Chapter Nine
The Die is Cast

If it moves, kill it.

Those were the commandant's only orders beyond staying quiet until the appointed time. Hunkered down on his stomach in a covered wagon, Tristan felt every little bump or hole they passed over. It was hot and stuffy in the small space and he badly wanted to stretch his legs out fully. At least he had a little eyehole – just a small crack in the wagon, really. It provided him with something to focus on while the nervous anticipation of battle crept into his body.

Soulless hands of demons.

He couldn't help but think of Magalie's words as he adjusted the sword at his back. In a few moments, if all went well, he would be killing without pause, without thought. It bothered him more than it used to, at least since he'd been in Orlais. What if these rebels were just in their cause? What if they were Dalish? He thought of his mother, his lout of a brother… and then quickly pushed their images away. That was not who he was, who he'd never been.

"I've never felt so close to you before this day Oliver." Berenger's taunting whisper brought Tristan back to the present.

"If your hand moves one fucking inch higher, I swear to the Maker I will chop it off." Sam spoke louder than he should have, the anger clear in his voice. "I mean it Orlesian…"

"I seek only to calm your nerves," Berenger chuckled.

"Do I look like I'm nervous?" Sam retorted.

Tristan craned his neck to the left to see what was going on. Sam batted away Berenger's large hands with one hand while his other hovered dangerously over the hilt of a dagger he always kept at his waist.

"I can feel you shaking from way back here," Stanislaw spoke up from the other end of the wagon.

"All of you, tayeule!" Tristan warned. Maker, but they were like little children. The commandant had given him command of all those who spoke the Ferelden tongue – which amounted to these three and Magalie, who rode outside the wagon with another Knight, posing as merchant and wife, their chainmail hidden under cloaks.

Sam grumbled incoherently and subsiding chuckles were heard from Berenger before all were quiet once more.

They rode awhile longer in silence, jolting around the wagon at every crack in the road. Tristan wondered if the rebels would take the bait. They certainly knew a caravan was coming, for the evening before the traitor had been caught, returning through the front gates, unable to explain where he'd been and for what purpose. The man was an elf but they did not get a name out of him. Tristan knew the count had the man tortured for information, under pressure from Ser Thierry it was said, but nothing was learned. Either the man was not really a traitor to Jader, or he did not want to betray the rebels. His fate would be sealed on this day – if the Masked Rebels attacked.

Tristan studied the crack in front of him. A beam of sunshine flooded through. It was hard to make out anything they passed, but it helped turn his thoughts from torture. He'd not agreed with the method. He was not in charge, though, what could he do? He remembered a lifetime ago, when Rendon Howe had done sickening things to innocent people while Loghain turned a blind eye. Melisende had been furious, and rightly so. It was inhumane. Perhaps it was justifiable in certain cases… but what was the use of these philosophical conundrums? He had a battle to fight, to lead.

"When we jump out, try not to be blinded by the sun," Tristan warned quietly. They were wearing helmets which covered the bridges of their noses and partially covered their cheeks and necks, but the helmets did not have any visors to block against the strong sun.

"Easier said than done," said Sam.

"It's simple, don't look right at it." The wagons slowed. The horses of the few chevaliers accompanying the caravan came to a stop. "Brace yourselves. Something is about to happen."

Three short taps on the side of the wagon told Tristan his words were truth. It was a warning from Magalie, devised before they left. The last thing he wanted was to be surprised by the rebels, for the tables to be turned on them. They were in the head wagon, the vanguard, and most likely to be pounced upon first.

His breath held and let out in as steady a manner as he could manage. His heart raced as he readied himself to leap out in surprise. Harried footsteps, threatening voices filled the air outside the wagon, drifting in to them as mumbled nonsense. The Masked Rebels had come.

A brief feeling of regret for the elven man overcame Tristan before he pushed it away. The man was a traitor after all, why should he feel sorry for him?

The clinking of swords hitting the ground came next. A part of the ruse was a fake surrender, something which Ser Thierry had vehemently opposed before finally agreeing. Tristan thought he could make out the chevalier's insolent grumbles. Not for the first time did he wish the arrogant bastard was not there. He didn't trust the man, and not only because of Magalie's warning, but because there was just something off about the chevalier.

"Uncover the wagon." It was one of the rebels, a woman. Tristan could not hide his surprise at the language she spoke in, at the accent it commanded.

They are Dalish…

"Je ne comprend pas. S'il vous plait..." Magalie improvised and Tristan realized that the rebels were going to make her remove the cover on the wagon, thereby putting the rest of their plans to the wind.

A scuffle against the wagon told Tristan that Magalie had probably been shoved against it. The tarp shifted slowly, before all at once it slipped off. The air was a sweet relief to the stuffiness of the wagon, yet there was no time to enjoy it.

"Pour le Cramoisi! For the Crimson!" he shouted loud enough for the rest of the caravan to hear. In an instant the wagons came alive, spilling out Crimson Knights onto the road, leaping onto unsuspecting Masked Rebels. Tristan jumped over the side of the wagon, shaking the cramped feeling of being in a wagon for so long out of his legs, out of his arms before pulling his sword from his back.

