Victory at Ostagar
Chapter 21: Cities of the Dead
Dwarven plumbing was a marvel. It was quite impossible to present themselves at the Palace in their current condition, so Bronwyn led her party—along with their two new acquaintances—back to the Warden hostel. Rank had its privileges, and she had her bath first. That gave her time to have a welcome meal and think over her next moves, while the others ate and bathed and rested.
Admittedly, it did not sound like Brosca was resting. She was enjoying her bath entirely too much. She emerged, her freshly braided pigtails still wet, wearing the elaborate dwarven garment she had bought at the shop. It bunched at her shoulders and bulged at her waist, but she was clearly very, very proud of being so well-dressed.
"So we're going to the Palace, Boss?"
"We are. I see you are dressed for the occasion."
Bronwyn was not planning to take her entire retinue on this visit: Scout, of course, and just Anders and Sten. She and Alistair had decided between themselves that when they divided their little company, one of the Wardens must remain with each group in case of disaster.
The two dwarves were very impressed by Scout. With considerable bravado, Brosca swaggered up to make friends.
"So I hear you're a dog. Never met one before. You're from Ferelden, I guess. I'm Brosca, but you probably heard that already. I didn't catch your name."
Scout cocked his head, puzzled.
Bronwyn smiled, and said, "His name is Scout."
Now Brosca looked puzzled. "Yeah, I heard he was your scout, but what's his name?"
Bronwyn stared at her, nonplussed. Anders was convulsing with laughter, and Bronwyn shook her head at him.
Sten frowned, and said, "His name and function are identical. It is a logical system of nomenclature. My own rank and name are the same."
Scout barked, agreeing with Sten's sensible remark. Brosca asked, "Does he speak some sort of foreign language?"
Beginning to understand, Bronwyn said, "Scout doesn't speak language in the sense I think you mean. Dogs' throats really aren't designed for it. He understands everything you say, and he can communicate with barks when he needs to." Scout's means of communication were actually far more extensive than that, but Bronwyn was not quite ready to discuss the subtleties of communication between a mabari and his imprinted human.
Scout barked a proud assent. Leske said, "Yeah, 'member old Cut-Throat Karney? After Beraht stabbed him in the neck, he couldn't talk anymore, but you could understand his signs."
"Yeah, that's right," Brosca nodded. She said to Scout, "Didn't mean to be impolite, big guy."
They entered the palace without hindrance, and with only a few looks askance at the two casteless accompanying them. In fact, news of their approach had preceded them, for the timid and pretty dwarf woman Bronwyn had noticed before came rushing at them, arms out to hug her sister.
"Freydis! You're alive!"
"Yeah, the Grey Warden here busted me out of Jarvia's jail. Wow! Look at you, Rica! Is that really you under all those jewels?"
"It's me! Hello, Leske! I'm glad to see you!" She beamed up at Bronwyn , eyes shining with a hint of tears. "Thank you so much. You don't know what this means to me."
Bronwyn smiled kindly, surprised that the rowdy Brosca's sister should be so well-spoken. Obviously, she had received whatever education the family could afford. "I have a brother I once thought was killed in battle, so I think I do. Your sister and her friend were happy to hear that you were well and safe, too."
"Oh, thank you, thank you! Come on, Freydis, you have to see my little Endrin! Mother is here too, and I want to show you two where I'm living now!"
"Great!" Grinning, Brosca let herself be pulled along.
Leske followed, calling over his shoulder, "Thanks, Warden!"
Brosca yelled, "Yeah, thanks a lot! If I can, I'll do the same for you someday, if you get thrown in jail or somethin'…"
"You've simply outdone yourself, Warden," Bhelen purred. Oozing charm from every pore, he sprang his next demand. "The elimination of Jarvia won me great favor, but to truly displace Harrowmont, we'll need something...dramatic..."
Bhelen wanted the support of a Paragon. Bronwyn understood a little better now what a Paragon was, and what such a being meant to the dwarves. Dwarves didn't have religion, as topsiders understood it. If they worshiped anything, it was the memory of their ancestors, and chief among them were the Paragons, dwarves who had contributed meaningfully to dwarven society. And there was one living Paragon at the moment, the Paragon Branka.
Branka sounded like a very difficult person. Individuals of genius often were, of course. This Branka was born of the smith caste, and had invented something that impressed the dwarves, a smokeless forge, to be exact, and had thus been empowered to establish a House of her own. She had taken said House with her when she departed for the Deep Roads over two years before, on a hunt for some sort of lost dwarven treasure. Bronwyn's heart plummeted at the idea of a wild-goose chase far in the Deep Roads, following a two-year old trail.
"And what do you expect me to do if I find this Branka?" she asked, her face carefully blank.
"I was hoping you could use your legendary charm to persuade her to support the election of the rightful King," Bhelen suggested, his flattery smooth as a greased griddle. "If, however, her time in the Deep Roads has addled her wits, perhaps it would be best that she not return from the Deep Roads alive…"
He could provide her a map that would take her at least part of the way: a map to a place called Caridin's Cross, named after a great Paragon smith of old. The rest of the impossible task was pretty much up to her. And he let her know that Harrowmont was looking for Branka as well.
