Chapter 3
A howling wind caught at Freya's breath as they rode. Motes of snow danced in the wind and melted as soon as they landed on Anechka. Her eyes smarted and her skin stung but she kept pace beside Brun. Ahead of them, rising sharply above the flat plains, was a mountain range. She squinted, staring into the distance. They were nearing the rumored fortress, the haven for refugees. A place that many whispered still bore the magics of the Tevinter Imperium's magi.
She made out the soaring watch towers first; graceful white arches that seemed to be a part of the very mountain it was built into. The main tower, taller than the rest, had once been used for the signal fires. She could make out the soot that still clung to its curving dome. Long wings extended from either side of the main tower, like a bird's outstretched wings. The fortress spanned many levels; each carved with delicate precision into the cliff-face of the mountain and walled in solid stone. The lowest level had the highest walls, reaching up three stories. It was a sheer, grey mass of rock that looked as impenetrable as Brun's stare. And the closer they got to Weisshaupt, the more she realized that the prickling sensation in her blood was similar to the feeling she experienced with Brun, but muted.
"Let us hope our blood has guided us well," she called to Brun.
"You feel the pull, Freya. Do not tell me otherwise," he grunted, without a glance for her.
It had been that way since they left his farm and Katrin. Few words from a man who spoke sparingly on any day. Freya had wanted to like his wife but there was no warmth in Katrin for a young woman who shared a bond with her husband; a bond that a wife couldn't understand. How did one explain the inexplicable? She had tried, as had Brun, but it sounded like a bedtime tale told to wide eyed children. Freya had been relieved to depart.
They were linked by their blood. They always knew where the other was even if one of them closed their eyes and the other entered another room. They could find each other in the dark. She could feel him in her sleep when the nightmares came. He understood. It gave them an intimacy that was unexpected and impossible to describe to one who did not feel it. But for Freya it was a comfort to know that she was not alone and would never again be alone.
As they neared the fortress, Freya was dismayed to see that the massive wooden gates hung broken, their great hinges rusted. The graceful columns were pitted and cracked, arches split and crumbling. A safe haven in desperate need of repairs. The noise assailed her ears and she pulled sharply on the reins. Voices mingled with the relentless calling of ravens and the cacophony of a great many animals. Above all the other noise came the plaintive cries of griffons.
"What is it?" Brun asked, an edge of impatience in his voice.
How could she tell them that it was all too much for her? It overwhelmed her. The colors, the noise, the number of people crowded into the fortress all made her hands shake and her heart slam into her chest in a way that the battlefield never had. She shook her head, unwilling to give voice to her thoughts. She couldn't tell him, her pride wouldn't allow it. She nudged Anechka's flanks and the horse moved forward. For good or ill she was where she had to be and there was no turning back. She flung a look over her shoulder to see Brun's horse trotting to catch up.
Brun the Wolf and Freya the Fierce entered the fortress side by side.
They were greeted with wary words and watchful eyes. Brun returned each greeting in his proud, quiet way and Freya followed suit. She had no illusions that she would ever be more than Brun's Hand, second to him. He was a natural leader. People looked to him for guidance and he gave it to them unflinchingly. She had been raised to become chieftain upon her father's death but she had learned and trained for the role unwillingly. Her heart would always be on the battlefield.
The horses picked their way carefully through the throngs of refugees. Camps and wagons and people sprawled along the walls of the fortress and fanned inward, toward the vast courtyards. As they passed a large and colorful encampment, a man stepped from the shadows of a tent and moved to stand in front of the horses, forcing Brun and Freya to pull up sharply.
She felt it then, the low thrum in her blood. He was one of them. Tall and broad, scarred by war, he nodded at her and then at Brun. From his height and the dark red of his hair, she knew he was one of the Ciraine.
"Greetings, clansman. I am Freya of Clan Closivar."
"Greetings, Freya of Clan Closivar. I am Dynal of Clan Durivar. I am the last of my people."
"No longer are you alone, Dynal of Clan Durivar," she replied quietly. The Durivar Clan gone. The Closivar Clan gone. How many of the great clans of the Ciraine tribe were left? She pushed away the unwelcome thought.
"This is Brun the Wolf, a great leader among his people. Join us, brother."
Word spread with the speed of a wind-whipped wildfire. Brun the Wolf, a warrior blessed by the Gods, was gathering a force that would end the war against the dark half-men. With him was a barbarian, as beautiful as she was fierce. Rumors jumped from one small clump of refugees to the next and with the rumors came the first small sparks of hope. Men long given to despair began to sharpen their blades. There was a buzz of anticipation that followed the small group as they progressed into the ruined fortress.
