Chapter 2:
Pigtails and Skinned Knees
It didn't take long for the advance scouts to find them. The growls and grunts were getting louder as the 'spawn approached. Margaret sent her prearranged signal up into the sky and prayed that Bryant was paying attention. "We're going to have to lead them off, Carver. There's too many. They have to believe we're all the refugees." She swallowed around her pounding heart and gripped her staff tighter to still her trembling fingers
Carver looked around for a moment, his expression somewhat slack jawed in hopelessness. "Exactly how do we pretend to be fifty more people, Sister?"
Margaret cleared her throat, fear making her mouth dry and her stomach twist. "We're going to have to ask Mother and Beth for help."
"No." He shook his head vehemently. "We leave them with the refugees, if we must. You and I will deal with these monsters."
"Thank you for the vote of confidence, Brother. But Mother and Beth won't let themselves be separated from us, even for their own good."
"We don't really have time to argue, Sister." Hopper added his growl to Carver's reminder.
She could see movement through the trees. "You're right, let's go." They were out of time to discuss what they needed to do, he was right in that. But Mother and Beth wouldn't be safe separated from them for long. Beth would be taken by the Templars in no time.
"Mark this day on the calendar! Margaret The Great actually agreed with her little brother!"
"Do shut up." Margaret snapped her fingers at Hopper. When the mabari looked up at her, she told him, "Go find Mother and Bethany. Hurry." Carver made a disgusted noise in his throat as she ignored his suggestion. With a single woof, Hopper lived up to his name and bounded away. "C'mon, we'll have to make one hell of a distraction." She glanced around searching for something they could use to draw the scouts away from the refugees or at least a place where she and Carver could hold them off as long as possible.
The valley they'd entered had already been hit by the Blight. The rocks were darkened and blasted and the soil sandy and pale as if all the good dark earth had been scrubbed off it. Margaret thought briefly of the farms in Lothering and the animals that now trailed the refugees. They were better off there than left for the darkspawn. At least until the refugees got hungry. "Look, there!" She pointed to a narrow path through which they could lead the scouts and hold them off the refugees for a while. Carver nodded and headed for the gap, drawing his massive sword.
Margaret gave one last look around, trying to see if Hopper had succeeded in bringing her sister and mother. "Margaret!" She turned to look at Carver. "Are you planning on standing there to shake their hands?"
"Ugh. Shut up." She ran to join him at the mouth of the gully. Margaret stood behind Carver, her staff out and ready, every muscle tensed and waiting. The sound of claws scrabbling on the hard-packed dirt and rock behind her had her staff up and ready, a spell on her lips. Hopper came bounding around the outcrop and Margaret released the breath she'd been holding. Bethany picked her careful way across the rocks behind the exuberant mabari with their mother following behind, just as carefully, her skirt gathered primly in one hand.
"Bethany, stay back. Keep Mother safe. Hopper, stay with them." The flame-haired mage turned back to stand shoulder to shoulder with her younger brother. He swiped at the sweat trickling down his forehead with the back of his hand. As she moved to do the same, a sudden thought struck her, making her blood run to ice. iIf they could get up here behind us, then so could.../i She spun slowly, her eyes searching every rock and shadow. She felt Carver turn to look at her in concern, and Beth pick up on her tension and nervously look from her to the surrounding rocks. "Oh, Maker, no," Margaret breathed. "Behind us! Run! Up the hill! Run, now!"
True to her word, she grabbed her mother's arm as she passed and dragged the other woman behind her up the hill. "Run faster, Sister!" Carver's voice, tight with strain urged her onward. Something jumped out at her and without thinking, she flung her hand up and threw the first spell she'd ever learned at the toothily grinning monstrosity that sprang out at her. It froze and fell over, encased in ice.
"Margaret!" Her mother yelled. The mage twisted and spun her staff up, charged energy crackling down the length to send another, shorter darkspawn twitching to the ground in its death throes. Hopper bounded over and hamstrung another attempting to sneak down from the rocks and when it fell, the mabari ripped its throat out for good measure.
"Run!" Caver shouted. He stormed past, Bethany's small hand crushed in his, as he dragged her after him. Margaret, for once, agreed with her brother. Her mother raced after her twins. Margaret glanced behind her to see that their distraction had apparently worked far too well in leading the bulk of the scouts away from the refugees. She turned and sprinted, Hopper racing ahead to take point as she'd trained him in their hunting forays.
They ran, engaging the ravening spawn as often as they were forced to. Bethany stayed by their mother, and Margaret often felt the cold, icy, warm, tingling wash of her sister's healing spell when one of the monsters got in a lucky hit. She and Carver fought like they hadn't in a very long time. Not since their father had begun training them to fight together as children. She ducked and threw a spell and he was there to finish off the attacking monster with a swing of his blade. Or, he'd have one nearly done and a spell from her would kill it, so he could move on to another. Hopper worried the ranks, weakening individual spawn to make them easier to take down. Backs were watched, weak spots were covered. And over all, Bethany was there, healing both of them as long as her mana held.