She stalked out of the palace, burning with fury, wishing she had never heard of Orzammar. It was made clear to her, too, that there was no changing sides at this point, when a gang of truculent dwarves attacked them outside the palace, shouting their support for "Lord Harrowmont!"
Bronwyn was too angry to try to reason with them. They met, sword to axe, and the dwarves were knocked off balance by Scout's powerful rush, and hampered by Anders' powerful magic. Between them, Bronwyn and Sten hewed the opposition down, and walked on.
And the battle had not cooled her anger, for now she would need another bath.
"We could be down there for weeks!" Alistair protested, horrified at the idea. "For months!"
"For years, decades-even centuries. Forever, in fact," Bronwyn agreed bitterly. "I think we have to make at least a show of going. Maybe we can find some reliable evidence that she is dead. That would satisfy Bhelen, I think, for if he could not rely on her support, he could be certain that no one else could have it either." She slumped... gingerly... on the stone bench, and placed her elbows with care on the stone table. It did not due to be reckless in this hard land of stone.
"We'll need a lot of food-and at least some water."
They put it to the fellowship, and everyone had ideas of what needed to be done before they left on an expedition of such magnitude in the tunnels under the earth.
Alistair, Cullen, and Sten would go to the surface, check on the horses, and buy some foodstuffs to take with them. Morrigan, Anders, and Tara would copy maps and lore at the Shaperate. Bronwyn, Leliana, and Zevran would go about the city, visiting the various shops and taverns to listen for gossip: especially the least morsels of information they could discover about Branka.
"I think we should get every bit of loot we can out of that Carta hideout," Tara suggested. "If we don't, somebody else will. I think we should go down there right away and clear it all out first."
It was a sound plan, and they acted on it without delay. It was not just the loot, but the food and drink as well. There were little luxuries that would improve the Grey Warden hostel. Amidst a heap of treasure, Bronwyn had noted a lute. Leliana had her own, but it was something that could be left at the hostel, a source of recreation for some other Grey Warden.
Most of inhabitants of Dust Town gave them a wide berth, since word of the Carta Massacre had spread. A few harsh words were shouted, but Bronwyn's party was simply too numerous and powerful to defy. No one was thanking them for clearing out the gang, which probably meant that the casteless had probably been as proud of Jarvia as they were afraid of her.
They even discovered another entrance to the tunnels, and it came up inside one of the merchants they had visited earlier: the armorer Janar. He was horrified at their sudden appearance and their revelation that there was a hidden door in his shop, but he was willing enough to trade for their loot. Bronwyn made arrangements with him to use his shop in future to enter the hideout, and thus they no longer needed to go through Dust Town. In a few more visits, they would have cleared out everything of use or value. It was very agreeable to have Sten amongst them, as he was able to carry entire barrels of ale or flour.
In the confusion as they emerged into the Orzammar Market district, a young girl outside Janar's shop approached Tara. In the brightest, perkiest voice possible she asked her, "Excuse me! Have you ever heard of a place called The Circle?"
Tara stared at her. A host of memories horrible, happy, tender, and heartbreaking assailed her. After a moment, she said, "I was trained at the Circle."
"That's wonderful!" A wave of enthusiasm threatened to drown Tara, as the the dwarf girl chattered on about her interest in magical theory and the readings she had already undertaken. "Oh, I'm Dagna, my lady. I so honored to meet a real mage of the Circle at last! I've written to the Circle, asking for permission to come and study there, but they've never answered."
"You want to go to the Circle," Tara managed, not quite sure she had heard correctly. She waved Anders over. He listened, bemused, and then shrugged.
"You can't do magic. Dwarves just can't. You know that, don't you?"
"I know, I know! But the theory is so fascinating!"
"You'd have to go live on the surface, and from what I've read, you couldn't come back to Orzammar," Tara added.
"I'd do anything to study at the Circle of Magi," Dagna said fervently. Her hands twisted anxiously, as if these two outcast mages had the power to make or unmake her life.
Anders looked at Tara. "Since she's not a mage, it's not like she'd be a prisoner. Why not? I tell you what, Dagna: if we survive the next few weeks, I'll write you a letter of introduction. Won't Irving be excited to hear from me?"
Cullen overheard, and snorted. "You'd do better if Warden Bronwyn wrote the letter," he told Dagna.
"Where's the fun in that?" Anders protested.
Their preparations were nearly complete. There was nothing for it but to descend into the Deep Roads. Everything they had heard indicated that this was pointless nearly to suicide, but they still had a King to crown and a treaty to enforce. After selling all the loot, Bronwyn sent the appropriate share to the Palace for Brosca and Leske. Not too long after, the doorknocker to the hostel boomed.
"That crazy dwarf is back," Alistair told Bronwyn, "and she wants to talk to you."
Brosca was at the door, shuffling and fidgeting: no longer in the elaborate dwarven gown but once more in her serviceable armor.
"Come in, Brosca," Bronwyn welcomed her. "I trust you found your nephew well? And your mother?" she added, remember Brosca's mention of "Ma."
"Yeah, yeah, they're great. Except Ma, of course. Not even living in a Palace with all the food she can eat could make her happy. Rotten old bag," she muttered. "Anyway, Rica's fine and the kid, too. They're all fixed up. Rica told everybody Leske was her long-lost brother, and so they found a corner for him to bed down in. He'll be all right."
