In Search of Tranquility
Chapter Two: The Tower
"In peace, vigilance. In war, victory. In death, sacrifice."
Motto of the Grey Wardens
Killian became aware that he was lying on cold stone. He felt refreshed, but at the same time, battered and aching. He opened his eyes to see Alistair leaning over him.
"You're awake." The young man said in a relieved tone. "You made it. How do you feel?"
"Like I've been run over by a truck!" Killian said without thinking. He made to get up, and Alistair helped him rise, asking "What's a truck?"
Killian thought fast this time. "It's a big, heavy wagon we use at home to transport goods over long distances. They're drawn by truckers – half-wild beasts with enormous appetites, uncertain tempers and questionable eyesight."
"And people often get run over by them?" Alistair asked, in a tone that implied that he knew Killian was having him on, but was going to go with it anyway.
"All the time," Killian told him, "especially after a good night out!"
Duncan came over, trailed by Cormac. The young swordsman gave Killian a wry grin that said what have we let ourselves in for?
"It is good to see you awake, Killian." Duncan said. "I confess I had been unsure of you at so short an acquaintance. I need not have worried."
"In my Joining, only one of us died," Alistair said, "but it was...horrible. I'm glad you both made it. Did you have dreams? I had terrible dreams after my Joining."
"Such dreams come when you begin to sense the Darkspawn, as we all do." Duncan said. "That and much more can be explained in the months to come."
"Before I forget," said Alistair, "there is one last part to your Joining. We take some of that blood and put it in a pendant. Something to remind us of...those who didn't make it this far."
Killian took the pendant and glanced at it. A small metal phial on a sturdy chain, with the image of a griffon engraved on it.
"Take some time, both of you." Duncan instructed. "When you feel ready, you, Cormac, have been asked to attend a meeting with the King and myself. The meeting is at the bottom of the stairs, to the west. Killian, if you would join Alistair at the Grey Warden tents in the centre of the camp?"
Duncan and Alistair left. Cormac and Killian weighed each other up for a moment, then Cormac put out a hand.
"We haven't been properly introduced. I am Cormac Cousland, of the Couslands of Highever."
Killian took the hand. "Captain Killian Jones, of the ship Jolly Roger."
"Well met!" Cormac said. "I thought you might be a sea-faring man. No landsman has quite that roll in their stride. Come!"
He led Killian over to a pile of gear that lay close by. Sitting over it, apparently on guard, was another dog of the same breed as Redtooth. Killian eyed the animal respectfully. The dog looked back curiously, then put his head on one side and whined softly.
"Oh, don't mind Rufus!" Cormac said. "He won't hurt anyone he knows is a friend, but you'll hurt his feelings if he thinks you're scared of him."
"I've never seen a dog like that before." Killian confessed.
"You wouldn't have." Cormac noted. "There aren't many mabari hounds outside Ferelden. Cleverest dogs in the world – intelligent enough to talk and wise enough not to say anything is what they say about them. Rufus and I have been together since he was a pup and I was a nipper. He's a war-dog, mind, so don't take too many liberties.
"Now, what do we have here?"
With a shock, Killian realised that these were the effects of Ser Jory and Daveth, the two dead recruits. Cormac seemed to realise what he was thinking, and explained.
"Jory and Daveth were taken by the other Wardens to be cremated honourably." He said. "But all their gear is now property of the Grey Wardens. The order isn't wealthy, so nothing gets wasted. As new recruits, we get the pick of the gear and the right to sell anything we don't want."
He pulled out the chain mail Jory had been wearing and casually began to strip off his own mismatched gear. "This is good quality armour," he remarked, "and I only just escaped from the castle with what I could scrounge up."
"Escaped?" Killian asked.
"Long story." Cormac said. "I don't want to talk about it yet, it's too soon and we've a lot to do. But if you don't mind me saying, your gear might be all right for travelling – light and comfortable – but there's going to be a full-on battle here by the end of the day, so you'll want something sturdier. Also, that sword of yours may be good for a boarding action, but not against heavily armoured Darkspawn."