Brun found an area away from the throng of refugees and began to unpack his gear; a small waxed canvas tent, a bedroll, his whetstones, a cookpot and all the items he considered necessary for a warrior. He glanced at Freya and saw that she too was unpacking her gear and beyond her was Dynal, his tent tattered and shabby. The young barbarian had seen hard days. He would see even harder days ahead.
They were three but his blood told him there were more among the refugees; a disparate lot of tribesmen, knights from both the Anderfels and the Tevinter Imperium, dwarves of the warrior caste and smith caste, elves that had once been slaves, and some with strange and colorful tattoos. Among them were those who fought the half-men and didn't sicken. He would find them and build an army. It was his duty, even if it meant leaving behind his home and land, his wife and sons.
Freya knelt in front of her pack and he was dismayed to see tears glittering on her cheeks, caught sparkling in the setting sun. He did not like the tears of women. They were a foreign language to him and made him feel helpless; a feeling he did not enjoy. He watched as Dynal knelt beside her and he listened silently as she explained about her husband. Dynal spoke quietly, the words in an unfamiliar language and as foreign to Brun as her tears. Brun knew he should say something, but what words of comfort could he offer her that she had not heard many times over? He could feel her inner turmoil; the sharp spikes of grief and sorrow were like thorns flowing in his veins.
"In death lies sacrifice. It is the way of the warrior," Brun finally said, his voice gruff. True and honestly spoken, his words seemed to give her some comfort. She gave him a grim smile and a quick nod before returning to the task of setting up camp.
He felt her in his blood, he knew her as a mirror of himself. He was unsettled by the bond between them, so much stronger than the bond he had shared with any of the soldiers under his previous commands, so unlike the bond he shared with Katrin. They were more together than individually and when they were separated, she stayed with him, an echo in his blood. Dynal was also an echo in his blood, though he was a stranger and they shared no link, other than Freya. There were other echoes as well - all rippling around him as though he were a stone cast into a deep pond. The closer he came to Freya and Dynal, the better he could feel the pull of those ripples echoing outward, a pull that led him and the others to the farthest parts of Weisshaupt.
Night came quickly in the mountains and dark fingers swept through the fortress just as they finished setting their camp to rights. Brun pulled out the salted meat that Katrin had given him before he left. He settled the blackened cookpot on a rock near the fire that Dynal was coaxing into life. Freya removed herbs from the soft leather pouch she wore at her waist and added them to the meat before pouring water over the mixture.
The three sat in silence as their meal cooked. Freya sat rubbing at her arms, staring around at the sea of campfires springing up as night settled around them. Dynal sat watching Freya, drinking occasionally from a waterskin that Bran was certain did not contain water. He glanced down to make certain his dagger and boot knife were handy. Dynal turned his gaze on Brun, an indolent smile on the large man's face.
"She was the daughter of a chieftain and destined to take his place. See the talisman she wears? It is the sign of the clan, given only to the chieftain's family. Their symbol is a prancing stag. She should not be here. Her responsibility is to restore the clan."
"She should be here," Freya answered, smiling with a certain fondness at Dynal that Brun didn't understand. "She can't restore what is lost to the Gods." She turned back to the fire and began to dish out the stew. Dynal added flatbread to their feast.
Did all the clans speak with such easy familiarity to the people of other clans? Did they all feel as though they were one big family? What he knew of the clans of the Ciraine tribe could be told in one sentence; there were many clans and each summer they held a conclave in the Hunterhorn Mountains. Everything else was the speculation and gossip of men sharing ale over campfires during military campaigns.
"There is something calling us. You feel it too?" Brun asked, directing the question to both Freya and Dynal, who nodded solemnly.
"Different than the pull we feel, strong but quiet. A song in the blood?" Freya puzzled.
"We'll go in search of the origin in the morning," Brun said around a mouthful of stew that was fragrant and rich with herbs.
In the morning, they rose as one. After a meager breakfast, they started off in search of the song that beckoned them.
On the lowest level of Weisshaupt, on a battlement long since abandoned, they found an elven crone, her face withered and marked with terrible tattoos. Her long, white hair was bound above her head in a severe knot, and was woven with braids, beads, and feathers, and she was possessed of a stooping posture and quick hands that looked like spiders. The elf had set up a tent amidst a lonely guard tower and spoke to the crows and snowbirds that nestled in the rafters, her voice an eerie, rolling lilt amidst the rattling wind outside.
"Come you have," she said in the sing-song voice of the elven tribes, "to see Myrhela of the Wilder." She twittered her tongue at the fire. "Brun the Wolf, Freya the Fierce, and Dynal Bearson, you come seeking answers to questions you do not have. Wardens you are. You guard those who do not hear the song."