Bronwyn waited, but the dwarf woman kept shuffling around the point. "Would you care for-" she was about to say "tea" and realized that Brosca probably would not know what that was. "-some ale?"
"That'd be great!" The big common room was filled with interested onlookers, and she whispered to Bronwyn, "but can I talk to you private-like?"
"Certainly. Come over here," she gestured Brosca to a corner and looked at Leliana and Zevran until they moved.
Once they were gone, the dwarf asked, "Is it true that you and your gang are going down into the Deep Roads?"
"My companions and I are going, yes," Bronwyn said carefully, adding, "The Grey Wardens are not a gang."
Brosca looked confused, but said, "Whatever. I mean, gang, Wardens, companions—that's a fancy word. You're a noble. I get it. Anyway, you and your boys are all right. I'm in."
"You want to come along with us? I thought you were going to live with your sister at the Palace."
"I tried that. Now I think I'd better do something else. Leske may be happy finding a corner of the Palace to hide out in, but I'm too loud. I don't want to embarrass Rica or the kid, and that's all a brand like me could do. But if Rica could tell the kid that her sister was a Grey Warden, then that's something he could be proud of, right?"
Bronwyn had seen her fight, and did not want to turn away skilled help. For her own conscience's sake, though, she felt she had to say something.
"Becoming a Grey Warden is dangerous."
Brosca stared at her, not quite comprehending.
Bronwyn tried again. "You could be killed."
Brosca was still puzzled, but nodded, thinking it over. "I figure you got to die of something."
So be it. "Then welcome to the Grey Wardens."
The dwarf grinned enormously. "Thanks, Boss! I brought all my stuff along in case you said yes."
They agreed they would have a meal and a long sleep in actual beds before departing. Bronwyn wrote diligently in her beautiful leather-covered journal. She was recording all the companion's stories, and of course, adding to her continuing letter to Fergus.
We have quite the little army now. Ten of us two-legged creatures, and eleven with our mighty Scout. My dwarven recruit thought dogs could talk! She really and truly attempted to chat up Scout. It was very amusing, though she meant only to be polite.
There are a great many flirtations going on, here in the Warden hostel. Sometimes rather more than flirtation. I do not forbid or interfere in any of it. Indeed, I am only too glad that some of my companions are finding some measure of joy in our current situation. Leliana is such a sweet girl. I sometimes wish that she and Alistair could come to an understanding.
Unfortunately, Alistair seems to have eyes only for me. He is a very fine man, and a formidable warrior, but I feel nothing for him but friendship and sisterly affection.
Bronwyn paused over her writing, uncomfortable with the half-truths she was writing. Alistair was a very fine man indeed, and a handsome one, and had a sweet way about him. Bronwyn's heart and faith belonged to another, but sometimes she was so lonely...
Cullen fancies Tara, I believe, but it is difficult to tell. He stammers and blushes when speaking to her, but so he does when he speaks to me, too, and I do not believe he is in love with me! I hope not, anyway, because that would be very unfortunate. For that matter he stammers and blushes near Morrigan and Leliana too. Not too much with Brosca, which is all to the good, since she would certainly laugh at him.
I think of you often, and of everyone at Ostagar. I hope the King is behaving himself, and I hope Teyrn Loghain is not too taxed by the incompetence of the rest of the world. I am trying very hard not to be incompetent myself, but it seems that whatever I do, there is something or someone hindering me, preventing me, throwing obstacles in my way like poisoned caltrops.
And there is more. My time at Orzammar has opened my eyes to the larger issues in our world. Our friend Morrigan was studying the lore that the dwarves have collected about the darkspawn, and in a book called The Stone Unheld, there are references to Blights as seen through the eyes of the dwarves. We surface folk do not appear very impressive in them. Here are some excerpts:
3:10 Towers-They name it a Blight, the third by their reckoning. It was just "the fight" to our ancestors, continued even though it shifts setting. The hordes that press their border surge and release, spilling across the surface. They fortify and follow. It was not their way to let the enemy rest.
3:25 Towers-The surface kingdoms declare victory. The horde is crushed, the push halted, and celebrations begin as humans thank the skies and their Maker. Beneath their gaze and their feet, the darkspawn retreat to the steps of our thaigs. New front lines are drawn across old. They settle in to breed, the Memories say, as happened twice before, and likely in the darkness before that.
5:12 Exalted-The surface declares the fourth Blight, a number that means nothing to the Stone. In the depths, the events are inverted, our Blight spanning the interim years. Seven generations of shifting lines and darkness. Our Ancestors are the reason the surface kingdoms don't know a darkspawn by sight, why even their eldest have never heard an accounting first-hand. They believe the Blights are defeated by a gathering of allies with singular focus. Eventually, they will be lost by attrition in the depths.
The spawn surges and releases. We fortify and follow, although doubts are raised.
7:0 Storm-The wars continue in the depths and the border thaigs are lost. Orzammar fortifies and holds, but the lost ground is not regained and remains dead space, where darkspawn multiply. It was a surge, but the surface was not breached, there was no great archdemon behind them. No Blight was declared, no rallying cry was given. The Wardens slumbered.
