CORMAC

Oren's giggles could be heard over the clopping of his pony's hooves on the fenced ground outside the stables and the controlled chaos of Castle Cousland above them.

Cormac watched his nephew with a small smile as the child of five squirmed against the straps securing him to the saddle, there more to prevent Oriana from poisoning their afternoon tea than anything else. The pony trotted in a wide circle, led as much by the long rope in Fergus' hand as by the leashes in Oren's tiny fists.

His brother was positively beaming.

"Good, Oren. Very good. Lead him gently."

"Look at me, papa!"

"You're a born horseman, son."

The half-grown mabari skipping beside the horse woofed in approval and Oren giggled at Chill's antics. The pony, an old thing named Popo, broken in and all too accustomed at the antics of the Cousland children and proteges, simply huffed through his nostrils and kept on trotting.

Leaning on the fence beside him, Alfstanna clicked her tongue. "Reminds me of someone."

"Har har. Very funny. I heard the mummers troupe from last night's missing a comedian."

"You wish, my Thane."

They watched in silence as Fergus led Oren around the edge of the corral another time, then Cormac sighed as he recognized the unique brand of hurry of a messenger approaching. Hoping to give Fergus another few precious minutes, he intercepted the young elf boy and took his message, then sent him away clutching a copper coin close to his chest.

A few minutes indeed.

"Please, papa. Another round! Just one!"

Fergus looked torn for a moment, but only a moment. Cormac envied him a little for standing his ground under the combined onslaught of Oren's and Chill's puppy eyes. "Papa has to meet with grandpa, Oren. Uncle Cormac too."

Oren's face fell a little, then he nodded at his lap, not quite meeting his father's eyes. Cormac knew Fergus would happily spend the rest of the day with his son if he could, but truth was, even the past hour had been possible only through a carefully arranged combination of foreplanning, bribes, and Oriana masterful misdirection their lady mother, straight out of Rialto's court. Really, the messenger boy deserved the copper only for tracking them down.

Long before the Werewolf and the fleet had docked with their prize in loot and captured ships the week before, levies, knights, and a veritable river of carts, supplies, craftsmen, camp-followers, swindlers, and hangers-on had been flowing into Highever. Most of the city's inns were packed by those who could afford them, while a large camp had been erected a mile from the city for everyone else, numbering almost two thousand. In the meantime, Castle Cousland hosted a few dozen banns and landed knights, as well as a good number of Cormac's officers and raiders. More arrived every day to answer the King's and the Teyrn's call to arms. Rarely had Cormac seen the Great Hall so full to the point of being suffocating, even during Satinalia celebrations, and more would join Highever's army on the way south.

And now the latecomer Arl Howe had shown up. Cormac groaned at the thought of the balding man and his single-minded obsession with marrying off his daughter to a Cousland. It made him miss the Werewolf's deck and dread the months to come ruling in his father's and brother's place all the more keenly.

'Maker, I beg you, make it that Delilah and Lady Eliane stayed home.' The message didn't say, but it was a remote chance, as neither woman was known to be involved in administering the Arling in the Arl's absence, and the rally was also a high society occasion, for good or ill. A good number of noblewomen and their nubile daughters had followed their husbands, brothers, and uncles to Highever, a fact his mother Eleanor had made him part of not ten steps from the Werewolf.

Sometimes, Cormac felt like he had a large target painted on his back.

From Alfstanna's too blank look as she stared pointedly at the display of horsemanship, the dread must be showing on his face. And this from his huscarl, sworn by blood and steel to protect his life. Oathbreaker.

"Say, Oren," Cormac piped up, tasting the sweet nectar of petty vengeance, "would you like Aunt Sanna to teach you more? She's a terrific horsewoman."

Oren brightened up a little and Alfstanna's fixed smile melted away when Chill bounded over to the fence, a furry ball of sunshine mirroring his master's renewed excitement, but also begging for scratches and treats. Cormac readily supplied, hands lingering a bit on the dog's short, coarse fur, so similar to his Jenna's, the dog's long gone mother. But then, thankfully, it was time to go.

"Thanks, brother," Fergus said as they waved at Oren and left the stables behind side by side, taking up the long trek to the main gate. Cormac had a couple inches on his brother and at least two stones of muscle from years of battling and rowing, but it was Fergus the servants and guards looked and bowed to first. The dashing, roguish looks of a barbarian lord were as useful in commanding respect and deference as they were in swooning chaste Antivan maidens.

Cormac snorted at comparing that mental image to Oriana.

"Don't mention it. I still owed Sanna a bit of a dressing down from that stunt with her father."

Fergus chortled and slapped him on the shoulder. "I appreciate your sacrifice. Really. How will you survive the Great Hall without your huscarl by your side, ready to defend your honor and chop off roving hands?"

"I'll stop by the armory first. Pick up a halberd."

"You and your delusions. I saw how you looked at Lady Landra at the feast last week."

Cormac, kaptain of the Storm Raiders and scourge of the Waking Sea, shuddered. "Say that again and I'll sail to Par Vollen without looking back."

"At this point, I think mother would welcome even a Qunari wife and little babies with horns."

Cormac glared and Fergus threw up his hands. "I yield, oh mighty warrior." Then the laugh lines on his face fell. He stopped and looked Cormac dead in the eye. "Should something happen to father and me -"

Cormac clasped his brother's shoulder. "I'd be Oren's regent until he comes of age, not an hour longer. I won't take Highever from him."

