Chapter 14: A Rock and a Hard Place

There are many dwarves crowding the mountainside when we finally reach the gates of Orzammar, which I hadn't expected. "Surface dwarves," Alistair explains, still shaking snow off his armor. "Some have been exiled from Orzammar; others just prefer it out here, but stay close for the trading."

One dwarf offers us a look at his "procured" goods. "Asala," Sten says reverently, looking at a huge two-handed broadsword. He turns and looks down at me, while I crane my neck back to look up at him. "You have asked before why I may not return to my people," he says. "I said it was because I have been dishonored. And yet I failed to explain the source of my dishonor."

"That you did," I say. For the first time since I've met Sten, his stern mask falters. He bows his head, but not before I see the disappointment, this time in himself rather than me, in his face.

"In the battle in which I fell, my sword was taken from me. For a Qunari Warrior, his sword is his soul. It is made for him alone. To lose it is to lose his soul. I have been without my soul these long months."

"And that is your sword," I say, looking at the handsome weapon.

"Yes."

I have nowhere near enough coin to buy what the merchant is asking for it. And I'm too amazed by the coincidence to bother thinking about it. Perhaps this is why Sten has been so contrary. "Good day," I say to the merchant. "The Qunari sword. About it."

"You see the price," he says, leaning against his cart.

I smile. "Yes, I do. But you also see the Qunari standing over there."

The merchant's eyes go wide, but he's not about to be intimidated. "If he wants the sword he can pay for it."

"See, that's the problem. It's his sword," I say. Sten may be ornery but he's not dishonest. Dishonesty is heavily ridiculed by the Qun, he's said, as is selfishness. "And he doesn't have the coin for it, nor do I. We're hoping you'll just give the man his sword."

"Now if I go giving away good weapons—"

"That you stole," I add.

"Procured. There's a difference," he snaps. "I didn't take it off his person, if that's what you mean by stealing. Some treasure hunter just north of the Lake found it and sold it to me. Hence I procured it."

"I'd like to procure it back," I say. Sten has joined me, and he stands a good head and shoulders taller than me, and twice the size of the dwarf. I give the dwarf credit, he doesn't want to relent. I sigh. "Sten, rip his arms off." Sten steps forward, massive hands reaching for the dwarf's arms.

"Procure it! Procure it!" he squeaks, struggling to move the sword. He can only drag it a few inches, so Sten swats him out of the way like a bug and picks up the sword easily.

He waves the blade about as easily as I wave my daggers, though it is several times larger and heavier than my blades. "Asala," he whispers, holding the blade upright and touching his forehead to the flat of it. While he's always been a great fighter and thus a good addition to our team, seeing Sten with his sword—his soul—is intimidating. I'm glad he's on our side.

He turns to me and I back away from his drawn sword. He takes his other sword from its sheath and tosses it aside, scattering several passing dwarves, then sheathes Asala. "You have my thanks, kadan," he says, and turns to the entrance to Orzammar. I don't know what kadan means, nor do I want to offend him by asking, so I just follow after him.

Orzammar's doorstep is crowded with people, and most are being turned away. We end up behind a human in full armor, flanked by a couple other guards. Off to the left, a small regiment of similarly armored men waits. "King Loghain demands an audience with the dwarves!" the man repeats. I expect him to stamp his foot. Perhaps a temper tantrum would net him results.

"I'm sorry, but since the death of King Endrin, Orzammar is in upheaval and will permit no outsiders," the dwarf porter says. He braces himself and looks up at Loghain's man, daring him to challenge the edict. He looks around to us. "Your business?" And he's ready to give us the same answer.

I look to Alistair, but he's boiling with rage at the idea of "King" Loghain. "We are Grey Wardens," I say to the dwarf. "My companions and I seek entry to Orzammar to invoke the ancient treaties the dwarves signed with the Wardens."

Loghain's soldier laughs as if I've just told a bawdy joke; I know several, but I'm being serious. "You? Grey Wardens? You are a stain on the honor of Ferelden." He turns back to the dwarf. "Let me pass. Loghain commands it."

"We owe no allegiance to Loghain," the porter says. He reaches past the soldier to take a look at the treaties I've pulled out. "Seal is real enough, alright." He motions to the doormen behind him. "Let them pass."