Killian had no taste for heavy metal armour, but he acknowledged the sense of what Cormac was saying. He was a pirate, after all, and not really squeamish about looted gear. Daveths' outfit was composed of good quality cured hide, embossed with iron studs, and comprised body armour, leggings, boots and gauntlets.
As he dressed, he studied Cormac. The lad couldn't be more than twenty or so, but he carried himself with assurance. His manner was courteous, but also authoritative. A nobleman, Killian judged. Or a natural leader. Or both.
Cormac made up a bundle of the gear they didn't want, adding several items from his pack. "We were out in the Wilds yesterday, getting Darkspawn blood for the Joining." He explained. "And we picked up some odds and ends along the way. Now, I've got an errand to the Kennel-Master, and after that, we'll see what the Quartermaster can find for us."
He led Killian down to the main part of the camp, where he went off to speak to the Kennel-Master, leaving Killian waiting by their bundle of spoils. Nearby, some kind of stage had been erected, and several soldiers were either standing or kneeling before it. On the stage, a woman wearing orange and cream robes seemed to be preaching.
"Men and women of Ferelden!" She was saying. "We stand in the shadow of the coming battle as children and servants of the Maker. We go forth in His name to fight the Darkspawn. Remember as you prepare, that the dark mages of the Tevinter Imperium were the ones who brought this curse upon us. Those same mage-lords who burned the prophet Andraste, Beloved of the Maker, in Minrathous. Remember that it was these actions of men that caused the Maker to turn His gaze from His children.
"Know then, that each blow you strike today, is a blow that may bring nearer the time when the Maker will once again smile upon us all. Keep the Chant in your hearts and on your lips, warriors, so that should you fall, Andraste will intercede with the Maker, and He will receive you into His peace and love!"
God-botherers, Killian decided, were the same in every Realm. He honestly could not see that woman suiting up and heading out into battle herself – she was just a little too well-groomed -but she had no compunctions about telling fairy tales to those about to get covered in mud, blood and worse.
"You have the Chantry in your land?" Cormac asked, coming up.
Killian shook his head. "No, But we do have assorted churches who peddle the same kind of thing. Personally, I have my doubts about them. You?"
"I believe in the Maker," Cormac said, "and I've studied the Chant of Light as well as I could – I'm no scholar – and believe Andraste was indeed a prophet. But the Chantry itself? Mother Mallol, the priest who served in our chapel at Highever, was a good, sincere woman who cared for all of us; the family, the knights and squires, the men at arms and even the Elvish servants. Some of the other priests, however...let's just say that humility is not their strong point.
"But look here, the Kennel-Master gave me twenty silvers for a herb I found in the Wilds. Apparently it can cure hounds poisoned by Darkspawn blood. I hated to take his money, but beggars can't be choosers, I suppose. Let's go to the Quartermaster."
The Quartermaster went through their collection of gear with a shrewd but not unkindly eye, noting that some of the more esoteric items -a very heavy and excessively spiky mace, for instance – would go down well with some 'special' customers. In the end, they made enough to equip both of them with suitable headgear, and look for a weapon for Killian.
"I take it you're a swordsman?" Cormac remarked. "Or would you prefer an axe? All due respect, but you don't look quite heavy or tall enough to be a mace-man, and of course, two-handed weapons are out of the question."
"A sword is good." Killian told him, and picked out a plain but well-made one.
"Grey iron," Cormac noted with approval. "Not as good as steel, but a good choice. Pity you can't use a shield, or can you?"
Killian allowed Cormac to inspect his hook more closely. "This serves me for both shield and weapon, I'm used to fighting with it. I could use a buckler if it was strapped to my arm, but this works better for me."
Cormac also insisted that Killian purchase a pack – one rather larger and sturdier than the day-sack he'd brought with him – which they proceeded to stock with twice-baked bread, dried meat and fruit, healing potions and some kind of basic medical kit.
"In the field, never let your pack out of your sight!" Cormac told him. "You need to fight wearing it, if you have to. Father..." He hesitated, his eyes suddenly full of pain, then swallowed and went on. "Father taught me that.
"Now look, we still have two sovereigns, ten silvers and six copper bits left. We'll split them."
"Are you sure?" Killian asked. "I may not be able to repay you, you know."
