Victory at Ostagar

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Chapter 2: As the Sun Rises

The Archdemon's bellowed challenge awakened Bronwyn from her restless sleep.

A nightmare. Charming. Not surrising, I suppose, all things considered. But it seemed so real…

Where am I?

A dim light seeped through tent walls, turning them a lowering dark blue. The Highever tent. She was unnaturally comfortable, lying on a wide and cushioned cot. Scout was on the ground beside her, whimpering in his sleep.

Perhaps if she curled up under the soft, warm covers, she could sleep a little longer. Perhaps she could sleep forever, or at least until Mother came to wake her, and tell her that none of this had happened.

There was a sick, gnawing emptiness in her stomach. She wondered bitterly if it was grief or fear or just plain hunger. Mother was gone. Father was gone. Oriana and Oren were bloody corpses. Nan would never tell her those stupid stories again, no matter how much Bronwyn wanted to hear them.

Now Duncan was gone, too. It had been so easy to let Duncan slip into the role of parent on the long road from Highever. She had loved his warm, deep voice, and had tried her best to be a good daughter: to learn all he taught her of Grey Warden history, of the lands he had journeyed through, of his adventures, of wood lore and cave lore and battle lore. By the camp fire and on the march, he had talked of the races and peoples he had met, and about the people she would be meeting. Much more would be revealed to her, he promised, once she was truly a Grey Warden. There were secrets, he confided, known only to members of the order.

So much for that. Duncan had died and taken his secrets with him. Bronwyn felt cheated and bereft, like a child whose naming-day is forgotten. She and Alistair were the only two Grey Wardens in Ferelden, and what she knew about being a Grey Warden would fit on a single sheet of parchment. On one side.

Duncan had had nightmares, she remembered. Nearly every night, too. He was good at hiding it, but after a while she could tell. Maybe all Grey Wardens had nightmares. Well, if one spent one's days and nights fighting horrors like darkspawn, it was perhaps only to be expected.

Alistair must know more. Alistair…

She heard low moans from beyond the canvas partition. Perhaps he was having a nightmare, too.

Scout was awake now, and had stood up with a shake, gazing at her with loving eyes. She reached out to give him an ear-scratching.

"At least I've got you, old boy." She looked at him with some concern. After that first patrol, Scout had seemed to be sickening, but had been himself within the hour. He had a few scratches from last night that she had seen to at once. One could not be too careful around darkspawn…

A lick and a faint whine, and Scout's ears were pricked up, attentive to the distressed noises from her fellow Warden.

"Right. Let's go sort him out."

Blast! She had no clothes. No clothes at all. She had even removed her ragged undergarments. She grabbed up the fur coverlet and wrapped it around her, then pushed the curtain aside.

The Teyrn of Highever's tent was partitioned into four rooms, but three of them were smallish cubicles along the back: one for storage and two for sleeping. The front room, which accessed the outside, took up two-thirds of the space, and was comfortably furnished with a trestle table, with folding chairs, with chests and crates and maps and all the little luxuries that only great nobles possessed.

Alistair was sprawled in a tangle of blankets in the middle this room, thrashing and muttering. He was certainly a handsome fellow, Bronwyn thought, admiring the strong legs and broad, muscled shoulders...even if he had drooled a bit. He reminded her a little of Ser Rory Gilmore: sweet and diffident…

No. She was not going to think about Rory Gilmore or about any of the dreadful things that must have happened to him during the massacre at Highever . This was Alistair, and he was her comrade in arms after last night.

"Alistair!"

It might not be a good idea to shake him. Warriors sometimes reacted badly to that, especially when fresh from the battlefield...battle tower...whatever.

She leaned closer. "Alistair!"

Scout sniffed at him, interested, and then trotted over to the remains of the tray of cheese.

Bronwyn sighed. "Oh, all right!" Scout liked the smoked Amaranthine, too, even when it was a bit dry and stale. She tossed him one cube, and then another.

"Alistair!" she called over her shoulder. "Wake up before Scout gets the last of the cheese!"

"Hunnh?"

Her fellow Warden reared up on his elbows, mouth open, eyes blinking. He paused, and then slumped back down again with a groan.

"It really happened," he said, voice flat.

"Yes. I'm sorry. It's horrible. You were having a nightmare, I think." She opened the tent flap a crack, and peered out. "It's not sunrise yet. How do you feel? I mean...how are your wounds?"

He tugged at the bandage. "Fine. That mage knows what she's doing. Amazing, really. Was it part of my nightmare, or do we have some sort of meeting this morning?"

"We do, but not for hours. You could sleep some more, if you don't mind me poking about here. I've got to see what my brother brought by way of linen. Oh — and Wynne said she'd be by to see you. You might have been asleep by then."

"Wynne is the mage. Right." He sat up, and took the offered platter from Bronwyn, picking through it for the bits he liked best. He ate hungrily, but in silence, not looking at her.