Sweet, oh so sweet satisfaction washes over me as our company passes. Alistair and I, the two Grey Wardens, are last to go. "Run to your false king," I tell the man. "The dwarves will not hear him today." I feel his eyes boring into me until the heavy stone doors close on us. Once inside, I want to laugh at this small victory.

We enter the Hall of Heroes. "The dwarves honor Paragons, ancestors who have done great things among them that they in the present wish to emulate," Wynne says, breaking my internal gloating and Alistair's not so subtle anger. "The elves worship the Creators," she adds, in response to Leliana's appalled expression. Wynne laughs gently. "Certainly you didn't think all races, or even all people, unquestioningly accept the Maker?"

"No, Wynne," Leliana says. "I suppose I didn't. It would just be nice if they did, is all." Wouldn't that be a story.

"A Paragon, a Creator, and the Maker all walk into a bar," I start, and though Leliana glares, it cracks Alistair's stony façade and he smiles. His smile to me is different now. It's not the grin that says he's humoring me, or the embarrassed smile he reserves for when he feels he's messed up with me. It's warm and soft and makes me giddy all over again. There have been times the last couple weeks, traveling north out of Redcliffe that I have to stop and make myself believe the reality that Alistair loves me. I spent my whole life running, avoiding making the decision about courting suitors. My mother yelled at me and my father shook his head in frustration every time I evaded their efforts. Now I know why. Part of me was just waiting for this: a feeling of completion. My soul. Sometimes I look down to make sure I'm wearing clothes, because the feeling is so dreamlike.

Ferelden was thrown into chaos by King Cailan's death; Orzammar is the same without King Endrin Adeucan. Shopkeepers tell us of riots in the streets over the two contenders for the throne: Endrin's son Bhelen, and Lord Harrowmont, a dwarf noble who was Endrin's close friend. "Funny, the parallels," I murmur to Alistair, who just nods as he stares moodily into his mug. To the dwarf tavern girl, I ask where I might get help with the Blight. She has no idea, until I drop a few coins into the empty ale mug she's holding. With each clink of coin she starts to remember more about where we should go and who we should see.

So it is that a few hours after our arrival in Orzammar we stand outside the gates to the Diamond Quarter, where the homes of the nobles are located. Sten looks up at the high cavern ceilings and the intricate carvings that decorate the pillars from the floor up. "The dwarves must have an excellent supply of ladders," he says, and I'm not sure if it's my nerves or his deadpan delivery that makes me want to laugh.

The Diamond Quarter is more refined than the market district. Rather than gossiping tavern girls, they have town criers stationed on strategic corners. As we pass we learn that the criers seem to be on Harrowmont's payroll. Harrowmont's general is gracious enough to lead Alistair and me to the old and tired dwarf lord. "Endrin made me promise on his deathbed that I wouldn't let Bhelen take the throne," he tells us. "Bhelen may be royalty, but his only real talent is getting into trouble."

"Sounds like someone I know," Alistair says, and catches my eye.

"Be that as it may, I was Endrin's friend for many years," Harrowmont says. "Bhelen would have us openly trading with the surface and risk turning us from the Paragons and the ways of our ancestors. Orzammar needs stability, not change." He punctuates this with a nod that pretty much assumes we will support him.

"Our interest is in gathering dwarven aid against the darkspawn, to be honest," I tell Harrowmont.

"Only a king can do that, and as you see, we have no king," he says with a shrug. "Now if you were to assist us in choosing one…"

I sit back in my chair and try to look casual, when in fact I'm quite annoyed. I just want to end the Blight, not solve every problem in Ferelden.

"Besides," Harrowmont is saying, "a Blight is actually in the dwarves' favor. Less darkspawn to contend with in the Deep Roads."

"Killing the archdemon ends the Blight," Alistair remarks. "Without an archdemon leading them, the darkspawn are scattered. Confused. Easier to pick off than when they are organized."

It's clear from Harrowmont's nod that we'll get nothing more out of him. "Thank you for your time, Lord Harrowmont," I say. Alistair and I leave the estate only to find that our companions have scattered.