Fergus clasped his in return, but his tone was grave. "I was never worried about that, Cormac. I know Oren and Oriana will be safe with you, even more than they'd be with me. My warrior brother." His smile was rueful as he shook his head. "But this isn't Orlais or even the Chasind. It's a Blight. The last one lasted what, thirty years? And the ones before that even more. You'd be Oren's heir, not only his regent. You know father's words."

"There must always be two," Cormac quoted. "I know."

If the Rebellion and the near extinction of Calenhad's main line, as well as the complete eradication of more ancient blood, had taught the Ferelden nobility anything, it was caution and paranoia. After King Maric liberated Ferelden, most major and minor noble families had taken religiously to the heir-and-spare policy, no matter what fate dictated. Fergus and Cormac were a fourth and sixth child, respectively, but their parents had never relented, despite the odds, losses, and the hardships of the Rebellion and its aftermath.

In light of that, it was almost offensive that the legendary heroes of the Rebellion had come up short in that regard. King Maric had begotten only a child of Queen Rowan and her brother Arl Eamon, only had one quite late in life, and with an Orlesian sow to boot. The less said about Bann Teagan, unapologetic bachelor almost in his forties, the better. And many a noble, especially those with pretty, unwed daughters who could catch the King Cailan's hungry eye, thought Loghain had sired one too many as it was.

Fergus offered him a smile and they started again. After a moment, Cormac sighed. "At this point, I may as well ask Oriana to play matchmaker." He pitched his voice high and dreamy even as Fergus elbowed him. "Another Cousland barbarian storming the Antivan court. Who do you think will get me first, the Ferelden fathers or the Crows?"

"My gold is on Alfstanna."

Fergus ducked under Cormac's cuff without breaking stride, and the two brothers shared a laugh as they walked through the gate.

"My apologies, Bryce," RendonHowe said later, sipping wine in his father's office, warming up to the blasting heat from the roaring hearth. "The last storm has made a mess of the coast roads again. I left orders to circle around in the northern Bannorn, but the bulk of my forces won't be here before three days."

The hawkish, aquiline man had looked indeed like he'd ridden hard through a storm when he showed up to the gates with a strong escort of fifty men. He'd been offered warm clothes and solace, but the news made Cormac scowl. Three days of delay, possibly more. He couldn't deny he was slightly miffed at the older man for not accounting for storms when the northern coast of Ferelden was known as the bloody Storm Coast. On the good side was that Lady Eliane and Delilah were not accompanying the army either.

"I could take the fleet and ferry them," he offered as his father nursed his own cup. "We would cut it down to a day and a half."

"Not with the supply train following my men," Howe parried with that easy familiarity and condescension that came with being an old family friend. "It's going to be a long campaign and the early harvest was generous. I brought all I could spare."

Cormac turned to his father, who shook his head and sealed the deal.

"Good thinking, Rendon," Bryce said. He lifted his chalice and clinked it with Arl Howe's, then leaned back in his chair. "Three days, even a week isn't too much. I've received words that Guerrin is still mid-mustering. Still, the King and Leonas are already at Ostagar, and Loghain is marching down as we speak. Fergus. You'll leave with our forces here tomorrow at dawn. I'll wait for Rendon's and for the latecomers." Bryce took a sip and chuckled. "It'll be like old times, my friend."

Howe smiled back. "Ferelden united against a common enemy. Just like old times indeed."

Two nights after Fergus' departure, a storm pelted Castle Cousland. Cormac dined with his family and the still large number of noble guests hosted at the castle. Some had already left in the morning and now probably envied the hot, stifling atmosphere in the Great Hall.

Spring and summer had been generous so far, but Cormac was quickly growing weary of feast after feast to appease Highever's guests, despite understanding the necessity. He bounced Oren on his knees until his eyelids drooped, helped the boy sneak Chill scraps under the table, and even conversed amiably enough with Arl Howe at the high table.

All the while, he tried to ignore his mother's arched looks, commanding him to stop being a boor and at least notice with more than nods and empty conversation the polite, pretty, and otherwise unremarkable girl she'd parked beside him for this evening. No easy task, since the girl rarely went beyond a few feeble, stuttering sentences before something caught her eye at the other tables. Then she'd look down and poke at her food, alternatively pale or flushed in a way that couldn't be healthy.

At some point, he even felt a little pity for her, another victim of his mother's matchmaking machinations, and actually tried to make her a bit more comfortable by bribing Chill into putting her head into her lap and work her magic. Mabari, after all, were a sure-fire way to giggles and good mood.

It worked for about ten seconds, then she glanced at the Hall, paled, swallowed, and looked down again.

At that point he gave up, giving his mother a stern look to express that he'd tried his best and was thus beyond reproach. Eleanor just sighed and went back to speak, or rather help contain, Lady Landra Loren, who by the flush of her cheek had drunk a cup too many. Again.

It was with some relief that he walked out of the Hall some time later, following one of his Storm Raiders officers. He was shadowed after a minute by Alfstanna, emerging from the chaos and merriment of the Hall. In any other occasion, she'd have sat at the high table, both in respect of her noble rank and her position as huscarl, but tradition and use were nothing to Eleanor Cousland's determination to see him married by the next Harvestmere.

"What's the matter, Kopral Uther?" he asked the officer. With most of the Castle Guard gone south with Fergus and the fleet moored for the foreseeable future, his father had asked him to reassign a good chunk of his men in rotation to supplement the garrison. His father could have ordered him to do so just as easily and within his full rights of Teyrn, but he didn't, something Cormac appreciated. He saw no reason not to comply anyway.