Magalie elbowed the rebel behind her, threw off her cloak, and then twisted around to kick the legs out from under the rebel, sending her falling to the ground.

"My crossbow?" Magalie asked.

Tristan smiled and motioned to the wagon. Magalie crawled into it and was momentarily lost to sight, before standing up once more, crossbow in hand.

Tristan had no time to waste. Rebels came at him and his men from every direction, swinging swords and axes, brandishing daggers, and whizzing arrows by his head. The Crimson Knights engaged them back, the small number of chevaliers joining in after retrieving their discarded weapons. The odds looked to be even, numerically speaking anyway. The rebels had been caught off guard, fighting desperately against better armed opponents, and standing their ground, much to their credit.

He blocked a swing from a rebel, masked just as it was said. They all wore masks and hoods of different shades of green and brown. He could not see if they were Dalish, but he knew from the woman's voice that they had to be. Tristan moved away from the wagon, dragging his opponent with him in a dance of swords. The man was skilled, seeming to know every move Tristan was going to make before he made it. Tristan looked through the eyeholes of the mask and saw nothing but determination in his opponent's eyes.

Enthused about having a worthy opponent for once in a long time, Tristan's breath steadied and his heart raced not in anticipation but with lust for battle. As the fight dragged on, he caught a few stolen glances beyond his opponent. A few rebels had fallen. A few Crimson Knights lay injured on the ground. He saw Sam blocking a blow from the woman that had been knocked to the ground by Magalie.

He felt the tip of his opponent's sword pierce through his chainmail and puncture his side. He'd lost his focus. It wouldn't do to pay attention to the rest of the battle. Angry now, his grip on his sword tightened, but his hand shook. It longed to let go a flurry of lightning, a wave of fire. He couldn't do that, however. He had to be Bernard. He couldn't be Tristan Amell.

He swung at his opponent. Their swords met again in a clang that shuddered up through his arms. He stepped back and stabbed. His opponent blocked once more. Yet this time, Tristan pushed. His sword slid up his opponent's, emitting an irritating screech and sending little sparks flying into the air.

"You will have the Dales no longer, shem'len!"

His opponent's words startled him. He lost his footing and fell backwards as the man pushed back with a furious roar. The man lunged with his sword, Tristan rolled away as it hit the ground next to him. He got to his knees in time to parry another swing. His hands ached to cast a spell. He ignored the mana flowing through him and shot forward, catching his opponent momentarily off guard. It was enough to slit the man's side. Blood squirted out of the wound as the man examined himself.

"I don't own the Dales and I don't want it." Tristan knocked the man's sword away, picked it up and held it in his other hand. He stared at the man before him, helpless now. He caught the surprise in the man's dark eyes turn to a plea for life.

Soulless hands of demons. Tristan studied the swords in his hands. One was covered in blood. Blood of the People. Blood which he shared in his veins. Did he really want to kill this man? Why was this so hard?

If it moves, kill it. Those were his orders. He should do as he was told. He would demand nothing else of his followers were he the commandant. But were they the right orders?

"Are you going to kill me or not?" the man asked. He held his bleeding side. His eyes were in shadow now, Tristan couldn't decipher anything of the man's feelings. He looked at his swords once more, and then at the man, before kicking him to the ground.

"I don't want your head, but maybe you'll bleed to death."

Tristan turned away and took a few steps forward. A feeling made him look back. An arrow wobbled at his heels. A minute longer in debate with himself and the arrow probably would have been in his skull. He looked to a lone oak tree not far behind, off the road. He thought he saw movement. For a moment he imagined the tree coming to life, like Velanna had made happen many times. But it was probably only a rebel hidden among the leaves. He moved away from the line of fire. Another arrow hit the ground behind him. There was someone in the tree.

But he had no time to bother seeking the culprit out. And it didn't matter anyway for Ser Thierry seemed to notice this fact as well and galloped away on his horse toward the tree. He hoped in spite that whoever was in there would get away. Ser Thierry, his armour gleaming yet spattered in the blood of his enemies, left a bad taste in Tristan's mouth.

He turned away from the chevalier. The battle raged on around him. He scanned around for those under his command. Berenger fought against two rebels, holding them off easily. Stanislaw darted around the battlefield, stabbing at anything that moved. Magalie had moved from their wagon to another, loading and firing her crossbow as calmly as if it were only target practice and not a battle. He found Sam last, dodging the blows of the same woman he'd seen him fighting moments ago.

Sam looked to be tiring. The woman had backed him against a now broken wagon. Tristan edged closer to the fight. The closer he got, the more visible Sam's struggle was. The woman was quick, striking towards him in a flurry of sword and shield. She moved gracefully, evading anything Sam threw back at her.

Have you learned nothing? Tristan thought as Sam turned away another blow. He had a sword in one hand and a dagger in the other. He swung with the sword and the woman brought her shield up to block it. He swiped the air before her with his dagger, but she knocked it away with the pommel of her sword.