"Nonsense!" Coramc said. "We're both Grey Wardens and if this money belongs to anyone it belongs to the order. Take it, if we get separated I'd hate to think I'd left you with no way to buy supplies!
"Now I've got to go to this meeting, and you'd better go and wait with Alistair. Keep him out of trouble."
"I'm supposed to keep him out of trouble?" Killian asked.
Cormac laughed. "When I first met Alistair, he was in the middle of an argument with a mage. He tends to speak first and think afterwards, and not everyone appreciates his sense of humour. I'm counting on you to make sure nobody stabs him, strangles him or turns him into a frog before Duncan and I get back."
"Fair enough." Killian said. Cormac clapped him on the back and they parted ways. Only just initiated and already taking charge. Killian thought. That lad will go far, if somebody doesn't kill him first.
He made his way to the centre of the camp, where the Grey Wardens had their tents and a large, well-maintained, fire. As he came closer, he saw Alistair seated on a log near the blaze. The younger man looked up, saw him and beckoned him over. As Killian approached and sat down, Alistair ladled a bowlful of stew from a cauldron nearby and handed it to him.
"It's mutton, I afraid," Alistair said, "but even that's better than field rations."
"It's hot and thick, and that'll do for me." Killian replied, digging in gratefully.
"That's funny, I heard one of the female soldiers say the same thing yesterday." Alistair remarked. "Odd thing is, I had the feeling she was talking about me!"
Killian nearly choked. "You, my friend," he managed, "are somewhat deranged!"
"So people tell me." Alistair replied. He took another spoonful of stew and chewed reflectively. "Mutton. We used to get a lot of that at the monastery I grew up in."
"You're an orphan then?" Killian drew the obvious conclusion.
"Yes and no." Alistair replied. "My mother was a servant at Redcliffe Castle. My father...chose to remain anonymous. Mother died when I was very young, but Arl Eamon kept a roof over my head and made sure I was looked after. But then, of course, the gossip started, that I was the Arls' bastard. I wasn't, and the Arl didn't care, but the Arlessa..."
"I think I see where this is going." Killian put in.
Alistair nodded. "Lady Isolde is much younger than her husband, and she's Orlesian. They go in for intrigue more than we Fereldans do, and she saw me as a threat to any children she might have with the Arl. She thought that when the time came, the Landsmeet might prefer a full-blooded Fereldan bastard to a half-Orlesian heir, however legitimate. So, at age ten, off I was packed to the nearest monastery."
"They meant to make a priest of you?" Killian asked.
Alistair laughed. "You do come from far away, don't you? Chantry priests are women, probably because Andraste Herself was a woman. Men in the Chantry can be lay brothers, scholars or sometimes Chanters, but not priests. But the Chantry has another use for strong, feisty lads, and I was trained to become a Templar."
"Ah!" Killian was glad to find something familiar. "We used to have Templars where I came from. Knights who guarded the roads for pilgrims travelling to sacred sites, and fought for the church."
"Well, the Templars here do some of that." Alistair allowed. "But what they mostly do is guard mages. And by 'guard' I mean keep an eye on them. You see, the Chantry despises mages. The Tevinter Imperium Andraste fought against and was killed by was ruled by mages, after all. Well, kings, nobles and even ordinary folk have a lot of uses for magic, otherwise the Chantry would just have all mages killed as soon as they showed signs.
"So instead, the Chantry keeps a close watch on all mages, forcing them to join the Circle. The Templars watch them constantly for signs of demonic possession, or dabbling in blood magic. They also hunt down apostates – mages who run from or refuse to join the Circle. To do that, Templars have to be trained in special skills that allow them to resist or counter magic..."
Alistair was interrupted by the arrival of two people, who emerged from separate tents.
"Hello, you two!" He said. "I thought you'd be with the troops by now!"
One of the figures, a woman, shook her head and spoke in a low, musical voice. "We're moving out with the Kings' Guard shortly. Is this our newest member?"
"One of them." Alistair confirmed. "This is Killian Jones, from the Empire of America, far, far away. Killian, these are Elana and Hendel, two Wardens who were Joined the same time as me."
