Two
The aged towers jutted into sapphire skies, but Cain had opted to surround himself with the flapping of canvas tents in the wind and the smell of campfires.
Skyhold was an impressive bastion, for sure. Why someone had chosen to build such a stalwart fortress so deep in the mountains, he couldn't guess. Despite the wind and snow this high up, the stone walls and towers were in better condition than he might have expected.
It had been the middle of the night when the Herald of Andraste stumbled into the camp. Cain and Dominic had wandered until the footsteps of the Inquisition soldiers had faded into snow drifts and began to turn around when the horn blasts rocked the mountains.
"Alive. Unbelievable," Cain had thought.
If Trevelyan wasn't actually divinely touched, he was at least devilishly lucky.
The recruits were pacing back and forth, practicing footwork and throwing attacks and parries back at each other. Some of these men appeared to be soldiers, but many were raw. Too raw to be anything more than corpses if another pitched battle broke out, Cain thought.
Dominic was in the latter category, as Cain ran them through some exercises.
"Soldiers aren't creative," he drilled. "The first strike you face is likely going to come at your left side, chest high as they charge. If your shield isn't up to protect your flank, you'll be dead before you even get the first opportunity to swing that shiny sword."
The first line of recruits stepped forward, throwing a slash from their right side. The line across from them stepped back and lifted their shields to block it.
As he had expected, many of the soldiers who were wounded in the mountains never made it to Skyhold. The cold, the stress of the march and the thinner air in the elevation all took their toll.
The mage healers did what they could, but by the end of the first night, they were exhausted and some on the verge of collapse themselves. The more traditional healers patched what they could, but they lacked supplies after having to flee Haven in an instant. Trevelyan had managed to save the herbalist Adan, but the potions, poultices and herbs were all lost to flame.
"For some of you recruits, that shield is going to be the only thing that keeps your head on your shoulders. Now the other way!"
The blocking line stepped forward throwing a slow slash, while the others lifted their shields to block. Everything was happening at about half speed, as he had designed. Letting a teen with a practice sword try to go at normal pace was like trying to guide a wild druffalo.
"A piercing wound only needs to be inches deep to be fatal. A stabbing strike is much easier to land and much harder for your enemy to block. You can stab a man while still hiding behind that pretty shield of yours. Right line, slash! Left line, block and stab! Go!"
The recruits slowly went through the motions, tossing loping strikes. The others caught it on their shield and thrust the dulled blades forward, touching the chests of their partners. Several had pulled their shields far to the left sides of their body, despite Cain repeating for the last three days to keep it tight into their chest.
He walked down the line to the third grouping, stopping before the two young men who had come from Orlais. They had said they had practiced swordfighting with each other daily for the last year and giggled. Cain was becoming blatantly aware they were talking about the kind of sparring Orlesian dandies did in their bedchambers, not on the battlefield.
He grabbed the shield and pushed it hard up against the young man's chest. "Raoul, I swear to the Maker if you keep floating that shield out there like a kerchief, I'm going to send you right back to Val Useless where you came from."
The Orlesian was already dripping in sweat and they had just started their exercises. He certainly wasn't familiar with physical exertion. Cain didn't know where he came from, but he was no soldier. "Yes, instructor. Sorry, ser."
Cain stepped out of the line. "Left, attack. Right, defend. Again!" They moved. Raoul's partner - Alber? Alain? Artur? Whatever it was - at least kept his shield in tight as he blocked and counterstruck. One of the recruits farther down was swearing as his partner had apparently jabbed him harder than he thought was cordial.
"Switch and again!"
Tradesmen had been pouring into Skyhold for the last month as the Herald - Inquisitor now - sought to get the keep into better shape. Age and abandonment had left it in a state.
The towering keep appeared to be in good condition, but several of the smaller towers had crumbled around the edges. The walls needed repair in multiple places and the southeastern wall had almost fully collapsed.
That wasn't to mention chasing out the wild animals who had taken up residence - birds, rodents and a small brown bear that was quite unhappy to see the Inquisition. One of the scouts had nearly lost an arm to the thing before they were able to put it down.