Which was fine with Bronwyn, struggling as she was to keep the fur around her while looking through the chests. Fergus was a big man: tall and broad-chested — not unlike Alistair here. All his things would be huge on her, but that was why the Maker gave the world needles and thread. And elves to wield them.

There! One of the shirts was made of a particularly fine and soft linen, and she made it hers at once. It would keep her armor from chafing, at least.

Where was Fergus, anyway? He had been out scouting, she knew, and had not been expected back before the battle. But he had returned for it, hadn't he? Bronwyn tamped down the stirrings of unease and set her mind on household tasks. There was only one cot in the tent: her brother's. He would want it when he returned. She must see if the quartermaster could find another.

One of the chests in storage surely contained money and treasure. Fergus must have the key. She had precious little coin of her own, and large purchases must wait until her brother returned.

"I can't believe Duncan's gone," Alistair said suddenly.

Bronwyn turned to look at him. He was miserable. They must have been close, she realized. She had grown fond of Duncan herself. How much dearer must he have been to someone who had known him longer.

"He'll be missed," she said wanting to comfort both Alistair and herself. "He died very bravely, protecting the King at the cost of his life. We won't forget him, and he'd want us to do our duty as Wardens."

"You're right," he agreed, listless with grief. "It's just..." He asked, "Have you ever lost someone close to you?"

She hissed, feeling the words like the slash of a rusty knife. "Yes," she answered, rather coldly. "My parents were murdered not long ago. Duncan helped me escape the attack that killed them."

"Oh—oh!" He looked even more miserable. "I'm sorry! Then you know—"

"Yes, I do. There's nothing I can do about it. They're dead. Duncan's dead. We just have to get on with it and honor their memories. We're still threatened with a Blight, and now there are just the two of us." She tried to think of words that would put heart in her companion. "Duncan would want us to be brave and carry on for him. That's what we'll do, starting today."

She grabbed up a handful of the apples— now dark brown and soft— and gobbled them down. They were still food, and she was surprisingly hungry. A few oat cakes followed.

"After the sun is up, I'll have the elves make us some porridge. That's the proper thing to help us face the day. We must be strong and confident when we meet with the Teyrn."

"—and the King," Alistair added.

"Of course. We all have to stand together to face this danger, and it's up to us to represent the Wardens with honor. I've got to comb out my hair, put on clean linen, and polish my armor a bit. You should do the same. And you need a shave."

"Right—clean linen—polish armor—shave. I'll go to the Wardens' tent…" His face fell into wretchedness again.

"Why don't you use some of Fergus' things for now?" Bronwyn suggested, hiding her impatience. If she had to be strong, then so did he. If you let yourself go all soft and weepy it was just easier for men like Howe to kill you.

She said, "Maybe after our meeting, we could make time to visit the Wardens' tent." Privately, she hoped there would be things there they could use. Two dozen men — almost none of whom she had ever met — must have had heaps of gear. She knew enough from Duncan to know that a dead Warden's gear was the property of his brothers... and sisters.

Which means me. I wonder if any of them was a bit shorter than the rest?

She hoped so. She owned no clothing but her small clothes and a shirt— no — two shirts. She had to wear her armor constantly because she had nothing else. She needed socks and a warm cloak and a pair of breeches— and — well, so many things! Furiously, she ransacked Fergus' belongings for a comb. It would be weary work, untangling her hair, but by the Maker, she was a Cousland! She would not go before the descendant of that jumped-up Calenhad looking like a beggarmaid.

After a tactical retreat behind her curtain, she was clothed in fresh, soft linen; and after much cursing and muttering, she managed to tame her snarled brown hair. She braided it and wrestled it into a knot, and let the curling tendrils in front follow their own sweet will.

Andraste's nightgown! I'd like to wash my hair again before I die.

Some of the leather bits of her armor were still damp, but there was no help for it. The chain mail was strapped on and buckled, and she emerged from her little canvas bedchamber to find Alistair similarly armored and on his feet. And devouring the remaining crumbs from last night's tray.

"My lady?" called Dariel's soft voice.

"Come in."

The elf came in to retrieve and empty the basin of last night's wash water. "I am heating more water for you now, my lady. We heard you stirring."

"Thank you. I'd like porridge for myself and my comrade here. Do any of you know how to sew?"

"All of us, my lady. Is there something you need done?"

"Not yet, but soon."

The elf remained, looking at the ground. Bronwyn noticed him waiting, and asked, "Was there something else?"

"My lady..." the elf ventured. "There is a terrible rumor— we have heard that Highever Castle was attacked— that the Teyrn is dead. Is this true?"

Bronwyn sat down suddenly on the nearest bench, overwhelmed with shame. How could she have been so cruel?

"Forgive me," she managed. "I have been so wrapped up in my own grief. I am very sorry…of course you want to know the news…I hesitated to tell anyone because I wanted to tell my brother myself."

Alistair was watching in confusion and concern. She shook her head at him.