Elana stepped into the firelight. She was short, and slightly-built, dressed in leather decorated with painted vine and leaf patterns and carrying a longbow apparently taller than herself. But her face was remarkable; pale-skinned, with large, almond-shaped, slightly-slanted eyes of a brilliant green. The jaw was narrow, the chin almost pointed and she had a mane of chestnut hair which did not quite conceal the pointed ears. Oddest of all were the fine, tattooed lines that traced a complex pattern across her forehead and down her cheeks.
"Adaran atishan, Killian Jones." She said. "Welcome to the order."
"Thank you." He replied. "Pardon both my ignorance and my curiosity, I've seen several Elves today, but you're the only one that's been armed."
"City Elves." She said with a mix of contempt and pity. "I am Dalish, of the free Elvenhan, who follow the old ways. There are city Elves under arms, but they are with the common soldiers in the main camp over yonder."
"If I may ask, how do you tell the difference?" Killian asked. "I wouldn't want to insult or offend anyone."
Elana laughed and pointed to her face. "City Elves follow the teachings of your Chantry. They do not mark their faces, as we do, to honour the Creators. And I do pardon both your ignorance and curiosity, but only because you are quite handsome, for a shem."
Killian gave her a mocking bow and turned to Hendel. This was clearly a Dwarf. Half Killians' height, but half again as wide, with a blunt, swarthy face mostly covered with a thick, long, elaborately plaited, reddish beard. He was clad in heavy plate armour and carried a metal kite shield and a useful-looking war-axe. His voice was a surprising light baritone.
"Atras vala, friend." He said. "I would stay to talk longer, but we must be on our way. Perhaps we will talk, and drink, together after the battle. May the ancestors watch over you and the Stone receive you if you fall."
The oddly-assorted pair moved off, saluting Duncan and Cormac as they passed them.
"Finally!" Alistair exclaimed. "I was worried we were going to miss the battle!"
"I can't believe they're keeping us out of the battle!" Alistair grumbled. "Come on! We've got to get across the bridge to the Tower of Ishal!"
That was going to be less easy than it sounded. Killian and Cormac exchanged a glance. The battle sounded as if it had been joined in earnest below, and it seemed the Darkspawn had more resources than simple savagery and numbers. From somewhere in the forest, massive trebuchets had begun to fling flaming missiles at the fortress. The bridge they were about to cross was a wide, graceful and well-built stone one, but because of that it had numerous archery posts and ballistae placed along it, and the trebuchets were obviously aiming at these.
The strategy was simple; King Cailan would lead a force forward to draw the Darkspawn out. Once the horde was fully committed, a signal beacon would be lit in the Tower of Ishal, summoning a larger force led by Loghain to attack the Darkspawn flank. There were men stationed at the Tower to light the beacon, but Cailan had insisted that Alistair lead the two new Grey Wardens to the Tower to oversee this simple but vital task.
However, nobody had mentioned dodging fireballs, flying rubble and the occasional detached limb! By the time they got to the foot of the ramp leading to the Tower, they were covered in dust, more than a little scorched and somewhat bloodied. Even Rufus was looking a little fed up! Then two men came dashing down the ramp. Killian had the feeling they were about to make his day complete. He wasn't wrong.
The man in the lead was obviously a soldier, and equally obviously scared and shocked. "Are you Grey Wardens?" He demanded. "We need help. The Towers' been taken!"
"Taken?" Alistair asked. "What do you mean? Taken how?"
"The Darkspawn!" The soldier panted. "They came up from underground. Most of our men are dead!"
"Then we need to get to the top of the Tower and light the beacon ourselves!" Alistair stated, drawing his sword.
"Let's get this done!" Cormac said grimly, unlimbering his heavy greatsword. Killian pulled out his own new weapon, testing the balance one final time.
"One moment." Said the man who had followed the soldier down the ramp. Killian realised he was wearing robes and carrying a staff. The mage muttered some words and gestured with his staff. At once, all their blades burst into flame. Killian could feel the heat on his face, but not in the hand that held the weapon. With a start, he realised his hook was also ablaze.
The mage had the thin, pale, earnest face of a scholar, but the grin on it now came straight from a wolf. "A little extra treat for the Darkspawn!" He said.