Tristan was about to cut in before Sam lost a limb. Plans change quickly during a battle, however. He was sideswiped by another rebel, in the same side he'd been punctured earlier. The pain was intense, but it had to be ignored for the moment. The rebel swung for his head and Tristan barely jumped back out of the way. Recovering from the surprise, Tristan clinked his two swords together and then struck out in a furious assault. He wasn't a natural dual wielder. His skills paled in comparison to, say Melisende, but he'd watched her enough to know what he had to do. The rebel could only block and back away. Tristan was tiring quickly. He swung his leg in an arc on the ground, cutting through the rebel's legs. That was a dirty trick well learned from his old friend Zevran. As the rebel was swept off his feet, Tristan swung out with his fist, unconsciously wincing at the cracking sound as it connected with the rebel. He'd hate to see what the man's face looked like under the mask.

Once he was satisfied the man would be down for at least a few moments, he shifted his attention back to Sam. It still looked like the woman had the upper hand. Tristan couldn't let the fight go on, not if it meant Sam got hurt, or worse, killed. It might wound Sam's pride, but he'd rather that it be the only wound on his young friend.

Forgive me, Sam. Tristan barreled into the young man, pushing him hard onto the ground and out of harm's way. He had no time to see Sam's reaction, for the woman did not even flinch as a new opponent appeared before her.

The instant Tristan struck out at her, she brought up her shield to block the blow, and then twirled around so fast that she was behind him. He turned around as quickly as he could and took another swing at her. She dodged that one, too, and was again behind him.

Maker's breath but she's quick. It's a wonder Sam lasted so long against her…

He could feel himself growing tired. He tossed away the sword he'd taken from the other rebel. It would only drag him down, seeing as dual wielding was not something he was used to. He thought he heard the woman chuckle. He turned around to see her standing straight and tall as a spear. He imagined she might have a puzzled look on her face beneath the mask.

"Why do you toss away a good blade?" she asked.

"It's only slowing me down," Tristan replied. He rotated his shoulders, feeling and hearing them crack as he did so.

The rebel laughed loudly, tossing back her head in the process. "Yes, it is the blade slowing you down, not your two left feet." She came at him again, her sword poised to strike like a snake. "Lumbering oaf."

Their swords connected in a flurry of sparks and a chorus of clangs. They played a game of strike, parry, and dodge. No one would give the other any room for surprise, any room for the first cut. It became a dance, a hypnotizing waltz between two skilled warriors. Only Tristan couldn't figure out who was leading and who was being led.

He swung, she blocked. She struck, he dodged. He cut through the air, she twirled away effortlessly. The battle around them became a distant blur. Nothing was heard but the sound of blade hitting blade or shield, and their own sweet breathing.

Her hood came off and her abundant brown hair spilled free as she leaned backwards to evade yet another swing. Tristan caught a glimpse of the tip of one of her ears before she righted herself.

"Andaran atishan," he greeted her with a taunt. She was most definitely an elf.

She grunted once in annoyance before resuming their dance. The revelation only seemed to make her strike more swiftly, much to Tristan's infinite annoyance. He was growing weary. His steps felt heavier, his arm was almost numb, and he longed to wiggle his fingers and be done with the fight. But truthfully, he didn't want to kill this rebel woman. The fight had to end, though. He just hoped it didn't have to end in taking a life.

Tristan blocked the woman's blade yet again. He stepped backwards, as usual, but this time his foot came down onto something awkward – a rock probably. He struggled to right himself, but his ankle had other ideas as it twisted slightly onto one side. With a cry of pain he fell backwards, stupidly dropping his sword in the process. The rebel crushed his ankle further with her own foot before crawling over him.

"You have lost this fight," she said through heaving breaths. She brought the tip of her sword under his helmet. "You have fought well. I would see your face before I send you to the Beyond in payment for the lives lost to us here today."

The pain in his ankle was so intense that it shot up throughout his body and blocked out everything else that was happening. Maker, kill me already… he thought without realizing she intended to do just that. He just wanted the pain to go away. His eyes closed in anticipation. The rebel pushed his helmet off. The air was like a sweet caress on his face after sweating under the hot sun all through the battle. He waited, and waited for the rebel to run a blade across his throat, through his heart, anything.

I'm sorry Brenna…

But nothing happened.

He felt her weight upon him shift. Her hands reached under his chin and faced him towards her. He opened his eyes, wondering what in the Maker's name was taking so long, and saw the flicker of – recognition? – in the woman's grey eyes.

"By the Dread Wolf…" It came out as a whisper. She turned her eyes to the sky before watching the battle around her. A horrified look overcame her as she noticed the rebels were failing to win it. She let him go, gently, and then stood up. She turned around and fled toward the rebel Tristan had bashed in the face. The whiz of a bolt, the thud of a fallen body as the bolt met flesh were a few of the sounds Tristan heard through his pain.

"Eirlys!"

Tristan lifted his head briefly to see the woman being helped up by the other rebel before they and the rest of the Masked Rebels turned tail and fled from the battle.

Sweet, bloody Andraste, what just happened?

Translations:

Tayeule = "shut up" (slang)

Je ne comprend pas. S'il vous plait... = I don't understand. Please.

Andaran atishan = Dalish/elven greeting