After centuries of constant skirmishes, a trend becomes clear. The first line of defense, unacknowledged for centuries, weakens.
9:13 Dragon-The Blight is building, though it is years from being named by the surface. But the Memories know the signs. The Legion has lost Bownammar, though in truth, it was lost to the living long ago. The spawn are moving freely and have numbers even the Memories haven't seen. They will surge, release. We will fortify and follow. That is the way, and will always be so. Until we fall, and the surface wonders what has changed.
How cowardly and feeble our efforts-and in this I include those of the Wardens-sound in this context. In this thirtieth year of the Dragon Age, are we to do the least amount possible or are we to honor our obligations to the fullest? I wish I knew more of the Grey Warden strategy against the darkspawn. I wish I knew that there was a Grey Warden strategy against them. It all sounds like a patched-up business, quickly forgotten when the darkspawn no longer threaten the surface.
It is apparent to me that the dwarves are fighting a losing battle, and have been for a number of centuries. Slowly and inexorably, they have been pushed out of the thaigs until only Orzammar and distant, disaffected Kal-Sharok remain. It is a defeat: a defeat so slow and incremental that most the dwarves themselves are not fully conscious of it. I fear it will end in annihilation, and then, without the dwarves to hold them, very likely the darkspawn will spill out onto the surface, unhindered and unabated. Why do we not
"All right, all right!" Anders shouted back. Bronwyn glanced up, distracted from her writing. It was not a quarrel, she was glad to see, but a friendly dispute.
"But perhaps your eloquence is unequal to the task," Morrigan said archly.
Tara shook her head. "That would be a sorry thing to contemplate."
"And it is your duty," Sten pointed out. "Our commander wishes to hear these stories in order to comprehend our characters."
"Are we going to have a story?" Bronwyn asked, pleased at the thought of some distraction.
"A story!" Brosca said, looking excited. "A real surfacer story? What do you people tell stories about?"
"About the world and everything in it, my little friend," Zevran assured her. She laughed and slapped him on the shoulder, rather heavily. Zevran caught Bronwyn's eye and winked.
"Very well," Anders conceded, with mock despair. "Everyone grab a drink, put your feet up, and don't stand on ceremony with me. We shall commemorate our departure to the nether regions with a bit of entertainment, provided by me! Yes, Tara, I go first, because I am senior to you by a quarter-hour, and you will just have to show some respect. So, Bronwyn, what would you like to hear a story about?"
Instantly, she answered, "Something that has nothing to do with being underground."
"Something with fighting in it," Alistair suggested. "Oh, that's right, you're a mage..."
"Excuse me," Anders replied haughtily, "remind me not to save your unmagical arse anymore. Or heal it, either."
"Now, now, children..." Bronwyn rebuked them mildly.
"Something with romance and adventure," Leliana said dreamily.
"Romance and adventure are good," Tara agreed. "Well, they are," she told a skeptical Brosca.
"If you say so. Romance usually means gold exchanging hands, and adventure usually means somebody getting knifed. I guess that's all right."
Zevran burst out laughing. "I could not have put it better myself!"
"Can we get on with it?" Sten asked, though clenched teeth.
"We can," Anders assured him. "I have a fabulous story. It's about mages," he said, with a mocking bow to Alistair and Cullen, "so brace yourselves for something very shocking. It's about free, adventurous, romantic mages. And they fight, so I believe it has something for just about everyone..."
Anders' Story of the Archmagi Virgilius and Flavia
Long ago, in the great days of the Tevinter Empire, there was born to a Tevinter knight and his lady a little boy named Virgilius. He learned to read when he was only three years old, and by the time he was seven, he was already famous for learning. Many stories are told about the youth of Virgilius: how he defeated a demon, how he found the fabled Black Book of Enchantment, how he escaped the boredom of country life by studying with the greatest magisters of the Empire.
His only rival was the brilliant and beautiful Flavia, niece of the Chief Archon. She, too, was a prodigy, and was mistress not only of magic, but of all the logical and rhetorical arts. When Virgilius came to Minrathous, there was endless trouble and confusion, for the two of them were at odds, playing tricks and performing enchantments and illusions of every kind, wishing to prove themselves the better mage.
At length, the Chief Archon, to quiet the chaos their magical rivalry had unleashed, proposed a contest. Whoever could devise the best means to avert danger and promote peace would be declared Archmagus of Tevinter, and Protector of the Empire. Virgilius and Flavia withdrew to their libraries, to ponder the matter.
At length they emerged, ready to challenge the other with their creations. The people of Minrathous gathered in a great multitude to see what feats of magic would be performed, and high above on their marble dais, the archons prepared themselves to judge the contest.
Flavia clapped her hands, and cried out in her sweet voice. At once the multitude screamed and drew back, for seven huge dogs of solid bronze leaped forth, eyes rolling, and they rushed about the city, catching thieves and rioters, shaking the malefactors in mighty jaws. The criminals tried to climb up step and hide, but the dogs could sniff out wickedness and always catch them. In less than an hour, the city was at perfect peace, and the citizens eyed one another in fear and wonder, resolving never to do anything to attract the attention of Flavia's Hounds.