With that, they charged up the ramp, and Killian found out what it meant to be a Grey Warden. He sensed them before he saw them. With a sense that wasn't smell , but felt like it, he was almost choked with the odour of decay – the same moral, spiritual rot he'd tasted in the Darkspawn blood at the Joining. Then he saw them. They were bad enough with ordinary sight, grotesque travesties of humanity with slick, scaly, hairless skin, noseless faces with fang-filled maws and fathomless black eyes. But there was another dimension to his sight now. He could see the darkness that clung to them, seeming at once to empower and imprison them, like the strings of some unthinkable puppeteer giving the illusion of life but controlling everything.
The Darkspawn were engaged with the remaining few guards, but seemed to sense the Wardens even as the Wardens sensed them. They broke off and charged this more dangerous foe with reckless hate.
The one Killian faced was as tall as he, wearing crudely-forged but effective armour and wielding a heavy curved blade. Killian parried with his own sword, stepped in and sank his hook into the side of the beasts' head. The magical flames spread across the flesh as if it were dry tinder. Killian twisted and wrenched, ripping off half the face as the Darkspawn staggered and fell, twitching in death. Then, for the first time in a long time, Killian jones was gone, and there was only Captain Hook.
"Blast your eyes, you motherless sons of pestilence!" He roared. "I'll flay the flesh from you and feed it to the sharks, drop your bones in Davey Jones' Locker and send your shivering souls to Old Nick! Come and taste it, swabs!"
The six of them stormed toward the Tower, cutting down Darkspawn as they went. Up two more ramps to a courtyard in front of the great doors. Killian disposed of his last opponent and had time to observe his allies in action.
Alistair fought with sword and shield. Unlike many such fighters Killian had seen, he used his shield as much for attack as defence, slamming it into his opponents with all the weight and power of his burly body behind it, knocking them flat as often as not. The shield was wooden, but the metal rim around it seemed to be honed to a killing edge, so that if swung in a certain way, it could slice open a mans' throat.
Cormac fought with deliberation. Killian had never seen a two-handed sword wielded so scientifically. There was no brutal slashing here, but controlled, sweeping cuts and wide, circling swings that crashed into an enemy's weapon, knocking it aside and numbing the wielders' arms. Sometimes, Cormac would abruptly reverse the weapon, smashing the pommel into the foes' face to knock them back or down.
The soldier fought with a courage born of desperation, in the same style as Alistair, but without as much skill. The mage kept out of the melee -sensible given that he wore only heavy silk robes – but he kept up a constant stream of magical bolts that seemed to drain their targets of energy, varying this with gouts of searing flame, or occasionally coating an enemy in inches-thick ice.
Rufus, the mabari hound, was every bit as formidable as his master. The sorcerous flames licking across his coat made his appearance even more threatening. He would run silent until almost upon a foe, then deliver a boneshaking growl that appeared to paralyse the Darkspawn with fear. Then he would spring, pinning them down with his massive weight and using his powerful jaws to tear off limbs or rip open throats. Occasionally, Rufus would unleash a deep-toned howl as terrifying as the wail of the Banshee!
As fine a crew as I ever fought with. Hook allowed.
With barely a pause, Alistair and Cormac applied a brawny shoulder each to the big double doors. They opened easily enough and Hook, backed by the other soldier, the mage and Rufus, darted through. The small anteroom was empty, but they found out why quickly enough. The large hall beyond was partially blocked off by a ramshackle but sturdy barricade, lined with Darkspawn archers. There was a gap in the barricade, true, but it was meant to funnel attackers into the waiting blades of more Darkspawn. Just to make life more interesting, there was grease on the floor and a tripwire that no doubt set off something unpleasant.
Killian dealt with the wire first, deftly slipping it from the peg without triggering it. Then he led the others at a crouching run around the inside of the barricade. This puzzled the Darkspawn, as it effectively meant that their own barrier was protecting the attackers from arrows. This route also avoided the grease, which was spread on the middle of the floor. Finally, one of the Darkspawn had the bright idea of lobbing a lit torch into the grease. That might have made things nasty if the mage had not frozen the thing just as it landed.