"We were drawn here," Brun said slowly, eyeing the ancient deer hide tent with its paintings of a beautiful city and slender figures who rode tall horses. "Drawn to you, Myrhela of the Wilder."
"Drawn to Myrhela, yes, Myrhela is drawn to you too," the elven crone crouched near her fire and warmed her hands, their skin as white as bone. "Myrhela hears your song. She hears these songs. First in Myrhela's daughter, who slumbered inside her, and then in her second daughter, and the daughters that those daughters bore. Never in her sons, who withered and died like leaves in winter. No, never in the sons."
Freya's pale brow furrowed and she absently placed her hands around her midsection. "What do you mean?"
"All Myrhela's sons, all dead." Myrhela shook her head and twittered her sad tones to the birds. "All her grandsons, all dead. Only strong daughters remain. Strong daughters and Myrhela."
"Are your daughters here?" Brun asked. He crouched beside her, his dark leathers orange in the glow of the fire and its shadows. "Or are you alone, Myrhela of the Wilder?"
"The daughters are here, yes." Myrhela looked out through a frosty window that gave the four of them a view into the courtyard below. Many colored tents had been pitched, and elves and men and dwarves meandered around the makeshift marketplace in the fortress that had become their home. "They are out there. They seek to belong, to sing their secret songs."
"Your daughters," it was Dynal who spoke, his scarred face a sight in the dim light, "and their daughters, they are like you?"
"Wilder, yes," Myrhela bobbed her head. "Huntresses of the forest, yes."
"Are they like us?" Dynal put a gentle hand on Freya's shoulder.
"Yes," the crone hissed, "yes."
"We are building an army," Brun told her, his blue eyes bright with the fire of conviction, "to fight the half-men with their black blood. We seek warriors who can fight them and who can never be sickened by them. Warriors like us. Warriors who," he paused, searching for the words, "hear the song as all four of us in this room do. Do you understand?"
"Yes," the crone repeated, "Myrhela understands." She looked thoughtfully into the fire and chewed on a wrinkled lip, licking at the dye that split and marred the lip into three different colors. "The youngest of Myrhela's youngest. Seek you she. Seek you she."
"What is her name?" asked Brun, ducking low to catch the woman's eyes.
"Vhena," whispered the crone. "Strong arms and chest. Stronger heart."
"She's an archer?" Freya bobbed her head as she considered the crone's words. "Even amongst my people, the skill of the elves with a bow is known. If she is good, she would be useful."
"Aye," Dynal added darkly, "if she's good."
Brun ignored the conversation of his two fellows. "Thank you, Myrhela." He reached out a gloved hand and touched the woman on her shoulder softly. "You sing a strong song."
"As do you, Fen Brun" Myrhela's vivid green eyes narrowed. They looked like the color of wet moss, and glittered like raindrops on the earth. "Myrhela has words for you. Words to guide you."
Brun tipped his head in acquiescence. "I will listen."
Myrhela gave him a smile filled with missing teeth. "Good...good." She clapped her hands on either side of his head, her fingers splaying along his cheeks. "The half-men you call them, they are creatures of darkness. Like a wolf, sniff them into the blackness you will, deep down into the earth and into their warrens. They like not the light, they flee from it. They abhor it, and hide from you they will. To find them, light you cannot be. Grey like the dawn you must become: grey like rain and stone."
Brun started in surprise when she dragged her lips across his forehead.
"Myrhela gives you the blessing of the Creators. She will watch for you in the morning mist and high in the grey sky."
"Thank you," Brun gently removed the elf's hands from his face and gave her a polite bow as he stood. "You have been more than kind, Myrhela. It is clear that you sang to us for a reason."
Myrhela smiled again and bobbed her head in the way that birds do. "Go now to find Vhena. She is not far." She closed her eyes and inhaled the smoke from her fire deeply. "Just follow the sweetest of music."
Freya shot Brun a curious look, and Brun merely shrugged his shoulders. He led Freya and Dynal back into the morning sunlight, and they all breathed deep of the fresh, crisp air on the battlements.
"Vhena," Dynal said after some length. "An elven archer. From the Wilder."
"Until that moment," Brun said quietly as he stared into the distance, looking out across the vast forest and plains below the mountain, "I had not met one of the Wilder."
"It looks like we'll be meeting more of them," Freya touched the small of his back with a soft smile. She could feel his wonderment through the blood song they all shared. Dynal seemed to feel it too, for he gave a wistful sigh. "Come along, you two," Freya gave Brun a gentle shove towards the stairs leading down, and then did the same to Dynal. "We have to find Vhena and others like her. We won't do it if we're standing around sighing all day."