Virgilius bowed, and then, with great ceremony, pulled away a sheet and revealed a display of statues: the gods of all the neighboring nations and of the subject peoples of the Empire. In the middle was a great statue of the God Dumat, the mightiest of all dragonkind, as a symbol of Tevinter power. The other gods, it was noted, each held a bell in one hand. The bell in the hand of the God of the Rivainni rang, and Virgilius explained that when any nation wished harm to Tevinter, that god's bell would ring. They knew that the Rivainni were rebellious, as the archons had sent troops there to subdue the people. However, the beauty of Virgilius' statues was that they would ring their bell if the people even so much as thought of violence, and thus troops could be sent more quickly.
The archons conferred, and the Chief Archon pronounced that they could not judge one feat greater than another: Flavia's Hounds would protect the people of Minrathous from criminals, and Virgilius' Statues would protect them from invasion and rebellion. Both were vital for the stability of the Empire.
"Therefore," pronounced the Chief Archon, "We name Virgilius and Flavia equally to the title of Archmagus, and thank them for their contributions to the might of Tevinter!"
Flavia and Virgilius glared at each other, furious, for the Archon's judgement resolved nothing between them at all. Flavia transformed into a hawk, and swooped up to peck at Virgilius' eyes. He fought back, transforming into a great raven. The birds darted and soared above Minrathous, attacking with beak and claw, flying so high as to be lost in the sun, and then diving down, scattering the people in confusion. For hours they fought and flew until Flavia alighted on the Great Tower of Zazikel, and transformed back into a beautiful human woman. Virgilius transformed, too, and they stared at each other, blood surging in wrath and pride.
"To fight each other profits nothing," said Flavia softly. "Think of what the two of us could achieve if we joined together!"
Virgilius agreed with all his heart, and swept Flavia up in his arms, kissing her passionately. Hardly had his lips touched hers when she slapped magic-suppressing charms upon him, rendering him helpless. Quickly she conjured a rope and tied it round and round his body, and then tied the end to the stones of the Tower. Heedless of his shouts and protests, she pushed him off, and Virgilius hung there in sight of all the people, speechless with humiliation.
"Let all see who is the real Archmagus of Tevinter!" cried Flavia. She leaped from the tower, arms outstretched, transforming into a hawk in midair. With another triumphant cry, she sped away, back to her own palace. Not for some time could the servants of the archons rescue Virgilius and remove the charms that bound his magic.
Virgilius swore revenge of Flavia for this trick, and the very next morning every fire in Minrathous went out, nor could any mage light a fire by magic. The archons, guessing that this was the work of Virgilius, begged him to break the spell. Then Virgilius ordered a scaffold to be erected in the market-place, and for Flavia to be brought, clothed in white. He bade everyone to take fire from her, for to her horror and embarrassment, flames blossomed from between her legs. The citizens break torches, and straw and tinder, and fires were kindled in Minrathous again. For an entire day she was forced to stand there, her skirt up to her hips, exposed to every eye in Minrathous. Virgilius felt he had won the war.
But the Chief Archon was furious, for Flavia was his kinswoman. He sent his mages and knights to take Virgilius, and they locked him in a tower to await execution. The day was hot and Virgilius asked for some water. A pail was brought, and Virgilius cried, "All hail the Archons! No one can hold me captive!." With that, he jumped headlong into the pail, and vanished from their sight.
He was gone from the city for some time, and events moved on. One day, word came to the Archons that some sailors had discovered the Tree of Life in a land far to the east, across the great Amaranthine Ocean. It was clear, even from studying the leaves retrieved by the sailors that this tree had astonishing powers. Naturally, the archons wished to obtain it, or failing that, to obtain a living specimen: a cutting, or a seed, in order to examine it. As Archmagus of Tevinter, the duty fell to Flavia, and she devised a wonderful ship that could sail without wind to propel it. The ship was long and narrow, with room for an entire tree. Eyes were painted on the prow with lyrium, so that the ship could see dangers ahead in the water. Flavia stepped aboard the ship and it slipped away from the harbor of Minrathous, and was soon lost to sight.
But Virgilius had heard of the Tree of Life as well, and he thought that finding it for the archons would be the perfect way to win back their favor. He too, devised a ship, stole a copy of the map they had given Flavia, and traveled east, along the path of the rising sun.
The Tree of Life was near the shore, and it was enormous: many branched and glowing with power. Its trunk was as thick as the hindleg of the God Dumat. Scattered about were a quantity of golden nuts, which themselves had great powers. And there Virgilius and Flavia met once more.
Flavia was greatly shocked to see her rival, but before the two of them could begin to quarrel, they found themselves in terrible danger. The sailors had seen the tree in summer, and had arrived and departed unnoticed by the inhabitants of the land. Flavia and Virgilius arrived in the autumn, when the boughs of the Tree were heavy with nuts. Those inhabitants arrived on the scene. Hearing a shout of rage, the two mages saw an immense host of fierce savages, enraged at the sight of Virgilius holding one of the precious nuts.
Suddenly nets were cast down from the trees branches, surprising the two mages. They could stir neither hand nor foot, for the nets were soaked in a potion that made them sleepy and unable to gather their strength. Their staffs were taken from them, and they were carried to the native village and were shouted at and cursed, for the people of that place hated all strangers. More and more people poured into the village: a host too great for two mages to overcome, even with the most powerful blood magic. Dark days passed, in which Flavia and Virgilius were imprisoned in a filthy hut, thinking that this might indeed be the end.