Carver had forgotten the last time he'd slept or ate. The world was narrowed down to his blade, the dog and his sisters and mother. His muscles ached from the repetitive impact of metal against bone and sinew and the palms of his hands were on fire - he could feel new blisters forming with each swing. They finally broke free, Bethany and Mother trailing as he and Margaret raced ahead to make sure the path was clear. "Where are we going?" Beth's voice brought him up short and he turned to look at his twin, glad for the short rest to suck air into his lungs, trying not to sway in place.
"Away from the Darkspawn. Where else?" He heard Margaret stop and turn back to them.
"And then where? We can't just wander, aimlessly. That's a good way to find more darkspawn." Carver failed at keeping the irritation out of his voice, but he was too tired to be diplomatic at this point. Not that diplomacy was ever useful with Margaret.
"Wherever we go, we stick together. No matter what." Carver met his elder sister's eyes at her declaration, the setting sun hitting them just right and making them glow a rather eerie bright green. I hope you're right, Sister, dear.
Mother cleared her throat. "Kirkwall. We can go to Kirkwall."
Carver felt his stomach drop into his boots with everything he'd ever heard about Kirkwall serving in the King's army. He glanced at Bethany and was about to object when Margaret beat him to it. "Kirkwall! You want to take Beth and me to the one city besides Val Royeaux where mages are more hunted than …. wyvern at an Orlesian Tea Party?" He turned the short laugh into a cough. Sometimes Margaret's comparisons were funny, but the absurd image (a wyvern in a dress seated at a table drinking tea out of an impossibly small cup) that just popped into his head could only be the result of too little sleep and no food.
Bethany frowned. "There're a lot of Templars in Kirkwall, Mother." Templars. Right. Avoid Templars. Father kneeling down in front of him, handing him his first blade with ceremony and gravity. "It's your job to protect your sisters, Carver. The Templars - you remember what those are, don't you?"
"Yes, Father." Small-Carver cleared his throat, trying to sound grown-up. "They're bad men who want to take Margaret and Beth away."
A kind smile creased a round face that looked far too much like his older sister's. "Well, not all of them are bad, but they all do want to take them away from us." The green eyes crinkled at the corners. "Now, are you up to the challenge of defending your sisters?"
He remembered squaring his small shoulders and holding that short sword close to his chest. "Yes, Father."
Leandra looked from one daughter to the other. Carver shook his head, trying to focus. This was the stupidest idea he'd ever heard, but if it's what Mother wanted... "I know it's dangerous. But we have family there. An estate."
Carver shrugged when Bethany looked at him questioningly. This would have to be up to her and Margaret. Kirkwall wouldn't be a danger to ihim/i, after all. He felt his lips pull back as Margaret looked at their sister and sighed. "Then we head for Gwaren. We'll need to take ship, there." Why did she always give in to Mother, but when he was alive she fought with Father every second of the day?
"No, Father! I will not hide in the barn like some scurrying rat! The Templars know you have two daughters, if we're both missing, they'll be even more suspicious!"
"Margaret, you will do as I say!"
"Not when you're wrong I won't!" They'd stood there glaring at each other, the tension in the room thick. Leandra wrung her hands uselessly, Bethany's lips quivered as they always did when the two most stubborn people he'd ever known butted heads. Even at the age of twelve, Margaret had a mind of her own.
The warrior shook his head, again, attempting to refocus on the immediate moment, and drew his blade, resuming point. "If we survive that long. I'll just be happy to get out of here."
If he ever saw another darkspawn again, it would be too soon. They stank. They hit harder than Sergeant Mackenna in the sparring ring. Despite his getting a head start on her, Margaret soon passed him up and took point. He rolled his eyes at her competitiveness, but deep in the corners of his mind he never wanted to acknowledge, he was glad she was there. Maybe if the mages had been allowed to fight like his sister could, they wouldn't have gotten overwhelmed at Ostagar and wouldn't have needed Teryn Loghain and that stupid signal fire. And maybe the Grey Wardens would still be alive.
The interminable lecture on Darkspawn had already gone on forever. What could be so hard about killing monsters? You stick the pointy end of the sword in their gut and they died. Of course, he'd been naive, not that he'd know that for another day or so. So, bored, he'd let his attention wander and he spotted one of the odder sights he'd seen in the camp that day. A petite elven girl, her ears bared by a ponytail, led big blond warrior up the ramp to the top of the wall to look out over the valley. She'd gestured, her small hands waving gracefully as she talked, the man next to her nodding, asking the occasional question and interjecting his own opinion. Carver couldn't hear what they were saying, but body language was easy to interpret. Odder still, was the staff she wore openly on her back. The ornate carving at the top marked it to his more experienced eyes as something beyond the quarterstaff a farmer would wear. Was the big guy a Templar? Then he caught the symbol embossed on the warrior's shield. A griffon rampant. Grey Wardens.