"Two of the patrols haven't shown up, kaptain. They went west and south, to scout for Arl Howe's forces."

"Either they met them and stayed the night to rest the horses, or they're camped out at some farm to wait the storm out."

"As you say, kaptain. Thorfinn and Rayland are with those patrols."

Cormac frowned at that. Those two were scouts among his raiders, and he had given orders to both patrols to be back by nightfall, even if they met Arl Howe's forces. He could see some of the common soldiery and scouts decide that the storm was reason enough for an exception, but Rayland and especially Thorfinn should know better.

"It could be anything," Alfstanna said, brushing the hilt of her runic knife. "Wolves, bandits, a horse breaking a leg in the dark..."

"Could be, but still. Double the guard at the gates, put someone on the spyglass, and send a runner to me when either patrol arrives, no matter the hour." The officer saluted and left, leaving Cormac and Alfstanna alone in the side corridor.

Cormac leaned against the thick, hewn stones of the wall, and dragged a hand down his face. He felt them vibrate with the sounds of the feast inside.

"Give me pirates every day."

Alfstanna chuckled and leaned beside him, crossing her toned arms over her doublet. "If you want to slip away, I could think up an excuse."

He snorted. "I appreciate the willing sacrifice, but your vow doesn't include facing down my mother."

"And you didn't have to face my father when I disrespected both of you in front of the crew."

"Don't speak nonsense. Of course I did. You're family."

Alfstanna looked away at that, then flicked her shieldmaiden braid. "I'm your huscarl. You let me off the hook too easily."

Cormac rolled his eyes and pushed off the wall, breathing in as if readying for battle. "Let me be the judge of that. The rest of the crews are still drinking their share of the loot away, and they'll have enough to spare for another month. You're stuck with me here. Now come on, or my mother will send Chill to sniff us out. I swear, that mabari is a whore. No loyalty."

Night fell and the revelers dispersed. Cormac bid his family and Arl Howe goodnight and walked the battlements, speaking with the men and waiting for the missing patrols. Through the screen of the rain, Highever was a collection of hundreds of fires a few hundred feet below. The rain fell harder now, a veritable downpour that chased the sentries inside.

After an hour, Cormac relented and made for his family's and guest quarters. Even with the recent largess and the renovations of the castle with some of the profits from the Antivan trade, only half a dozen rooms were up to the standard of noble guests, so much that the minor banns and nobility were lodged in another, repurposed wing of the castle, or had rooms rented in some of the best inns in the city.

The door to his father's study was closed when he passed by the library, muffling the laughter inside. 'Must still be speaking and reminiscing with Howe'. His mother had already retired for the night, but there was candlelight streaming under his brother's quarters.

Oriana was probably reading to Oren again: the child had an avid mind for stories and since his father left, asked and begged for more until he literally collapsed from exhaustion. The tale of Morrighan'nan and Luthias Dwarfson was one of his favorites, but also one Oriana disapproved of, so Cormac would share it in instances whenever he was alone with the child. He smiled as he passed their room, then bid Alfstanna goodnight.

After much tossing around, however, sleep wouldn't find him. Thunder roared, shaking the stones of the castle, and lightning flashed outside his window. Looking out at some point, he could barely make out the lights from the wall towers, much less the city or the harbor further off.

He was sharpening the blade of his long ax, his sword next in queue, when he heard the steps beyond the heavy oak door of his bedroom. Figuring one of the patrols had come back and Uther had sent a runner, he rose to meet him at the door.

Then there were screams and his door was kicked open.

His ax split the first head to rush in before he could say Maker, but the second killer pressed in with sword and shield, slicing at Cormac's unarmored form and forcing him to abandon the stuck weapon. He ducked under the first blow, stepped back from a bash, then kicked the man in the chest, sending him staggering into a cupboard and giving him enough time to draw his sword.

The next strike, aiming to severe Cormac's head from his shoulders, met his silverite blade instead. Swords locked, Cormac grabbed the edge of the enemy's shield and pulled, head-butting the exposed face, then stabbed him under the armpit and twisted the blade. A fountain of blood spurted out when he freed his sword, and the attacker collapsed.

Red encroaching his vision, Cormac grabbed his round shield and barreled out of his bedroom, clad only in a shirt and wool slacks. The hall echoed with screams, shouts, and barked orders. Two men were attacking the door to his parents' room with axes, while more charged in from the exit leading into the guest quarters. The door to Fergus' room crashed open under an onslaught of axes.

Only then he saw the clawing bear coat of arms on their shields and armor and recognized the captain of Howe's escort pointing at him.

"Kill him!"

"Highever!"

The two axemen worrying at his parents' door only had the time to be surprised before they died. Cormac buried his sword into the base of one's spine and the silverite edge of his shield crushed the throat and snapped the neck of the other. Battle-honed senses pushed to the extreme by fear and bloodlust, he heard bowstrings draw taut and crouched under his shield. The whitewood shook with impact but held, then Cormac stabbed high, slicing the femoral artery and piercing the codpiece protecting the groin of the man charging at him, leaving him to bleed out on the ancient carpet.

Two more advanced, harassing him with halberd and spear, keeping him at a distance working in tandem. Behind them, Howe's captain redirected his men through the door they just came from, shouting orders Cormac didn't catch. A door creaked open behind him then. A crossbow twanged and a bolt hissed past Cormac's shoulder.

It found its mark in the side of the halberdier and Cormac exploited the opening. He caught the spear on the boss of his shield and sliced the wounded soldier's belly open, then spun around and stabbed through the spearman's hand, cheap gorget, and throat with enough strength to lift him off his feet and nearly decapitate him.