Cain hadn't been up yet. He hadn't been invited and wasn't all that interested. Commander Cullen had appointed several of the Templars and other seasoned soldiers to oversee drilling the recruits, so he was happily putting his skills and knowledge to use here.
He had never been the most talented fighter, and honestly it had been years since he used a shield himself. He had always favored the reach and power of the greatsword, but also the danger of it. The long blade required more skill and attention to wield successfully against another armed foe, and it gave little to no protection against a mage.
But it was the preferred weapon to sit in on Harrowings, and he had been asked to oversee far more of those than he wished to recall in Kirkwall.
Whenever he could draw an assignment to leave the great walled city and track apostates or escapees, or go pick up young mages to be brought to the Circle from the outlying villages in the Free Marches, he always took on those. Days traveling the countryside, an occasional good fight or the chance to soothe a child frightened to death by the prospect of leaving their family to become part of the Circle, all were better than the Gallows.
Honestly, who keeps a name like "The Gallows" for any part of their city, Cain had often thought. A twisted joke on the poor mages trapped inside.
"The Templars are skilled fighters, but the red lyrium has stripped them of their sense. They are wild, but twice as strong as a normal man and three times harder to bring down now."
Some of the blows he had parried in the attack on Haven were so fierce they sent shockwaves up his arms. He had hewed the arm off of one of the red foot soldiers and it kept coming at him. He had ripped wounds open in others that would have dropped a normal man screaming to his knees, but it barely phased the Red Templars.
And that taste. It had finally subsided about two days after the attack, but only after he had taken double his normal dose of blue lyrium. Since leaving the Order, Cain had been trying to slowly wean himself off. Stopping all at once might drive him mad like the addicts he'd see or the aged Templars who were so addled they could barely hold a conversation any more. But without the Chantry keeping a steady supply, relying on too much would run him dry and he'd find himself seeking out shady smugglers or dust dealers in the slums.
There was pain sometimes. Some nights he would be plagued by strange and frightening dreams. Other times his mind would drift, as if his thoughts were lost somewhere in the beyond. But he had cut his consumption back to every other day so far, and only at half the dose he had once taken in Kirkwall.
What was perhaps most frightening about the fight in Haven was that as he smelled the vapors and was spattered with their corrupted red blood, he felt invigorated. That hole in him that lyrium used to fill was alight with pleasure and his strength surged just by being around it. His thoughts scrambled and his rage was hard to push down. His guard had been sloppy, but his blows hit so hard he thought he might have broken the blade.
All from just being near the red lyrium. The memory of Knight Commander Meredith stumbling and shouting, red light and electricity filling the sky and then a snap - flames, screaming and nothing left but a horrific petrified form frozen for eternity on her knees.
"The Venatori are just men like you. Tevinters have their heads so far up the mages' asses they can barely remember how to use a sword. Block, parry, stab. They wear thick armor, but they are sloppy fighters. Even you sad lot could fight off an army of their foot soldiers."
The soldiers shuffled into their next drill as he continued to speak. Slash, block, stab, parry, guard, reset.
"The Inquisition will be moving into Orlais soon. You Fereldans may think the Orlesians are a bunch of powdered, mask-wearing fancies like Raoul here," Cain said, shooting another harsh glare that made the recruit snap his shield closer to his flank. "But there's a reason why they conquered and held Ferelden for a hundred years."
The Wygards, his bloodline, had learned of Orlesian might the hard way.
"The rank and file are well-trained in combat. Their archers spend years at the butts and their bows can fire near as far as a Dalish. And if you see the yellow feather of a chevalier in a helm, you better get ready to meet the Maker because he'll kill the entire company of you lot without breaking a sweat."
An Inquisition messenger had come up behind him as he watched the line of recruits spar back and forth. "Ser, message for you!" the young woman said. She wasn't armored like some of the others, but instead dressed in noble's clothing, a red velvet with golden buttons molded like lion's heads down the front. Her accent was Orlesian, but not so thick. Jader, perhaps.