"Dariel, call in the other servants. I'll tell you all at once. I must tell the men as well…"

What a selfish pig I am, she groaned. Many of the men had friends and family in the castle. Everyone needs to know.

She felt sick. Dariel's sister and Hamm's mother and Trinian's son... and all the rest. Not only Couslands had died.

And Howe was up north, no doubt gouging the tenants and pretending to be Teyrn. There wasn't a Highever man in the army who wouldn't be affected.

The elf was gone in a flash, and returned almost as quickly, with a small crowd of elves and a few humans.

Bronwyn stood up straight, and spoke clearly.

"You all know me. I arrived two days ago with the Grey Warden Duncan. He was visiting Highever Castle on the day my brother Fergus departed for the war. My father and Arl Rendon Howe planned to follow together, since the Arl claimed there had been some delay in mustering the men of Amaranthine.

"He lied. His men were lying in wait. After the Highever men were gone — late that night — they attacked. Howe's own guard were already in the castle and turned on my family — and on everyone else dwelling there. My father—"

She stopped a moment, and collected herself, lifting her chin.

"My father was treacherously stabbed in the back. My mother and I found the bodies of my brother's wife and my nephew Oren."

"Not the little boy!" cried out one of the elves, horrified.

"Our guests Lady Landra and her son Lord Darrien were murdered as well. Howe's men seemed bent on killing everyone in the castle to keep secret his betrayal. My tutor Aldous...Nan the cook..."

She stopped, seeing the desperate questions on every face.

"I did not see any dead elves, " she told them, "though I am sure they were also targets. Our own plan was to escape through the servant's door in the larder. When we found my father there, the door was ajar, and so I would guess that many had already made their escape. I pray so. At least, when I went through the kitchen I did not see your sister, Dariel, and she was not in the servant's quarters. My mother and I fought our way through a great deal of the castle, looking for my father and gathering other survivors. I saw Mintha and Delvina in the servants quarters, and they were running toward the kitchen. I don't know what happened in the stables, Trinian. I am sorry. There was fire and confusion everywhere. "

"What happened to the Teyrna?" asked an older human servant, his face pale.

This was the worst moment of all. "Almost with his last breath, my father commanded the Grey Warden to carry me to safety, so that there would be someone to bear witness against Howe. Duncan did so, despite my—" She blew out a breath. "He did so. My mother insisted on staying with my father and covering my escape. Archil and the guardsman Herben stood with her. There is no doubt in my mind that she is dead, and her loyal retainers with her. I came at once to the King, to tell him of Howe's treachery."

The horror and anguish her story wrung from her servants made her realize that she must not lose any time telling the soldiers as well. Her own tent guard was ashen-faced as she stepped out into the early morning light, with Scout at her side.

"Fetch an officer. I must speak to the men directly."

She knew the captain who hurried to meet her: Fannon, a distant cousin of the Couslands. He had her father's height and ruffled hair, and her heart caught, thinking of home. After they exchanged a few words, he sent word to the sergeants to round up all the men who were fit to stand after the battle.

To her surprise, Alistair was walking down to the lines of tents with her.

"You don't have to be here, Alistair."

"Of course I do. I can't believe all you've gone through. You've got a Blight on one hand and a traitor on the other. Thank the Maker Duncan was there!"

It was kind of him, she felt, to lend his support. He was a loyal comrade, as he had proved yesterday. She was lucky in that, at least.

And thus, within a few minutes, she stood between Alistair and Fannon and told the awful tale once more. The soldiers were louder, angrier, more used to violence, and by the end of her story they were ready to explode.

"If they're dead, then what are we doing here?" shouted one freeholder's son. "Why aren't we marching on that bastard Howe?"

"We shall!" Bronwyn shouted back. "I had to bring word to the King that Howe was a traitor. I have spoken to him already on the matter, and he has promised us vengeance!"

The roar of approval echoed through the valley of Ostagar.

"I have heard from your captain of yesterday's brave deeds. You charged with Maric's Shield, under the command of Teyrn Loghain himself! You helped to break the darkspawn horde! Never regret your absence from Highever at this time, for you have saved your country from a threat more evil than death itself. For now, there are wounded who need care, plans to be laid, and I must tell my brother that he is now your Teyrn. In the Maker's good time, Howe will be dealt with, and he will bitterly regret the day he thought to meddle with the men of Highever!"

Another great shout rent the morning.

She thought, when she told the Captain to dismiss them, that they would go back to their own pursuits and talk amongst themselves. Instead, they pressed forward, wanting to speak to her, wanting to touch her hand, wanting to tell her what they thought of her lighting the beacon.

A trumpet-voiced sergeant bellowed, "Highever Hail to Lady Bronwyn! Hail!"

"Hail!" the soldiers roared.

"Hail!"

"Hail!"

"Hail!"

"Hail!"

"Now that's enough!" the sergeant shouted. "Let the lady get back to slaying her enemies, and you lot get back to cleaning that armor. This is an army camp, not a pig-wallow!"


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