An arrow grazed his ribs, then the archer fell, clutching at a crossbow bolt protruding from his chest. Howe's captain hefted a falchion and shield.

"You and you! I want the child and the whore dead! Everyone else, with me!"

Four Howe men locked shield and advanced on him, covering the other two going for Oriana and Oren, blades out. Cormac threw caution to the wind and charged the armored shieldwall in desperation even as his mother's next bolt found one of the soldiers in the leg.

"Highever!"

"Highever!"

The shieldwall stopped in surprise as a body collapsed on the threshold of Fergus' room, a wood hatchet buried into his face. Then Alfstanna charged out, Fergus' old sword in one hand and Oriana's silver candlestick in the other, both dripping blood and brain matter.

The base of the candlestick crashed into the temple of the leftmost soldier. The silver bent, but the man staggered out of formation. Cormac barreled full-tilt into Howe's captain and the other soldier standing, striking shield on shield with the force of a battering ram. Even as Alfstanna lopped off her opponent's sword arm with a two-handed reverse cleave, the captain took a step back and slipped on the blood of the dead archer, falling to one knee.

Cormac's kick sent the last standing soldier tripping over the one with a bolt stuck in his leg. The captain's slash bounced on his shield. In return, he plunged his sword into the gap between his gorget and breastplate, piercing his heart. When he turned around, his mother, still clad only in her thick nightgown, was driving the point of a halberd into the throat of the man Cormac tripped. He finished the last one before he could go for his dagger, then turned to Alfstanna, voice shaking.

"Oriana and Oren?"

His huscarl was panting and he was sure some of that blood was hers, but she stood resolutely. "They're alright. Shocked, I think. Oren's fainted, but they didn't touch them. I made sure."

"Good. Get them and your armor." He promised himself to thank her later, if they made it out. When they made it out. He went to the door to the silent guest quarters and stopped at the sight waiting for him on the other side. Not so distant, the battle still raged. He had to find his men, but he also had to protect his family. "Mother?"

She dropped the halberd on the corpses, grimacing at the stench of blood and voided bowels, then picked up her crossbow and joined him. "Howe, that treacherous knave! We must find your father, gather the guests... Maker!"

The guest quarters were a sight of gaping doors and bloody bootprints marching out of rooms. Some of the guests had managed to leave their rooms before they were slaughtered. He spotted Dairren Loren with sword in hand, Lady Landra's son and his father's squire, lying still not two steps away from the bodies of his mother and her elf maidservant.

"But why?! Why would he do this?"

Cormac spat, then stepped back and barred the door to the family's quarters. "Howe must think he can get away with butchering us and take Highever for his own while the army is away and the King and Loghain are preoccupied with the darkspawn. And this... leadership. He wants to weaken our loyalists. I'll feed him his balls."

Putting on his boots, vambraces, aketon, chainmail, lamellar cuirass, gloves, and aventail helmet took him about two minutes without help. Icy hot fury, knowing that his people were dying and that Howe's reinforcement could barge in at any moment only made his hands swifter on the buckles. He kissed the votive image of the Prophetess on his wrist for last, then marched out.

Alfstanna was buckling her shield on and his mother had tied a full quiver of bolts to her belt, but six pregnancies and a late life of relative comforts had left her old armor an impossible fit. She'd put on boots and a thick, hooded cloak instead and grabbed a handful of family heirlooms in a bag, as well as what food there was. Even after thirty years of peace, his mother had never really forgotten the fleeing days of the Rebellion.

Oriana stood nearby, carrying a fainted Oren in her arms. She was shaking lightly under her cloak and he was sure it wasn't from her son's weight. Her fair face was speckled with blood and he saw the gilded knife he'd gifted her for the marriage at her belt. She'd wrapped a scarf around her mouth and nose to ward off the smell and her eyes were puffy, but she stood straight. Chill was at her side, sniffing around and licking her paws with innocent curiosity, but never too far from her master.

"Stay close to Alfstanna and me. Both of you. We're going to fight our way out of here."

She nodded, adjusting Oren's weight. "But where will we go? Arl Howe can't have tried this with only fifty men. There will be more."

Cormac unbarred the door, received a nod from Alfstanna, and braced his shield, but it was Eleanor who answered, caressing Oren's mop of dark hair.

"If we can retake the castle and the city, we do so. Otherwise, we make for the harbor and evacuate. The laurels won't wither as long as a Cousland lives."

Charging down the incline leading to the family quarters, Cormac and Alfstanna carved into the back of the Howe defensive line. The formation wavered and the shieldwall of raiders and castle guards pushed through, overwhelming and cutting down the enemy in moments.

All around them, Castle Cousland was on fire under the storm. Roofs burned and flames danced out of shattered windows. The fire even attacked the stone, blackening its surface.

"Kopral Uther! Report!"

"Kaptain, good to see you! Arl Howe's men opened to main gates to a horde of mercenaries. We were forced to retreat to the Great Hall. Ser Gilmore leads the defense there, but they were trying to flank us last I was there. They're fighting all over the city, but there's no way to send a message to Kopral Garrick at the harbor. We're cut off." The big soldier took a breath and coughed from the smoke, then breathed out, "Sir, they have apostates. This fire is not a natural thing."

Cormac cursed under his breath. Mages were the last thing he needed to face now. Where were the Templars when one needed them? "Is my father in the Great Hall?"

