The five had set out well after noon, the guard at the gate warning them to hurry back. "The Wilds aren't safe at night, even for a Grey Warden." He'd been right. Emma had seen more dead bodies in two hours than she had her entire life. She was beginning to doubt whether being a Warden was worth anything if so many still died. The only survivor they came across was still bleeding from a stomach wound, his armor rent nearly in two, still crawling toward the king's camp.
"Who … Grey Warden?" He looked up. One eye was swollen shut and the other opened only to a slit. The Dalish elf knelt beside him. "Have to … get back."
"Leave him. We don't have time for this."
"Let's take him back to camp."
They spoke at the same time, their words stepping over each other. They both frowned. It was Allen's voice that the accompanying Warden heard.
"Don't have time," Alistair asked incredulously.
"Duncan gave us a task, it doesn't involve this, and I'd rather not spend the night in this filthy marsh of a forest without a tent or food."
Jory was nodding his head in agreement. The trees seemed more than ominous to him. They looked to be pressing further in, covering the sky over the narrow twisting path they followed with each passing minute. He thought he'd even seen rats and other skittering creatures get swallowed up by the ground itself. On top of the dangers of the scarcely mapped land was the darkspawn horde. He knew they were out there somewhere and he was not overly fond of the idea of meeting them. For now the slightly built Dalish warrior had steered them clear - whether by luck or skill he didn't know.
"Alistair, do you have bandages," she asked and the knight noted, not for the first time, that her words carried a burr and cadence he'd never heard before.
"In my pack." He knelt and opened the sturdy bag, pulling out a roll of bright white linen.
"You keep heading in," she said as she eased the man onto his back. "I'll take the soldier to a healer and meet up with you again."
"Forget it," Allen snapped.
Alistair glared at him. He had not expected a Cousland to be so uncaring and … heartless. He'd always heard they were a dutiful, honest, compassionate family. But there's always a black sheep, I suppose, he thought. He turned his attention to the elf.
"That's a four hour trek there and back to this spot. Don't you think it's a little far? How would you find us again - what if we take a wrong turn and get lost?"
"With you leading I don't think you'll get far at all. Probably walk into a bog and spend the next four hours pulling each other out."
He laughed. "True, true. Then I wouldn't have pants again."
"What -"
"He's a dead man anyway," the dark-haired noble muttered. "Let's go."
"He's only a dead man when fools like you do nothing."
"'Foo-" Allen didn't finish the word as he reached down and made a grab for the elf. She avoided it, deftly flipping upside-down onto one hand and landing on her feet again with a challenging smile. "I am no fool, you filthy knife-ear!"
There was silence. It seemed the whole of the Korcari Wilds held its breath, quivering anxiously on the edges to see what the Dalish would do. The men had all heard tales of a human dying - stuck full of arrows like a pincushion - for much gentler words in a much less threatening tone of voice.
"What did you call me," she whispered. She was eerily calm, Alistair thought, staring up through thick lashes, eyes glinting like crimson blood, face framed in a red halo as the sun broke through shifting clouds overhead.
Don't say it again, Daveth pleaded in his mind. She's giving you a chance. Fix it.
Allen stepped closer to the girl. "Filthy." Another step. "Knife." One more step and they were glaring at each other, close to touching. "Ear."
She growled deep in her throat much like the wolves they had faced earlier, lip curling in anger. She could do nothing, she knew. All her life she had been denying and proving wrong tales of Dalish brutality; her people could show humanity and mercy, too. If she reacted now to this one man's taunts she would set in the on-lookers' minds an image of savage anger and blood and mindless killing. She stood with white-knuckled fists, whole body trembling in anger. Then she turned on her heel and stomped away; her braid whipped behind her.
"Are all Dalish so willing to roll over? It's no wonder the elves fell twice."
"Len'alas lath'din!"
Her voice echoed through a ruined dome nearby. Her words were unknown to the four men yet her tone made it clear is was an insult. Alistair didn't know what to do, what to say, to make peace between the human and the elf. Had they been mages sparks would be flying between them; he was sure of it. Mahariel leaned against the ruins, Daveth trying to talk her down, his smile uneasy. Alistair turned to Allen.
"Why would you say something like that," he asked.
"It was uncalled for, my lord," Jory added quietly. "She's impressed Duncan enough to be here. I would not want to make an enemy of her."