"I'd like to meet Bhelen," Alistair says suddenly.

"You heard what Harrowmont said."

"Yes, but I've also heard you say there are two sides to every story." He looks around at the stone walls and carved pillars and lava flows that radiate heat and make me sweat. "We should at least see if the royal heir is as bad as his rival makes him seem." He pauses a moment. "It's what I'd like a Fereldan noble to do for me, after what Loghain's saying."

As we head toward the palace, I feel about as tall as a dwarf.

"Orzammar needs to open up to the surface. We need to diversify," Bhelen tells us when we meet with him. "And I'm grateful to Lord Harrowmont for helping my father all through his reign, but that doesn't give him the right to take the throne, not while someone of House Adeucan still lives." He nods and crosses his arms over his chest. I glance at Alistair. He looks thoughtful, as if he can use the lessons of the dwarves' argument in his own impending showdown with Loghain.

"Thank you for your time, Lord Bhelen," Alistair says when we leave. Once back out in the main cavern he leans on a stone pillar and presses his fingers to his temples as if squeezing out a headache. "How do you people do it?" he asks me. "Nobles," he says, in response to my blank look. "How can you deal with the backstabbing and in-fighting?"

I should be offended, but this is Alistair asking. And he's going to have to deal with it himself, sooner or later. "It's just who and what we are," I tell him. "It's how we live. I could ask the same thing of your templar friends. How can they serve the Chantry day in and out when there's so much more out there?"

He grins. "Good thing you never asked me that. Because I couldn't."

We stop in at the Shaperate and speak with the Shaper of Memories, the dwarven version of a Grand Cleric. The Shaper tells us a bit about the state of Orzammar, nothing we haven't already heard in the taverns, but then reveals the more disturbing news. "The candidates are at a stalemate in the Assembly," the white bearded dwarf tells us. "The entire council is locked. Only one vote can sway the council: that of a Paragon."

"But aren't they all dead?" I ask.

The Shaper nods. "Usually, but Paragon Branka is unique in that she is Orzammar's only living Paragon. You may wish to head back to the tavern in the commons and find a dwarf named Oghren. He could tell you more about Branka."

We thank him and head back toward the commons. The news of the hour in one part of the Diamond Quarter is that the Grey Wardens support Prince Bhelen. Closer to the commons entry, we support Harrowmont. "Did you tell them who we support?" I ask Alistair. "Because I didn't."

Back at the tavern we find Leliana and Zevran entertaining a drunken dwarven population. It's more crowded than earlier, and I realize that here, buried under tons of rock and darkness, there's no way of knowing when it's day or night. Leliana sings and Zevran dances through the crowd. He sidles up to me and shows me the coins he's liberated from a few purses. "I am useful for more than my good looks," he says. "And Alistair, you and I should speak sometime, privately." Alistair raises his eyebrow, wondering what Zevran could possibly wish to speak to him about. "I have some pointers for you," he adds, looking pointedly between me and Alistair.

"Go away," I snap, blushing as furiously as if I'd been drinking. "Feed him to the darkspawn?" I ask Alistair.

But Alistair is rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "I'm curious what he has to say," he says. This earns him a punch in the ribs that echoes off his plate armor.

We find Oghren easily enough; anyone who overhears us saying his name points in the same direction. Oghren is stout even by dwarven standards, and has a thick beard and hair the color of flame. He belches loudly when we approach, and the stench of liquor fills the air. "We hear you know Branka," I say.

Oghren drains his ale mug and gestures for more. "Aye. I know Branka. She's my wife."

"This makes things interesting," Alistair says. "We need to find her."

"Yeah, well so do I," Oghren says, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand, and motioning the tavern girl to get him more drink. "She went into the Deep Roads a while back. Never returned."

"And you didn't look for her?" Alistair asks. "Must have been a great marriage."

"It was fine," Oghren says. "She couldn't keep her hands off of me." He puffs out his chest. "We dwarves try to avoid the Deep Roads if we can. Unless you're a Grey Warden or Legion of the Dead, you stay away." He squints at us, as if he's seeing double and this can help him focus. "What do you need Branka for, anyway?"