Under the soot and blood caking his exposed face, Kopral Uther paled. "I thought he was with you, sir."

"He meant to spend the evening drinking with Howe in his study," Eleanor said, horror and anger tingeing every syllable. "We should check there and gather the guests from the other wing."

"My lady, we couldn't hold that wing of the castle. They were too many. It was them, or your family."

A cry of alarm went out then and the time for words was over. At Cormac's order, the men formed on him and met a dozen mercenaries in varied weapons and arms with a wall of wood and steel. Oriana took refuge with Oren and a barking Chill in an alcove as Eleanor and another crossbowman took advantage of the height to harass the outliners, but the balance was tilted by the strength of arms in the melee. Cormac pushed and stabbed, Alfstanna and Uther on either side of him. One of his raiders was pulled out of the line by a strike to his knee, then skewered by a spear before he could be dragged back. His comrades avenged him threefolds and encircled the mercenaries. After that, it was a slaughter.

"We can't stay here," Cormac said once the last enemy was silenced. "We'll make for the kitchens. There's a hidden tunnel that leads to the stables there. We'll gather everyone we can and my family's arms from the vault on the way. I'll take the front. Uther, you have the rear. The wounded and those who can't fight, stay in the middle and don't stop! This isn't the end of Highever, men! Not as long as we draw breath! Onward!"

Cormac led them through the servants' passageways and around the Great Hall, where, by the sound of it, Ser Gilmore and his men were giving the mercenaries the fight of their life. Cormac spared a silent prayer for the brave, loyal knight, then continued through corridors barely large enough for two men abreast and alive with the echoes of fighting and ragged breathing. The library, a scholarly treasure even the Orlesians had spared during the Occupation, was on fire, his father's study buried behind an impassable wall of flames and fallen timbers. His mother's cherished gardens became the site of a quick and bloody skirmish that left bodies sinking in the Swan Pond, where legend had it two star-crossed lovers had morphed into the beautiful birds to fly away. The slaughter increased at every turn, with servants, squires, guards, children, and guests lying where they'd been slain trying to flee or fight.

In the barracks, most of the garrison had been slaughtered in their sleep and only a pocket of bloodied raiders and guardsmen held against Howe's forces and the mercenaries. Cormac's group, their ranks swelled with wounded and terrified servants, guards, and Ser Willem, an elderly knight from West Hill, fell upon them like the storm raging outside, repaying blood with blood until the tiles were submerged into a uniform film of red and viscera.

His father was nowhere to be found. Cormac had held a tiny sliver of hope for the family vault, but they found only a thick gaggle of mercenaries failing to break through the reinforced door. The fight was fierce and cruel. The recovery of the ancestral Cousland arms, as well as enough riches one could carry, was paid with half a dozen more lives from his retinue.

More servants were hidden in the kitchens and the pantry, overlooked so far by the invaders. Old Nan, the head cook, nearly struck Cormac with a meat cleaver when he barged in.

He cut her off before she could start harping on anything. "My father's here?!"

"We haven't seen him, milord."

The last ember of hope flickered and died, but the sheer weight of presence of the few dozen people around him, crammed into the kitchens and needing direction, banished the rising sorrow and canalized the anger into fuel to feed his tiring body.

"Mother, the tunnel. Kopral Uther, take half the men and secure our exit and any horse on the other side. I'll hold the rear until everyone's across. All of you, take as much food and blankets as you can carry!"

His mother had other ideas. "Son, your father's missing and Fergus isn't here. Leave one of your officers to hold this end. You must lead."

"They have you, mother. I am their kaptain, a Thane of Highever: I can't ask my men to do what I won't myself." His hand was on her shoulder, but his tone was of command, uncompromising and authoritative. "Oren is more important than I am. Than all of us. Once you're across, I'll be right behind you. Go now. Please."

He stopped Alfstanna as she walked up to his side and the gaggle of fighters forming around him. "I need you to protect Oriana and Oren. Be their sword and shield."

She hesitated, eyes flashing for a moment with words unsaid, then crossed her arms and brushed past him.

"Don't be reckless," she whispered.

"You know me."

The kitchens became a flurry of hushed activity, shattered only by the grind of stone on stone that reassured Cormac the passage still worked after so many years. Fear gave everyone's feet wings, kept just short of a panicked rout only by sheer force of personality. Soon, the pantry started swallowing people up.

Cormac removed his aventail and gobbled down some bread and cold venison as his haggard forces set up an ambush around the kitchens' entrance. There were nine men total, most with only half their armor on, all of them wounded. The most hale he'd sent with Alfstanna and Uther to secure the way ahead. Ser Willem hung back, hefting mace and shield. Outside, the echoes of battle and death bouncing on the stones from the Great Hall petered out, galvanized at odd times by unholy explosions and blood-curdling screams cut short.

Then there was only the faint begging for mercy, the gruesome squelch of executions, and beating steps, growing closer.

Cormac swallowed, closed his eyes, slipped his aventail back on, and hefted his sword. "Stand strong, men. They're coming."

The first mix of mercenaries and Howe's men to barge into the kitchen, already drunk with bloodshed and the prospect of looting, were cut down before they could put up any significant resistance. Cormac was still freeing his sword from a ribcage when cries of alarm and rallying command picked up all around them. The volume of running steps grew tenfold, shaking the stones under his feet. Then, it stopped.

Cormac peered over the rim of his shield, feeling the bemusement of his men as his own. He could hear Howe's forces just outside the door, one order away from swarming inside in a storm of steel, but that order didn't come. Two words rang above the collectively held breaths, instead.