Dynal laughed and swatted at Freya's hand, but Brun's footsteps held a measure of sobriety as he followed them down the winding stairs from the battlement. Finding others like them was not merely enough. These others would have to be trained - not to fight - but to work together. They would need to be a single, unified force that fought as one against the half-men, and in Brun's experience, such a thing happened only after a lifetime of combat by another person's side. Strangers from across the land would need to put their faith in each other, and Brun was unsure if such a thing would be possible. A moment of despair washed over him - a flicker of doubt crackling across his mind.
But then as quickly as the doubt had come on, it was pushed aside. Fierce resolve, a hot, burning flame at the edges of his consciousness, took over. The fire washed across his mind in waves of chestnut hair, and Freya turned to him and placed a hand on his shoulder.
"Don't despair now," Freya said, her voice strong and clear as the bells that called men to war in Hossberg. "We can do this. All of us share a common goal and a link that transcends beyond the consciousness of most men. I am in your blood, and you are in mine. Dynal is in our blood. That crone, she was in our blood too. All of us are linked."
"Are - " Brun blinked when Freya's hand fell over his mouth.
"I know what you fear," she said. "I saw it in your heart. You think that we can't fight the half-men as an army. But I say you're wrong." She tossed her chestnut-colored head like a fearsome filly, "I fought beside you, Brun. I have spilled the blood of the half-men alongside you, and I knew your movements even better than my own. I know you felt the same way."
Brun tried to speak but Freya's hand on his mouth pressed his lips gently.
"You aren't allowed to speak, unless you agree with me."
Brun's eyes widened and Dynal broke out into a huge roar of laughter, which plowed over Brun like a wave.
"Why are we following him?" asked Dynal with a grin. "We should be following you!"
Freya shot Dynal a sly look. "We're following Brun because he's fought the beasts longer, and he has led men before."
"I agree," Brun said around Freya's hand, pulling her fingers away from his lips. He flashed a rare smile in her direction upon seeing her look of surprise. "Now," he pointed to the mass of colored tents that ringed the gates of the fortress, "let us see if we cannot find this Vhena, as well as others like her."
"Amongst the camps," Duncan said, "they found Vhena, a Wilder elf. She was a leather worker of great skill, as well as a talented archer. She was the one who crafted the first saddles for the griffon mounts of the Grey Wardens."
"They also found the Tevinter Magister Verinius," added Riordan, "who was responsible for the Joining ritual."
"Who are the Wilder elves? They sound a lot like the Dalish."
"Not all elves were slaves, Alistair. Many hid in the woods and mountains, trying to hold to their traditions. They were known as the Wilder elves long before the elven slaves were freed and given a homeland in the Dales."
"Oh. Well, I can see the Wilder wanting to join the Grey Wardens, but why a Magister from the Imperium?" Alistair cocked his head quizzically. "Why was he even there, anyway? Was he trying to reclaim Weisshaupt?"
"No," Duncan shook his head, though he did concede that, "it was quite odd to see a Magister not in an Imperium controlled city. It is said that he came to Weisshaupt not to reclaim what was lost, but to study. On the day that Brun and the others found him, he was in the marketplace taking samples of blood from the refugees."
"He was a blood mage?" asked Alistair with raised eyebrows.
"He was," nodded Duncan, "and he was very interested in discovering the secrets of his own blood. He had experienced what Brun, Freya, and Dynal had when fighting the Darkspawn, which the Imperium, with its many holdings across Thedas, did often."
"But why would anyone let a blood mage take their blood?" Alistair looked horrified at the notion. "That's just a disaster waiting to happen."
"That is your Templar training speaking, lad," Riordan said, though not unkindly. "Some of those who came to Weisshaupt were indeed sick with the Blight, and were willing to give up their blood in the possibility of a cure. And their friends and relatives were willing to give up their blood in possibility of a cure too. Not that Verinius promised a cure," Riordan's teeth glittered white in the firelight, "but everyone dared to hope."
"Indeed," Duncan added in a soft voice, "the people of Weisshaupt were desperate for a cure, and for a purpose. To that end they came, one and two at a time to find Brun and the others and join in the fight. When Brun called for all able bodied men who were not sickened by the Blight to come forward and meet him at his camp, farmers and warriors, smiths and merchants, all who felt the fellowship of the blood came. Together, their blood sang a deep and rich song, and Myrhela, in her dark tower, chanted and sang to the Wilder gods for their blessing."
And the story continues on in Chapter 4!