"There's a Blight," I tell him, "and we're Grey Wardens." The tavern girl has put down three mugs of ale, one for each of us. I automatically move Alistair's mug closer to me, since I know he'll waste it. Oghren just nods, but if it's about the Blight or my drinking capacity, I'm not sure. He seems to know a lot about both Bhelen and Harrowmont; probably the result of being married to a Paragon, and he also knows we need a dwarf king to validate our treaties.

I've finished my first ale mug quickly, because it's the only way to get it down. Oghren watches me closely. "Tell you what. We chug for it. If you win, I go find Branka with you. If I win, you let me keep drowning my sorrows in ale, and find her yourself."

I shrug. "Deal." Alistair watches me in horror. Most of the other patrons gather round and count down from three. I remember every technique every tavern-goer in Highever taught me. I tip back my mug and pour the drink down my throat, barely realizing when I swallow. I slam the mug down just as Oghren does. Everyone around us is cheering. "Tie," I say to him, wiping foam from my mouth with the back of my hand. "What now?"

He shrugs and waves over another round. "We chug again."

It continues until I don't know how many pints I've poured into myself. Oghren drinks me under the table easily, but I put up a good fight. In the end he laughs and agrees to accompany us into the Deep Roads. "But I lost," I mumble, seeing two fire-bearded dwarves when I look at him.

"Any human willing to try and out-chug me is worth my time," he says. "Luckily it'll take a couple days to get everything together for this. Should give you time to recover." He laughs and then pats Alistair's shoulder. "Be good to her, blondie," he says. "We both knew she didn't stand a chance."

"I can hear you," I say. And then I throw up. And that's all I remember.

"I'm never taking you near a tavern ever again," Alistair says a couple days later. "Every time I wind up carrying you back to bed."

"And you know I love you for it," I say, kissing him on the cheek. We are strapped into armor, my headache is gone, and the rock ceilings of Orzammar have stopped spinning at last. "I promise, by Andraste's flaming sword, I will not drink dwarven ale ever again. Just the thought of it nauseates me."

"Our ale's fine for those who can handle it," Oghren says, joining us at the entry to the Deep Roads.

I look at him closely. "Are you still drunk?"

"I figure if I drink more wine, I'll whine much less."

I've asked Morrigan to join us, and she is the last one to show up. Life underground doesn't seem to be agreeing with her usual free spirited self, and she is more disagreeable than usual. "Save your wine, dwarf," she snaps. "And you," she says to me. "Come to rejoin the world of the living. It's a wonder you survived the night with your innards intact."

"Nice to see you too," I say. "I probably wouldn't have survived without Alistair to hold my hair back."

He nods in agreement. "Darkspawn have nothing on the monster that is drunken Fianna." He turns his golden brown eyes on me and grins.

"You're both making me ill," Morrigan snaps and she is the first one to enter the Deep Roads, while Oghren, Alistair and I follow with Sten bringing up the rear.

The Deep Roads network travels through nearly all of Thedas, though very little of it remains open or even accessible. The passage we take from Orzammar is only open to Legion of the Dead and the occasional Grey Warden. In fact, in recent times only Loghain and King Maric, Alistair's father, have been the only human non-Wardens to successfully navigate the Deep Roads and survive.

We are laden with two weeks' worth of supplies, but Oghren suspects it could take us longer, depending on how open the passages are, and how deep in Branka is. Two weeks. We've already been out of Redcliffe for at least ten days. Will that be enough time for Arl Eamon to gather the nobles? Or will we emerge from Orzammar only to find the Blight has overwhelmed Ferelden? I don't know if it's those thoughts or the thousands of tons of mountain all around me that make me feel small and squashed.

By the end of the first day we've made it to Caridin's Cross, the major crossroads of the Deep. My body tingles and burns all over. I squirm in my armor, literally itching to fight. The darkspawn do not disappoint. Oghren is a tank with his battle axe, hacking through Hurlocks and laughing the whole time. Sten uses his sword like a scythe, slicing swathes through the darkspawn. Morrigan hangs back in the shadows, keeping out of sight, but firing spell after spell at the endless wave of darkspawn.