The Sergeant at that time chose to single him out. "Private Hawke! Since you apparently know all there is to know about killing Darkspawn..."
Another small break in the trail where it widened briefly, but instead of the respite the last wider space had been, this one was overrun with more 'spawn. They were circling a man and a woman who stood back to back, weapons out and ready. He glanced at Margaret and his stomach sank into his boots. She's going to do something stupid.
She launched herself with a yell at the crowd surrounding the pair. "Andraste's knickers, Mags!" he swore, falling back on his childhood knickname for her. He and the mabari hound caught up with her just as her outflung spell managed to incinerate a half dozen of the mob. When did she learn that? And then there was no time to worry about his sister's skills, the darkspawn turned to attack them.
When he was finally able to wrench his heavy blade from the last of the twitching, stinking corpses, he turned to find his sister facing down - was that a templar? Bloody hell! "Apostate! Keep your distance!" The man's eyes darted from Bethany to Margaret. Carver rolled his eyes and wondered if they'd have to kill the very people they'd just rescued.
Bethany let out a short laugh. "Well. The Maker has a sense of humor. Darkspawn - and a templar. I thought they all abandoned Lothering to flee with the refugees?"
The Templar didn't sound very healthy, however. OK, maybe it won't be too hard of a fight. "The spawn are clear in their intent, but the mage is always an unknown." He swayed slightly and his hand went to his stomach, his voice became strained. "The order dictates..."
The red-haired woman's softly interrupted, "Wesley..."
"Those women are apostates." Carver tightened his grip on his blade. He saw his older sister's hand slowly start reaching behind her for her staff. "The Order dictates..."
"Dear, they saved us," the woman interrupted again. Whoever she was, Carver hoped she could talk the Templar down. "The Maker understands."
The Templar's shoulders slumped and he nodded and backed away. "Of course." Carver tried not to be too obvious in letting out the breath he'd been holding. She introduced herself as Aveline Vallen and the Templar was Ser Wesley. Carver ignored most of the conversation, trying to get his fatigue-sodden brain to pay attention to their surroundings, until... "-North is cut off. We barely escaped the main body of the horde."
Frustration and fear surged through him. "Then - We're trapped! The Wilds are to the South! That's no way out!" Mother let out a sob behind him.
The sound seemed to make Margaret's jaw set. "Then we have no choice. The darkspawn have us fenced in. We go South." The sound he'd been hearing most of the afternoon finally made sense and he turned to face north. He rushed to the side of the path for a better view. Flames shot high into the air, sending billowing plumes of smoke skyward, reaching for the hazy sun. Maker. Peaches! The refugees! He hoped Ser Bryant got them around that, or they'd be walking right into a warzone. He met his mother's horrified eyes and they both turned to follow Margaret.
They climbed a short hill and reached a break in the craggy rocks again. But no sooner had they paused to catch their breath, then the ground began to shake beneath their feet. Margaret stumbled into him and he sat her on her feet as Bethany led their mother to what looked like a safe spot. Good idea, Beth. Get her out of the way. This looks like a wonderful place for an ambush. And not in our favor. He stumbled, the ground seeming to buck under his feet. What in the Void is making the ground shake? He bounced off Margaret and into the red-haired warrior woman who pushed him back onto his feet.
The biggest, ugliest darkspawn - that has to be what that is, nothing normal could ever look like that - with two-foot horns sprouting out of either side of its head, it's massive gray-ish purple chest bare to the hips where a scrap of rough fur was mercifully belted across its waist came charging over the rise at them. Spittle flew from its jaws as it roared in defiance. To his left, he heard Margaret start a litany of cuss words that would have made the most hardened sergeant in the King's Army blush scarlet. Maker's breath, what is that thing?
The world slowed to a crawl, Carver couldn't seem to make his arms move fast enough to bring his sword up to charge. Bethany turned - turn faster, run, Bethany! - her eyes widening at the monster bearing down on her and their mother. Margaret's staff spun, but the energy that erupted from the end flew as if the air was trying to hold it back. "Maker, give me strength!" Bethany cried as she shoved their mother back, the older woman falling onto her rear end with a sharp cry as the young mage gathered her strength for a spell.
Wesley was there, suddenly, the ill Templar. Knocking his twin out of the way. Aveline yelled her husband's name, rushing toward him, but she was too late. And then the world came back into focus as the monster wrapped one horrid paw around the Templar's waist and scooped him up like a rag doll. And like a child with a toy, it slammed the warrior's body into the ground repeatedly, each time with a more sickening crunching sound than the last, Wesley's broken body no longer fighting the thing's grip. Carver, startled at the sacrifice, a Templar, giving his life for a mage, felt the world narrow down to just himself and that … that thing as rage stronger than anything he'd ever felt before filled him, twisted his stomach and pumped fire though his veins. His fatigue vanished and he leaped at the massive darkspawn, bringing his sword up to avenge the broken man.