"Blast them."

Cormac's eyes widened to the size of saucers. "Take cove-"

A ball of flame almost too bright to look at screamed through the door and splashed against one of the pillars. Gouts of fire and wind exploded outwards, picking Cormac up and tossing him like a rag doll across the room. Ears ringing, he felt something in his chest break as he crashed on the tiles and skidded to a halt.

He lay on the floor for a long moment, breathless, head swimming with looping thoughts. He found himself staring at the ceiling, voices droning just beneath his notice. Every breath was like molten fire that poured down his throat and settled in his lungs.

Strong hands grabbed him by the armpits and started dragging his body. Above, the ceiling groaned and started to cave, flames eating at it with gusto. Gusto. What a nice word. He should ask Oriana to teach him more Antivan.

Cormac heaved up to a sitting position, hacking and half-choking on the vile liquid forced down his throat. His ribs flared up in pain and his head felt like it had been clubbed by a giant, but as his vision focused in the glow lighting up the night, Alfstanna's and his mother's faces came into focus, wet and dripping rainwater.

"What - what happened?" he coughed out. His hand searched for his sword. Alfstanna offered it to him by the hilt. "Where are we?"

"Easy. Still in the stables," his mother said, cupping his face and turning it this way and that. "Howe's mages knocked you out. You were almost buried under the rubble. Some of the guards heard the explosion and dragged you out just in time."

Cormac closed his eyes against a dizzy spell. The familiar stench of manure and horse-shit was giving him nausea now. "My men? Ser Willem?"

"Dead or missing, my Thane."

Extricating himself from Eleanor's fretting, Cormac accepted Alfstanna's hand up. The world spun twice before settling into a resemblance of steadiness.

"How do you feel?"

"Like someone who's been nearly burned to bits and then force-fed a healing draught. Better now. Thanks." He accepted his shield, the surface scorched by deep gouges. His cuirass was blackened and missing many scales, but the drakeskin leather he wore under the chainmail had absorbed the brunt of the heat. Once again, master Wade's work had been worth every sovereign. Too bad it was one of a kind.

Inside and around the stables, the survivors huddled and took refuge from the rain. A few horses neighed, pulling against the reins and the people trying to hold and calm them. Hundreds of feet below them, past a line of trees, Highever City was alive with fires that lit up the night, defying the storm.

Howe had indeed brought more men. Many more. Treacherous bastard. By the river of torches and lanterns growing from the east, it looked like his entire army was closing in, and there were enough mercenaries already in the city to sow chaos and destruction. The bear was ready to sink its jaws into the laurels and uproot it in one fell stroke.

Cormac shook with fury, hard rain pelting him, washing blood and soot from his face. Then his eyes found the harbor and his heart plummeted.

Fire. Fire everywhere. From so far away, the fireballs were like pinpricks of light leaving streaks against a darker backdrop.

Yet, as he looked, one vanished mid-flight. No explosion followed. Then another. And another. And another.

"Kopral Uther!" The harried officer answered on the second call. He'd lost his aventail, or maybe had removed it so as not to suffocate in the tunnel. "Pick the two best horsemen and lead them south. You must find my brother and tell him what has happened here!"

"Yessir, kaptain! What will you do?" The question turned every head, but Cormac didn't budge under the silent, collective request, pushing back desperation he couldn't allow himself to feel.

He pointed, and their eyes followed. "Our soldiers are still fighting at the harbor. We'll punch through this rabble Howe has assembled before he closes the trap on us." He pitched his voice to drown out the storm. "We'll live to fight another day and bring the storm to the traitors! Men, gather up! Any of you who can wield a weapon will have to do so! It'll take all of our strength and skill, but we will carry this day!"

He clasped forearms with his officer after he'd mounted. "The Maker watch over you, kaptain."

"May he watch over us all. Ride with the wind, Uther."

Pride and fury fed off each other within Cormac as he traversed Highever City with an ever-swelling group of refugees, making a beeline for the harbor. The city and its people weren't bowing to the foreign invader, but they were paying a terrible price for it. For every hardened group of town watch and mob of citizens fighting the mercenaries street to street, a district was awash with the blood of the defenders and the innocent.

Cries, shouts, weeping, and shrieks echoed through the city. The mercenaries raped and pillaged, a roving, disorganized army pouncing on weakness and fighting tooth and nail for their spoils of conquest. Cormac and his men carved a bloody swathe through any that crossed their path, but every fight slowed their advance, drawing Howe's reinforcements ever closer.

Moreover, the peasants and craftsmen who'd taken up arms started to outnumber the trained soldiers and raiders under his command by magnitudes. More accustomed to holding chisels and pitchforks than swords, they were a poor match for the mercenaries. Rabble and criminals they might be, but earning their bread with steel still made them formidable opponents for Cormac's ramshackle militia.

And yet, no matter the losses and the wounded, Cormac persevered. He led the hardy knot of soldiers around him and his family from the front, bowling over any opposition standing in his way with sword and ax.

He didn't know how long it took, but the storm had abated some by the time the harbor was an arrow shot away. In a moment of lull, he thought he caught a glimpse of dawn beyond the leaden dome blanketing the sky.

It was then that the ground started shaking with the beat and squelch of hooves. He only had time to order the elderly and the children in the middle of his column before horsemen burst from the main alley running parallel to the harbor, cutting them off with a wall of sweaty animals, crossbows, and spears at the ready.