Her posture was better than the usual rabble, but not so uptight and preened to be Orlesian nobility. Her family had been wealthy, perhaps, trying to jump a rung into higher society. She was young, not terribly pretty but not unpleasant to look at, her blond hair pulled back in a single braid perfectly knit, wound and pinned. She might have been married off to some aging lord down on his luck in an attempt to secure more wealth for her father.
Now she was here, running messages. The Breach had certainly caused strange bedfellows.
"Recruits, halt!" he shouted. "Three miles, in your gear. Only then can you get a meal and then report to Knight-Sergeant Tavon for more instruction. Dismissed!"
The soldiers groaned at the distance, quietly whined to each other but began jogging away. If he could continue drilling them, maybe half would survive the next battle, at this rate.
"Ser Wygard, your presence is requested in Skyhold. I'm to bring you to the main hall immediately," the Orlesian messenger said.
"I'm no ser. I gave that life up," Cain corrected her. "Who's request?"
He expected Cullen.
"Ambassador Montilyet, ser," the Orlesian cut herself short and paused for a second, finishing unsteadily with, "Uhhh, Messere Wygard."
He didn't care for Orlesians, but disliked pomp and ceremony no matter what nationality it was coming from. He knew exactly what the ambassador would want from him. "Lead on," he conceded.
The approach to the fortress was intimidating. A wide but long walkway leading to the towering gatehouse. Soldiers had moved ballistae to the towers and a hundred archers could stand atop the battlements and rain arrows down upon the walkway.
The tall walls, although worse for wear, stood atop steep cliffs falling down hundreds of feet into the valley. There was only one way into Skyhold, and it was the murderously long trek up to the gates.
The metal portcullises were old, but they still appeared sturdy and strong. He had been hearing from a few of the dwarves who would brag that only the Smith Class back in Orzammar could have forged a better gate. The smiths could do a better job in their sleep, they boasted, but still, the compliment to whoever had built the fortress before was apparent.
The interior of the gatehouse itself stretched longer than most keeps. Murder holes above, another interior gate and overlooks from either side where defenders could rain down more fire or descend to take the fight to equal ground before the enemy ever penetrated the walls.
As Cain came within the bailey, the sight of scaffolds were everywhere as masons did what they could to rebuild walls and towers. Surgeons were treating the wounded in the yard as best they could. Others were still in the process of clearing brush, draining standing water and clearing paths to get around the yard toward the stables in the south.
He ascended the criss-crossed steps and came in the main hall, which was also overrun by scaffolds. Some Orlesians were high up in the far back of the hall working on the colored glass now ablaze with the light of the still-rising morning sun.
Skyhold was still a mess, but progress was being made.
The ambassador's office was little more than a desk and piles of leatherbound books at this point. But Josephine Montilyet looked as put together as ever as she scribbled upon parchment, her quill swooping across the page like an elegant dancer leaving black traces in the snow.
"Ambassador, Messere Wygard, as requested," the Orlesian said, gave a short bow and scurried off on her next assignment.
Josephine made one last pass across the bottom of her page, giving one lavish swipe he could only assume was her signature and then she stamped down quickly with a wax seal, giving one slow blow across the hot wax to help it cool.
With a smooth grace, she rose from her seat and crossed to Cain, her shoulders high and proud and a welcoming smile across her lips. Her eyes betrayed that she had slept little since arriving in Skyhold, but her posture was as sure as a chevalier at tournament.
She was highborn and high-raised, unlike the messenger. The Ambassador immediately commanded respect in the angle she presented her body, the pitch of her head and gait of her steps.
"Ser Wygard, thank you for coming," she said. "I apologize for the disheveled state of the main hall, but as you know, it's been a trying few weeks."
"Cain is fine, Ambassador," he said.
Josephine gave a slight nod. "Of course, Cain. Commander Cullen has told me some of what transpired after Kirkwall. You left the Order, but still, he speaks highly of your abilities. From his assessment, I am glad you have decided to stay with the Inquisition."
"Appreciated," Cain said. running his hand across his mouth and his goatee. "Buttered. Now here comes the ask," he thought.