"I suggest we not make enemies with anyone who might save our kingdom from a little-understood threat like the Blight. Apologize to her."
Allen groaned and brushed his hair away from his face. He should. He'd gone too far without thinking. He was angry and unwilling to admit his fear. Angry at his father for not allowing him to join their soldiers in the king's service; he was only at Ostagar to watch, and leaving before the battle. Angry at Duncan for waving the Grey Wardens in front of him and not asking him to join. Fearful for his older brother in the Wilds; fearful for the coming battle and his brother's role in it. He wanted to stay, fight beside Fergus and all the others he had grown up with. Yet he should not have taken his anger out on the elf. She'd done nothing wrong, after all.
Before he could say anything there was a shout of surprise.
Daveth stumbled over his feet, fumbling for the blades on his back as the creatures swarmed from within the ruin. The small figure beside him did not hesitate. Her hands moved rapidly, nothing more than a blur, and seven of the creatures dropped. The last was too close. It swung a heavy maul in an underhand arc and the elf was lifted off her feet a few inches and thrown back. Daveth took a defensive position in front of her but the other three men knew there was nothing he could do against the darkspawn. He dodged the overhand. They raced forward, palming their swords and shields.
Alistair was the first to reach the hurlock. He bombarded it with three staggering blows from his shield then, as the beast was recovering, drew his sword up and across. Its head rolled on the soggy earth, its body crumpled, blood gushed from its neck, and Alistair walked away calmly.
"Are those … darkspawn," Jory asked. He was reluctant to sheath his broadsword though he was certain all the darkspawn were dead. He did not doubt the Dalish's aim, he simply was comforted by the sturdy steel in his hands.
"Yes," came the grim answer. The Warden was pressing gently into the already bruising skin of the still girl.
"Is she …" Daveth couldn't finish the thought and swallowed hard past the lump in his throat.
Allen's jaw tightened. Elves weren't built as thick-boned as humans nor were they as tall or heavily muscled. A strike like that could crack the chest of an armored man, and she was running around in a simple leather top and skirt. If she wasn't dead she was most certainly badly broken.
"You two," Alistair said, glancing up. "Fill those vials with blood. Allen … my lord, would you -"
He nodded abruptly and took the third vial from the older man's pack. He, Daveth, and Jory knelt around the beheaded darkspawn, gathered their courage, took steadying breaths, and plunged the glass tubes into the streaming blood. It was warm. Jory jerked his hand back. Allen had to force himself not to do likewise. Daveth seemed the only one used to the feel of blood on his skin. Allen thought it must have something to do with his being a rogue, then amended his assessment, recalling that the often flirtatious and easily amused man had grown up nearby. Hunting would have been an essential part of life.
Alistair had Emma on her feet by the time they corked the bottles. She was breathing shallowly and rapidly, arms wrapped around her torso, staring at the ground through slitted eyes.
"You can go back now if you like," Alistair said, a hand near her elbow. "We've the blood. All we need is to find those treaties but I'm sure the four of us could manage that small task. And Duncan would understand."
"What? No." She shook her head, straightened her shoulders. She put her hands on her hips and faked a smile, letting out a deep breath of air. "You'd get lost without me and … end up without pants. What does that mean?"
"Long story," Alistair shrugged.
"Besides," she shrugged in return, "a few cracked ribs are no big deal."
"Cracked," Allen echoed in disbelief. "I doubt it. I would have cracked ribs in heavy armor like this. You don't even have armor."
"I do! It's what a Dalish hunter wears. Light and non-constricting, allowing agile and silent movements through a heavily forested area. It protects -"
"Everything but your vital organs." She glowered. "With the way you've been running around shouting, drawing darkspawn out, you should wear something more concealing, less revealing, sturdier and of higher quality. I'll find something for you when we get back to camp."
"There is no higher quality of leather armor than what one of our craftmasters can make," the elf huffed. She crossed her arms and turned. "Let's not forget who was the first one to shout, shem."
She scooped her bow up as she passed it, slung it over her shoulder, retrieved her arrows from the fresh corpses, and set out on a cross-country path.
Daveth shrugged, smiled and followed, the others falling in behind their self-proclaimed guide. Not that any of them would complain.
Author's Note: Short chapter. I can't figure out how I want to approach Morrigan and Flemeth but I also didn't want to leave you guys hanging for too long so ... This is all I have. :) Enjoy.
len'alas lath'din: dirty child no one loves