One horseman, his armor thicker and of finer make under the mud speckling it, held up a hand to lift his visor as he patted the neck of his beast. The face underneath was young and graced by a thin beard on a weak chin, but the distinctive nose was impossible to miss.

"Hold fire!" Thomas Howe said. "Cormac, lady Eleanor. Order your men to stand down, and you'll be treated as it befits your rank until the truth and extent of your involvement can be ascertained."

Cormac spat, mucus mixed with blood and soot. "What horseshit is this, Thomas?!"

"You stand accused of treachery and collusion with Orlais against the Crown and Ferelden," the youngest Howe said. "Please, Cormac, stand down. You won't be harmed."

"I won't be harmed? Are you for real? Look around you, you dimwit! Your father tried to assassinate my family in our beds! You stand beside criminals and mercenaries. Highever is burning! This isn't the King's justice, this is an invasion!"

"Thomas," his mother said, pushing forward to stand by his side. She waved Cormac away when he tried to interpose between her and the dozen or so crossbows swinging to zero on her. "Since when does an Arl enact justice on his Teyrn? No Landsmeet has been summoned to present these charges you speak of. Mercenaries and butchers don't enforce the King's Law. Let us pass and when I'll speak with the Queen, I'll ask her to show you mercy."

Thomas hesitated, shifting on his saddle and looking away. His men glanced at him and another horseman, this one wearing the chevrons of captain, silently asking for orders.

The captain brought his horse around to Thomas, but the youngest Howe shook his head. The captain grabbed him by the arm then, but Thomas wrenched it free, clouds darkening his face.

"Let them pass, I said!"

The crossbows wavered and lowered an inch, but all the riders turned to the captain for confirmation.

"They don't obey him," Cormac whispered, adjusting his grip on his sword and shuffling his mother back into the protection of the ranks. "Shields up and prepare to charge them on the reload."

"Milord, the orders -"

"Shut it, Chase! All of you, lower your weapons and move aside! Your lord commands it!"

Again, the riders hesitated, then Chase hefted his crossbow. A moment later, the air was alive with the twangs of cables and the thuds of bolts impacting wood and flesh.

Cormac took a step back as three bolts punched into his shield and another almost pierced his armor and chainmail. Chase's sailed over his head instead, but by then he was already running forward, long ax in hand. The war cry erupted from his lips was picked up by dozens of voices.

"Highever! Highever!"

The horses neighed as the riders tried to reload or discarded the crossbows and went for their swords. Thomas shouted to stop, but two of his men grabbed the reins of his horse from him and the captain led him away from the melee, shouting final orders over his shoulder. One swing of Cormac's ax severed the foreleg of a horse and the crazed beast threw its rider into the muck, where he was trampled. The riders stabbed down and the horses kicked, caving skulls and chests in, but in the tight confines of the street and pressed by dozens of armed men, they were either grabbed and unsaddled or wheeled about and rode off.

With the block cleared, the way to the harbor became clear. Hope and relief filled Cormac's heart when he spotted the mast of the Werewolf intact, with more longships swaying with the waves at her sides, and even a few larger merchant vessels.

Further down the docks, however, the Laurels, his father's flagship, was shrouded in a pillar of flames and more ships were nothing but crackling torches. In the eerie light of the fires and lightning, spheres of ice wept and melted where they lay, littering the docks like oversized pebbles. A crowd milled about the intact ships, many of his raiders among them. Most were looking at him now.

"Cormac!"

Alfstanna's shout wiped the hint of a smile on his face, then the blood turned to ice in his veins.

"Mother!"

She lay on the ground, her head in Oriana's lap, a bolt buried to the chest in the right side of her chest. Cormac dropped his ax and rushed to her side. His hands hovered over the bolt, but his thoughts had screeched to a halt. His ears were full of Oren's sobs, Chill's whines, and her gurgling gasps. Her hand reached up to him, trembling, and he took it between his two.

"Cormac - don't..."

"Grandma! Grandma!"

"They're coming!" someone shouted. "The bears are entering the city!"

Cormac let go of his mother's hand and scooped her up as tenderly as he could, bridal style. He felt the tip of the bolt scraping against the inside of his arm. She groaned, her body shaking terribly. Desperation turned his knees into jelly, but he couldn't stop now.

"Everyone, to the ships! Find one the apostates, alive! First officers, assemble your crews and prepare to set sail!"

His words carried louder than the crack of thunder, shaking the crowd into frenzied motion. Civilians stormed the ships, tilting the low vessels dangerously as they rushed to safety, carrying their meager belongings or just the clothes on their back. Raiders and sailors started pulling up anchor and readying the oars and sails, assigning people on the fly to fill the too many vacant rowing seats on the piers.

Cormac, however, was turning this way and that, searching the crowd for a staff or the commotion signaling a captured mage, but found neither. A few servants hang around him, loyalty keeping them close, but otherwise useless. His mother shuddered again in his arms, her breaths wet rasps now, but he found himself unable to look down at her, dreading to see her eyes empty and vacant.

"A healer! Bring me a healer!"

"Cormac -"

He whipped around to face Alfstanna, barking her reaching hand away, "What in the Void are you still doing here? Take Oriana and Oren to the Werewolf! My cabin!" Oren whimpered at his tone, but the boy's paleness and tear-filled eyes elicited only anger in him as Oriana scooped him up. Cormac snapped his head to the plank bridge to his flagship. "Kopral Garrick! Find me a Maker-cursed mage! They've set half the ships alight! One must still be around!"

The officer's response was lost when another voice answered in his stead. "They're all dead, or chose the best part of valor. Bunch of amateurs."