At length, they were carried to the place of execution. There they were cut loose in order to lay them more easily on the great blood-stained stones where the savages cut out the hearts of their enemies. This was the chance they had needed, for luckily the savages did not know with whom they were dealing.
"Flavia! Fly!" cried Virgilius, himself transforming in a bird. The people of that place had never seen such magic, and in that moment of surprise, the mages made their escape. They flew swiftly away, and the savages pursued them with bolts of raw magic of their own, and with a host of spears and a cloud of arrows. The mages' first thought was to find their ships and sail away, but when they reached the shore, they found, to their horror, that the savages had found them first and had burned them both to the waterline. The savages pressed their attack, and Flavia and Virgilius flew west, out to sea, only wanting to be far from that terrible land.
A long time they flew, days and nights together, but they were weary with magic and with hunger. They were faltering, no longer able to sustain their shapes. For a moment, Virgilius turned into a man, and the nut he had gathered dropped from his garments. No sooner had it touched the water, than it sprouted into a great tree, and earth rose around it, making a fair island in the midst of the ocean. Flavia and Virgilius dropped down to it, overjoyed to be saved. They rested, and made peace with one another, and found the new land so beautiful that they had no desire to leave it and return to the endless strife and politics of Tevinter. Together they worked wonders, creating a palace of matchless beauty on that island, which they named Aureliana, the Golden. And there they remained, happily together; and there it is said, they remain to this day, welcoming any wandering mage to their magical island as to his rightful home.
"When we're done with saving the world," said Tara, "let's all go live there."
"We 'll never be done with saving the world," grunted Alistair, "so that's a moot point."
Morrigan smirked at him. "You are not a mage, and thus you are not invited. It sounds a pleasant place to me." To Anders she murmured, "You will never stop bothering me about learning to shape-shift, will you?"
"Never," Anders admitted, without a trace of shame. "It would have saved my hide a hundred times. Maybe more. I think all mages should learn it."
Sten considered the story. "This tale may have fighting and romance and adventure in it, but it is not about those things. This tale is about escape. Do you wish to escape from the Grey Wardens?"
Bronwyn thought this a very just analysis, and wondered the same. Anders must have seen it in her eye.
"Not likely! I have a comfortable, if hair-stuffed bed, I'm surrounded by pretty girls, and I'm allowed to shoot lightning at fools. What more could I ask?"
A half-drunken storm of red hair, red beard, and giant axe descended on them as they approached the entrance to the Deep Roads. Out of the whirlwind, a whiskey-bass voice growled a greeting:
"Stranger, have you seen a Grey Warden around here? I heard he-or she-was setting out to search for Branka on the Prince's own orders!"
Bronwyn paused to consider the burly dwarf in her path. "I am that Grey Warden, and that would be 'she.'"
The dwarf muttered, "Guess the quality's gone down a bit, at that." He spoke up, noticing that she was listening. "Say! Can I ask you a favor?"
"Why not?" she said bitterly. "Everyone else does."
He fixed her with a rolling, blood-shot eye. "If you're looking for Branka, you want to talk to me, because I'm the only one in all Orzammar who sodding knows what she was looking for."
Alistair looked at her, brows raised. She sighed. "All right, talk."
"Yeah," the dwarf agreed. "I'll talk all right, if you take me with you. If we pool our knowledge, we have a chance. Otherwise, you got nothing."
The companions were looking at each other skeptically. Brosca stood on tiptoe to speak in Bronwyn's ear. "That's Oghren, Branka's husband. Everybody knows about him. He pisses ale and kills little boys in first-blood duels."
Oghren snorted, and said to Bronwyn, "That's... mostly true. Take me or leave me, I'm the one who knows what she wanted, and I'm the one who knows where she went."
The shadows closed in about them as they moved along the great underground highways of the Deep Roads. The ancient lighting system the dwarves had devised still worked, after a fashion, though dimly. In the crude connecting tunnels, they relied on their mages to cast enough light to find their way. This time Bronwyn was glad to have two dwarves traveling with them. The dwarves' stone sense would tell them if they were moving in the right direction, and even help measure time, to a certain extent. They were not the only people in the Deep Roads, they discovered, and the first few fights would have badly disoriented them, had they had nothing but their own surfacers' instincts to rely upon.
Having gained his point, which was to be part of any expedition to rescue Branka, Oghren became expansive, telling them all they wanted to know about her and more. Branka, it seemed, was looking for an artifact called the Anvil of the Void, created by the Paragon Caradin to produce the golems that had given Orzammar a century of peace.
"She'd look for it in the Ortan Thaig, because that was Caridin's home. He was an Ortan before he was made a Paragon, and spent a lot of time there, even afterward. Nobody's been to Ortan Thaig in five hundred years. You could get there from Caridin's Cross, I hear, but..."
"I have a map to Caradin's Cross," Bronwyn told him, tapping her cuisse.
Oghren grinned. "And I have a map from Caridin's Cross to Ortan Thaig. Guess we're in business."
