave it for someone else to worry about, who is going to do anything about it, before it's too late? I'd rather stay here and face it, on soil I know, then head north and live in fear of the Blight following behind to steal away our new life all over again."
Mother started to say something else, but Marian stepped forward and set her hand on her arm, stopping her. "I don't like it either, mother, but it is his choice to make," she said quietly, and turned an unhappy look his way. "And it looks like he's made it."
"I'm sorry, it's just... this is the right thing to do," he told them, then flung his arms around their mother in a firm hug, buying his head against her shoulder for a moment as he hadn't done since he was a much smaller boy. "I'm sure of it," he said, then raised his head and stepped back, away from them. "Go on, get moving, you have a long way to walk before you'll be truly safe again; I'll wipe out what of your back trail I can before I head north again, so if anything unfriendly comes this way it'll be more likely to follow after me..."
That made mother shriek unhappily, and Marian and Bethany both look stricken. "I can travel far faster on my own then the three of you can together," he said firmly. "Better anything that comes along follows me than you. Now please, just... just go."
It took several rounds of hugs and tear-laden outbursts from mother before Bethany and Marian finally got her moving away again, bitterly railing against leaving him behind. Barkus at least seemed to understand, merely standing up on his hind legs to rest his massive forepaws on Carver's shoulders, nosing at his chin for a moment before pelting after the trio. Carver watched them out of sight, then set to tidying up signs of their passage as best he could, already estimating in his head just how far north he should go before cutting back west, in order to bypass Lothering as he headed to Redcliffe.
The three of them would be fine, he was sure – Marian would keep Bethany and Mother safe, and it would all work out, somehow.
It had to.