He had always had a talent for reading a situation, and his intuition was on target once again.
"You spent many years in Kirkwall, but it's been brought to my attention that your family is Fereldan. I've been able to research a little bit about House Wygard," Josephine began before Cain interrupted.
"With respect, Ambassador, there is no house any longer."
The interruption didn't deter Josephine, "Yes, Bann Markus Wygard was executed by the Orlesians in 8:80 Blessed. His two sons killed and his lands razed. A horrible deed that did not fit the crime. I understand the brutal executions galvanized many more of the local freeholders to Queen Moira's cause."
"You seem to know as much of my family history as I do, Ambassador," Cain said.
Josephine picked up a tablet from her desk, complete with burning candle, inkpot and quill. Her step cut in the floor and she spun on her heel, slowly back to face him. The way she turned, almost like a trained short-blade fighter. Perhaps the Ambassador could cut with a knife as well as a word?
"The Inquisition was struck a nearly fatal blow at Haven. We are rebuilding, but we need whatever resources we can call upon. I've put in inquiries to as many nearby houses in both Orlais and Ferelden as I can. Inquisitor Trevelyan has won us critical goodwill by closing the Breach, but any influence we can call upon from within will be invaluable while we await return on our calls for aid," she said.
"I'm sorry, Ambassador Montilyet, but as I said, House Wygard is no more. My mother lived as a commoner in Redcliffe almost all her life. She didn't even know she was the last surviving Wygard until after she gave birth to my oldest sister the year after King Maric took the throne. She didn't have any proof outside the word of a dying sister in the Chantry. Me, I grew up as the son of a carpenter and a lay sister of the Chantry.
"There is no influence to call upon," he said.
His grandfather had given refuge to the Rebel Queen and her army for just one night as they fled chevaliers. He stalled the Orlesians as they entered his land long enough for the Queen and her fighters to slip away into the woods around the roots of the Frostbacks. The chevaliers had been less than a half day behind and riding in force, and they took Bann Markus' meddling as a grievous affront.
He paid the price. A small noble holding, nearly a hundred years old, destroyed in totality by Orlesians at their pleasure. The Wygards could never claimed to have been strong, to have been defeated so easily.
"King Alistair is most grateful to the Inquisition for expelling the Venatori from Ferelden. Arl Teagan is likable enough with the people, but he is proving not to be the strongest leader in Redcliffe's storied history. A carefully placed request in Denerim to restore a Bann with the Inquisition's backing under the Arl's service would be favorably met by the King, I believe." Josephine played her hand well. She was Antivan, cut in Orlais, but she already seemed to have a firm grasp of Ferelden politics too. Cunning and shrewd, he could instantly see why she led the Inquisition's diplomatic endeavors. "The move could rally additional support from the foothills if one of their own was returned to rule-"
"There's nothing left to rule, as I said," his voice had gotten a little louder and stern without him even realizing as he interrupted her again. "With all due respect, Ambassador."
The door behind him creaked open and Cullen stepped in, passing off another report to a messenger who scurried away. The commander looked over both Cain and Josephine and could immediately feel the tension.
"I told you he wouldn't like the idea, Josephine," Cullen said.
"So you did, Commander," she said, spinning on her heel and scratching a single line across the parchment tacked to her handheld board. "If you should happen to change your mind, Ser Wygard, I can send word to Denerim immediately."
Cain nodded in understanding and turned, giving a stern glare at Cullen. The ambassador wouldn't have known anything about his background, that he was even part of the Inquisition, if not for a another former Templar, he was sure.
"Maybe I have a something more suited to your tastes," Cullen said, pointing forward. The commander opened the door on the back wall, stepped over a pile of bricks still scattered on the floor from the broken wall and opened the much larger doors at the end of the hall.
Inside, a large table hewn from what must have been an ancient tree sat in the center of the otherwise empty room. A giant map of Orlais and Ferelden was spread out along it. Several wooden figures were scattered across it, some knives driven into specific points. Redcliffe. Haven. Other smaller pins were sticking up from various other locations.
Critical decisions were being made over this map, Cain realized.
The war room.