Bronwyn supposed they were. They had maps, and a plan, and a pretty solid force. Oghren had gone all out in those first few skirmishes, fighting like a madman. Or like the berserker he was, she thought, using the correct term. He had squinted at Brosca, and Brosca had glared back at him, but Bronwyn had made clear that there were no castes in her company. They could fight as far apart as possible, if they liked, but they were allies and equals in Bronwyn's eyes.
As they penetrated deeper, they made contact with darkspawn: first in small bands, then in larger, more concentrated ones. By the time they reached Caridin's Cross, they were clearly in darkspawn country, not just in connecting tunnels, but even in the main halls of the Deep Roads.
Traps and ballistas challenged them, and even some of those huge beasts of burden the dwarves called brontos. The brutes had hide like veridium plate, and were as hard to kill as an ogre.
And they were seeing ogres, for that matter, now and then. They brought back horrible, heart-racing memories of the Tower of Ishal. Constantly, Bronwyn reminded herself that she was not alone: she had a trio of powerful mages, and she, Leliana, and Zevran could do great damage with their arrows before the the monsters could close with them.
There was no day and no night in these endless halls: only endless twilight, the reek of darkspawn, and the constant danger of a hideous death. One ate when one was hungry. One slept when was one was tired. There was not a breath of clean air, nor the softness of grass underfoot, nor the sweetness of flowers, nor the blessed light of sun, moon and stars.
But there was treasure. Other adventurers had been here before them. Zevran stumbled on a cache of weapons and gold in a side tunnel. There was so much treasure than they started making caches themselves: marking their maps to remember what they could not carry with them; keeping some of the gold and the best jewels; sometimes trading an inferior weapon for a work of genius.
No one needed tents in the Deep Roads. They would make camp and build a fire with roots and discarded trash, with old axe handles and crumbled coal from the seams in the tunnel walls. They would lie down on their blankets and shut their eyes against the dim, eternal light, and try to sleep.
After an appropriate interval, they were on the move again, following the the map, trusting to the copyist's accuracy. Endless miles of magnificent, ruined hall, endless miles of winding tunnel, one foot in front of the other.
Bronwyn experienced unutterable relief when at last a tunnel opened out into a vast vaulted space, and Oghren declared, "There it is. Ortan Thaig."
It was like and unlike the Aeducan Thaig she had visited before. This was bigger and even more fouled with centuries of darkspawn. The Aeducan Thaig was still somewhat in contention, and was visited regularly by dwarves seeking to regain it. This, however, had long ago been abandoned, and it looked it. Filth coated the walls of the dwarven dwellings, carved with such craftsmanship into the rock. This thaig must have had a large population in the great days of the dwarven empire. Stone bridges soared over rivers of dark water and rivers of glowing lava. The remaining sections of Deep Road attached to the thaig were still masterpieces of the mason's art.
It was full of darkspawn of course, but it was also the domain of giant poisonous spiders. Some of her companions really, really did not like spiders, Bronwyn discovered. Cullen, for one, found them so repulsive that he could hardly bear to look at them once he had killed them. He even tried to physically restrain Tara from approaching the carcasses.
"Don't be a baby, Cullen," the elf said, shaking off his hand. "We need some of the toxin. It's very useful in pain relievers."
"And it is essential for many poisons!" Zevran grinned, neatly extracting a sac.
Anders smiled smugly at Cullen, and eased another spider's tissues apart so Tara could get at the poison sac with her knife. "That's right," he said, very loftily. "Don't be a baby." The ex-templar glared at him.
They camped there, allowing time for everyone to brew. Bronwyn lent a hand herself, learning a bit of the craft from Zevran and Leliana. Brosca edged in, listening hard, relating what she had heard about the spiders. The mages worked together too, very efficiently.
"Morrigan," murmured Anders, "your emulsion is so lusciously smooth and creamy..."
Tara giggled.
Bronwyn rolled her eyes, but was glad that there was something to do to break the horrible monotony. She performed her share of the stirring dutifully, and refilled her little crystal phials with the feeling that she had actually accomplished something.
While she was putting her gear away, Oghren came up and squatted down by her. "I've been taking a look. This place has Branka written all over it." He held out of massive hand. In it was a bit of rock. Bronwyn looked at it blankly.
"See," he said impatiently, "From this side you can tell it was deliberately chipped away to mark the walls. Branka always did that, marking her way and taking samples to analyze. She was here, all right."
"The map indicates there's a lot more to the thaig."
"Aye, that there is." He pulled out his map. It was greasy, and stained with substances Bronwyn dared not guess at. "She might still be here, I suppose... Or we might find a few more clues. Let's get some rest, and then-" He traced a tunnel from the big chamber they were in "-let's go down that way. That was the heart of the old thaig. They might even have moved into the old houses. There were over two hundred people in Branka's House, after all. They must have left something behind!"
It occurred to Bronwyn to wonder why of those two hundred people, Branka had not chosen to take her husband.
"Bronwyn."
She thrashed out of the Fade and immediately went for her dagger. Leliana was leaning over her, shaking her shoulder. For a moment the pretty face was one with that of the menacing Archdemon of her dreams. She hissed and lay back, feeling sick.