The man was tall and muscled, with a head of blond hair tied in a messy ponytail and sharp features covered in soot and blood. Any of that barely registered as Cormac zeroed on thethe tall, honking staff in the man's hands, which he was using as a walking support. "I'm Anders. You can thank me for what remains of your fleet later." He kicked one of the ice balls away and motioned to the ground. "Now put her down and let me see."

Cormac, dreading to believe a miracle in disguise, found himself clutching his mother closer instead. Her complaint almost went unheard.

"Are you -"

Anders chuckled. "A mage? Healer? Unbelievably dashing? Yes, yes, and yes. In league with this posse of thieves and killers? Hell no. I was just searching for a passage to Antiva or Rivain. Now put her down and let. Me. See. Before she bleeds out or chokes to death. It's a matter of minutes now."

His mother's next gasp crumbled his paranoia. He set her down, propping her back up against his knee.

Anders went immediately to work, brow knit in concentration. A blue aura enveloped his hands and he ran them up and down his mother's chest and back, fingers weaving complex patterns with minimal movements. When she slackened against him, Cormac's heartbeat went wild, but her next breath was easier, less ragged.

A minute later, Anders' hands retreated. His face was as foreboding as his words. "I've done all I can without removing the bolt, but I can't do it here. Even then, her chances are slim."

Cormac nodded and made to pick her up again, but renewed battle-cries from the city made him grab one of the servants hovering nearby instead.

"Carry my mother to my ship! Mage -"

"- Anders -"

"- go with her and do your best. You'll be paid, I give you my word." He snapped the votive image of Andraste from his wrist and handed it to him. "Give this to Kopral Garrick or my huscarl and tell them what you need!"

Anders made to protest, but either what he saw over his shoulder or Cormac's glower made him reconsider and accept the small wristband.

Cormac watched his mother be carried through the throng of refugees, the path to the Werewolf cleared by a pair of earnest guards. He turned away from the sight of people plunging into the dark waters in their haste to reach relative safety, back to the main street leading to the harbor.

Howe's banners flew high above a solid mass of soldiers marching down to the docks and splitting off to engage the pillaging mercenaries. What melted the ice gripping his heart in a roaring fire, however, was a single banner in the distance, glimpsed in the light of his burning home.

Twin crowned mabari on a shield of yellow and white. The Royal heraldry of the Theirin, carried in battle only by King Cailan and Maric's Shield.

'Thomas wasn't lying. The King must have sanctioned this butchery.' And in doing so, he had betrayed the ancient pact between Elethea Cousland and King Calenhad, older than Ferelden itself. The alliance that gave birth to his country was going up in flames with his home now.

Fergus was marching into a trap, he realized with more horror that he thought he could still feel. And here he was, unable to contact his brother and facing down an enemy army.

Any line he could form up to stall Howe's advance would be blown back by the enemy's momentum alone. The men to throw into that grinder were needed on the oars, or dead. Behind him, a few ships were already sliding out of the harbor, rowing against the waves. On one of the foreign carracks, the sailors were pushing back the refugees with oars and arrows, throwing them into the water or onto their fellows attempting to board behind them. Hundreds still pressed on the docks, scrambling for safe passage.

"My Thane!"

Alfstanna and four of his raiders were keeping a path open for him through the crowd trying to board the Werewolf, bashing and pushing back with shields and the pommel of their swords. Her face mirrored the defeat and failure he felt, but dying now would change nothing. The ships were so full, many risked capsizing already. Buying more time would achieve nothing but squandering his life and leave those already on board without a leader.

Cormac turned around and ran for the Werewolf. He jumped the plank bridge and helped his men across, then kicked it over before the horde of refugees, no longer held back by his soldiers and more desperate than loyal, could storm it. Their cries and curses rang high and drowned even the fading storm as dawn finally pierced the clouds. Cormac forced himself to burn their faces into his mind, but there were just too many, and then the oars were carrying him past the lighthouse at the harbor's entrance. The Werewolf joined another dozen ships, tilting and swaying up and down with the waves.

For the first time he could remember, the spray of saltwater on his face did nothing to lighten his heart.

"Where to, my Thane?" Alfstanna asked.

He put a hand on her shoulder, trying to reassure her and his enlarged crew with the gesture as much as drawing a sliver of strength from the contact. The adrenaline fumes and the high from the healing draught were receding fast, leaving him exhausted, hot, and stifling in his armor.

Before he'd spotted the royal regalia side by side with Howe's, he'd have turned the fleet east, to Denerim, risking the long trip and Amaranthine's hostile waters to bring news to court and seek assistance. Now, however, the course was set. To the east lay enemies and death. With the ancient alliance in tatters, Cormac felt he could only trust something stronger than any vow and pledge. Blood.

"Pass the word to the other ships. We sail west. To Waking Sea!"

My thanks to coduss, DmCrebel25, Aegon Blacksteel, KingSlapaDude, and PartyPat22 for their reviews, critiques and support. A shout out to all the people who added this story to their favorites and story alerts.

Yes, those ice balls on the docks are the fireballs Anders-ex-machina froze solid mid-flight.

So, Highever has fallen once more, and Ser Cauthrien's presence may or may not have caused the most disastrous misunderstanding in Ferelden's history, since she was there on royal orders to apprehend Bryce, but Howe had other ideas. We'll see. I just hope I managed to add something more and present the matter in a different way that didn't bore you all to death.

Next up: Bethany. Guest star: Toph, on steroids.

Don't forget to leave a review. Thank you for reading.