"Twisted creatures," I grumble as I drive my daggers into the weak points of Genlock armor and dodge the arrows of the darkspawn archers. I catch one in the leg and I grit my teeth in pain, but it hasn't been buried too far in, and I can still fight. By the time the stone cavern floor is greased with black blood, I'm sweating and weary. And this is only the first day. Another ten days of this seems desperately long.

Our days pass much the same: hike deep under the Frostback Mountains and fight off waves of darkspawn. Camp when we can, because all semblance of time is gone. Alistair guesses we're going southeast while Oghren drinks. Alistair, Morrigan and I carry all the supplies; Oghren carries the alcohol. Of all of us, he is the only one who doesn't seem to mind the trip. Alistair suggests it's because he's a dwarf, but I know it's only because he's half drunk most of the time. That's the only way this could be bearable.

We follow old carven signs and cross a threshold into a new cavern. "By the tits of my ancestors," Oghren breathes, and drops his axe to his side. "Ortan Thaig."

I drop my pack. It's noticeably lighter than when we left Orzammar, but our supplies will hold out, yet. We could get as far as the Dead Trenches before we run out, if we conserve energy and supplies. Ortan Thaig is a welcome relief after Caridin's Cross and the miles of hot, cramped tunnels. I'm tired of fighting corrupted spiders and the clots of darkspawn that block our way forward. Here, in the ancient abandoned Thaig, the cavern walls spread out and up, forming a high dome overhead. The air is cooler and fresher because of the ventilation shafts master dwarven craftsmen carved when they built the Thaig. Light emanates from luminescent mushrooms and eerie blue glowing torches mounted on the walls of buildings.

Oghren looks over buildings and paws through rubble. His mumbles echo through the cavern. Here the buzzing in my veins is so pronounced I grit my teeth and clench my fists as if I can will it away. Alistair clenches my shoulder, but I can feel the buzz in him, too. "I hope this gets easier to live with once the Blight is over," I say. In the dim light he looks grim and serious and he's grinding his teeth.

Oghren yelps and we both have our weapons drawn before the echo dies. Ghostly white forms swarm out of the buildings as if the walls weren't even there. They have outlines of armor and weapons, but Alistair finds out the hard way that the apparitions' weapons hurt as much as real ones. The Veil must be thin; the spirits stand with one foot in the Void and the other here. Their frustration makes them fierce. I don't think about pitying them; I just hack them down. They seem to sigh when my daggers make the killing slash and they dissipate. They are bloodless kills, leaving no trace of the battle when all are gone.

However, the mass of spiders and thaig crawlers, greenish arachnids that click their pincers and spit poison, do leave lots of greasy brownish blood that make it hard to keep our footing. Alistair slips and a huge green crawler leaps on him. I slide under a rearing giant spider and shove both daggers upward like fangs, all the while conscious of Alistair's grunts and struggles behind me. He cries out and I rush to him. The thaig crawler has its fangs sunken into his armor's shoulder joint, and from the twisted expression on his face I know the pincers have pierced him.

Morrigan stuns large groups of spiders and then magically sets them aflame. The cavern fills with spider squeals and choking smoke. I stand over Alistair and swipe my dagger in a downward blow that severs the spider's head. The body spurts greeny-brown blood all over Alistair and I knock the head off his shoulder. "Are you alright?" I kneel down next to him and help him sit up. He winces, his breath hissing through his clenched teeth. "Let me see." I fumble with the buckles of his armor and pull off the plates, sticky with spider blood. Alistair clutches his shoulder as if he's trying to hold his arm on. He shies away from me, but I peel his hand away.

The fangs have pierced through his mail hauberk and undershirt and stained the fabric with black venom and red blood. Tracks of black venom spread out from the bite under his pale skin. Oghren hands me an anti-venom poultice that he's brought because he knew about the spiders. Odd that someone so self-centered and drunk would think to bring something so useful.

Alistair lays back, pale and sweating and trying to convince me he's okay. I lay one hand on his sweat-soaked forehead and he's burning up. "This will work," I whisper to him, unaware that our companions stand around, watching us. I think I may be crying. I press the poultice to his shoulder and he holds my wrist with cool, trembling fingers.