It seemed that the average Darkspawn was not overly intelligent, so that by the time the attackers reached the breach in the barricade, they were still trying to decide what to do. Not that this made the ensuing brawl by any means easy – just not as hard as it might have been.
After the hall came a barracks, then an office with a large hole in the floor – clearly this was where the Darkspawn had come in – and a guard-room containing the stairs to the next level. And more Darkspawn, of course. Killian noticed that his companions had no more compunction than he about catching up any small, useful articles the dead let drop, or emptying any crates, boxes or unlocked chests that were lying about.
As they climbed the stairs, he heard Alistair say; "How did these Darkspawn get here ahead of the horde? There wasn't supposed to be any resistance here!"
"Weren't you complaining that you wouldn't get to fight?" Cormac asked dryly.
"Hey, you're right!" Alistair chuckled. "I guess there is a silver lining to this after all. But we need to get to the top of the Tower and light the signal, or Teyrn Loghains' men won't know when to charge."
The next floor was mostly taken up by what appeared to be workshops, including a large hall given over to the maintenance of siege engines. Every room had its quota of Darkspawn, though whether they were there to guard, loot or simply wreck everything, Killian could not quite make out.
Up the next set of stairs into a training room followed by, of all things, a kennels! These Fereldans clearly valued their dogs as much as their men. The room held half-a-dozen cages in which angry mabari growled, barked and howled at the Darkspawn who mocked them without ever coming within reach of them. Killian spotted a large lever among the cages and, guessing at its function, slipped round the edge of the melee to operate it. This had the desired effect, opening the cages to unleash the furious hounds onto the backs of their erstwhile tormentors.
More barracks, then officers' quarters, a small armoury and a final guard-room. They took a moment to shake the blood from their weapons and make any necessary adjustments, then without a word, they went up to the final level.
Here, they faced only a single opponent, but in this case, one was more than enough! The brute was twice the height of a man, and proportionately as broad as a Dwarf. Great, twisted horns grew from its head, and it had an ape-like face with fanged, slavering jaws.
"Makers' Breath!" Alistair hissed. "An ogre!"
The ogre roared at them, then advanced, moving quickly for all its' size. The party obeyed Cormac's wordless gesture without question, spreading out to surround the beast.
For all its' size and power, the ogre seemed to have few brains. Like wolves around a bison, the men harried and harassed it. Wherever it turned, there was always someone to strike at the flank or rear. The mage patrolled the edge of the room. The man looked on the verge of exhaustion, but still kept up a steady stream of spells.
Not that the ogre was going to go down easy. Pain seemed to enrage it rather than cow it, but the wounds the party inflicted bled freely, and the loss began to tell. Then Killian saw his chance. The ogre had made to attack him, but suddenly seemed to suffer a wave of weakness, swaying on its feet and almost bowing to him.
Killian leapt, sinking his still-flaming hook into the beasts' collar-bone. The ogre bellowed and straightened, yanking Killian with it. He braced his feet on its chest and used his sword like a dagger, thrusting down at the base of the neck and into the chest, twisting and probing for something vital. The ogre roared again, but the roar ended in a gurgle and a gout of blood. It swayed again, and Alistair rammed it with his shield, sending it toppling backwards with Killian on top, still pushing on the sword with all his weight. The Darkspawn coughed up more blood, convulsed, then lay still.
Killian pulled his sword and hook clear, then slid off the body, wiping gore from his face – he was covered in it.
"That," Alistair said admiringly, "is a lot of blood!"
"You think?" Killian replied.
Cormac clapped him on the back, then said, "Let's get this beacon lit!"
The fire, once lit, burned far more brightly than its size promised. Magic, Killian assumed. The party began to search the chamber, looking for useful items and signs of life among the bodies -both Human and Darkspawn -that were scattered around.
Then the door crashed open and literally hundreds of Darkspawn surged through. Killian saw the mage, swinging his staff defiantly, hacked to pieces. The guardsman went down under a swarm of opponents. He moved to stand with his fellow Grey Wardens, only to see a storm of arrows coming at them. He felt at least four hit, but as he fell he thought he heard the Darkspawn yells change to screams, and had the fleeting impression of a great, winged shadow at one of the tower windows.
Then for a while, there was nothing but pain and red darkness.