The color seeps back into his face and his grip gets stronger. Relief lifts the heaviness from my shoulders and my held breath comes out in a whoosh. Alistair sits up, shaking his head and wiping the sweat off his face. "Did we win, then?" he asks.

I want to slap him but I just throw my arms around his neck. He groans, reminding me he's injured. "I think we should camp," I announce. Sten and Oghren aren't happy, but Morrigan flashes me a silent thank you. There is a small cavern off the main room of the thaig and we troop to it. However, the path is lit by the soft glow of fire. "We're not alone?" It comes out as a question and I look to Oghren, but he just shrugs, as clueless as I am.

Sten takes point without me having to ask. Alistair leans on me and his breathing is heavy, but he's stronger. His armor pieces dangle from his hand and spark as they bounce on the stone floor. This cavern is small and stuffy, but the long path leading in makes it defensible. Oghren pokes around, squinting. "Branka was here," he announces. "This was her camp." He holds up some of her notes, tattered and sooty. He keeps his face as blank as possible, but it's hard for him to see his wife's words without getting emotional. "Damn you, Branka, what were you doing?" he murmurs.

"Looks like your spider was lucky," I remark to Alistair and he chuckles, but it sends a spasm of pain through him and he winces.

We settle in around the mysterious fire. Sten stands in front of the cave entry, an impassable sentry. His entire mien is different since being reunited with his sword, and he seems less easily offended. Morrigan has some herbs that she brews into tea, and hands it to Alistair. He stretches his arm and rotates his shoulder, which I've bandaged the best I can. I'm no healer, and the bandages aren't neat, but they do the job. The tea makes him drowsy, and before long he's lying down with his head in my lap and his eyelids fluttering in dreams. I caress his forehead and watch him rest.

"You will chew through your lip and there will be nothing left for him to kiss," Morrigan says, flashing me a narrow-eyed glance.

"Are you jesting with me?" I ask in mock shock. "Or worse, are you concerned?"

"Merely commenting. I care not," she answers. "What was that?" She stands up, pointing her staff into the shadowed corners beyond the firelight. "Come out!" she commands. Her voice echoes and Alistair wakes. Sten and Oghren draw weapons and flank Morrigan while I sit with Alistair.

"Darkspawn?" Morrigan asks me.

"No." I've grown used to the febrile buzz in my blood since being down here, and it hasn't gotten any worse.

"Don't hurt Ruck." The voice slithers out of the shadows like a snake. "Ruck means no harm."

They lower their weapons and a dwarf slinks into the light, shading his eyes with his dirty hands. He watches Sten and Oghren with his teeth bared. Morrigan turns in disgust and pretends to examine some of the dwarven treasures scattered in the campsite.

He shambles between Sten and Oghren and approaches me. Alistair wakes with a groan and gropes for his sword, but I lay a hand on his arm to stop him. Ruck looks me over. "Pretty lady," he says with a smile that shows blackened teeth. "Pretty lady knows about these things."

"What things, Ruck?" I ask in an even voice.

"He has the taint." Alistair squints up at Ruck through his drooping eyelids. "He must have eaten them." The others' faces wrinkle with disgust, but Alistair and I know what it is to be tainted. He sits up, even as I try to keep him lying back. "How long have you been here, Ruck?"

"Ruck stays here five years." His shadowed eyes bore into me, seeing something underneath my skin that makes me crawl. "It's dark at first. Then I take in the darkness." He leans in close to me. His breath is fetid. "Once you take in the darkness you not miss the light so much. You know?" He does not press me for an answer. I swallow and nod. I haven't minded the dark of the Deep Roads. I've gotten used to them. "Ruck sees you." His finger hovers in the air before my face. "He sees the darkness inside of you."

"That is a terrifying thought," I whisper. My heart pounds and my blood sings.

"Enough," Oghren grumbles. He grabs Ruck by the scruff of his neck. "What do you know about Branka?" He gets right up in Ruck's face and shouts, begging to know about the "Lady Dwarf". Ruck splutters and wails and makes horrible sounds that fill the air until I have to cover my ears with my hands. "Lady Dwarf goes to the Dead Trenches!" Ruck screams at long last. Oghren drops Ruck and his face pales. "Damn you, Branka," he murmurs.