"Fool," said Morrigan, from a few yards way. "Do not touch her when she is having one of her nightmares. Here." She rose and brought over a steaming cup. "Drink this," she told Bronwyn. "'Twill quiet your mind."
Bronwyn warmed her hands with the cup and breathed in the fragrant steam, the scent of the sweet herbs raising the ghosts of summer grass and wildflowers in the sunlit world above. She sipped the drink slowly, wanting to smell it as long as she could. After a while, she subsided back onto her blanket, staring up into the dim stone above, wishing she were anywhere else in Thedas.
How long have we been here? Is this all a terrible mistake? What if I have led all these people down here to die in the dark to gratify an ambitious dwarf?
She did not want to die. Not here, not now, not so utterly stupidly and pointlessly in this strange and loathsome place.
The others were stirring, and the dwarves were already getting their gear in order. This, then, must be "day." It was Sten's turn to cook, and he had prepared oat porridge, the amount nicely judged to sustain them, but nothing more. Bronwyn sighed, and resigned herself to hunger. Scout licked his bowl, and whined a little. Bronwyn dug out a piece of jerky and slipped it to him. They had to manage their supplies very carefully. At a certain point they would simply have to return to Orzammar and resupply, and they must make certain they had enough to sustain them on the journey back.
Brosca was whispering with Zevran, who was explaining to her about how elves and humans dreamed, and about the Fade, and what they saw there when they slept.
"By the Stone, I'm glad I'm a dwarf!" Brosca swore. "I don't want to see whatever it is the boss dreams about!"
"No," Alistair said sourly, sitting up and scratching his head sleepily. "You really don't."
Bronwyn decided she could tell time by marches. They headed out, with Brosca on point. During this march, they found Branka's journal, and a cache of equipment that had been left behind.
"She gone out to the Dead Trenches!" Oghren shook his head. "Then I guess that's where we're headed."
"'Dead Trenches?'" Alistair muttered to Anders, "Doesn't that sound... ominous?"
"So we must wander even farther in these tunnels?" Sten demanded. "At what point do you say 'enough?'"
Bronwyn looked him in the eye. "When the King of Orzammar agrees to honor his treaty with the Grey Wardens. Move out!"
There were golems, and more spiders, and even a pitiful dwarf who lived in a little hidden alcove in the rocks. This dwarf, Ruck by name, frightened Bronwyn more than the spiders, for he admitted to consuming darkspawn flesh, and was well on his way to becoming a ghoul. Most horrible of all, he sensed the Taint in Bronwyn, and claimed her as kin.
"Pretty Lady. Pretty hair, pretty eyes, blue as the deepest rock...when you take the Darkness inside you, then you do not miss the Light so much. You know what it is I mean..."
"Come on, Bronwyn," Alistair whispered, pulling on her arm. "Let's get away from here."
"Yeah," Brosca agreed. "Crazy bastard." She scowled back over her shoulder at Ruck, and flipped him off.
Once again, they were on the march, one foot in front of the other. Darkspawn barred their way, viciously identical. And after three long marches, Oghren finally called out, "We've made it! Around the bend is the road to Bownammar, City of the Dead!"
Rounding the bend, Bronwyn discovered that there was plenty of life there, despite the name, for there she saw the Archdemon, her nightmares made flesh.
It was big. A very, very, very big dragon, and it looked wrong. Bronwyn had seen it in the Fade, but now she saw it, undistorted, with her waking eyes. It was across a gorge, bellowing a challenge, rallying its followers. Far below the steep stone cliffs, the Horde was marching.
Bronwyn felt for her bow, but knew she could not make the shot at this distance. She could, of course, draw the attention of the entire Horde to her, but perhaps that might not be the most effective way to end the Blight. The monster bellowed again, and backwinged off its stony perch, soaring away under the vast ceiling of the Dead Trenches.
A huge stone bridge spanned the gorge, and on the other side were gigantic gates that, according to Oghren, could only be the gates of the Fortress of Bownammar, once the home of the Legion of the Dead.
"Of course, the Legion still exists," Oghren rumbled. "They just don't control Bownammar. It belongs to the darkspawn now."
Nonetheless the Legion was still out here, and still fighting. Another turn led them to one end of the bridge, and directly into a battle. Bronwyn shouted, "Charge!" and they joined in, fighting beside the famed Legion of the Dead. Some of the warriors sported the tattoos of the casteless, for in no other context were the casteless legally permitted to bear arms.
The commander himself was heavily tattooed. He called out to her as he kicked a dead hurlock aside. "You're far from the surface, stranger!"
Bronwyn tapped her chest by way of introduction. "Bronwyn. Grey Wardens."
"Kardol. Legion of the Dead."
There was no time for further ceremony. Soon The Wardens were moving further along the bridge, ahead of the Legion, meeting small bands of their mutual enemy. Zevran and Brosca, Tara and Scout ran beside Bronwyn, freezing and stunning and knocking the darkspawn off their feet, while the warriors behind her hewed the creatures apart. Magic and arrows from further sought their targets. They ran all the way across the bridge, hardly slowed by the darkspawn coming to meet them.
At the other end were the Gates of Bownammar, held by ranks of genlock archers. The massed darkspawn were consumed by a storm of ice and fire. The mages stank of lyrium, the air around them crackling with power. Dim shapes tottered and fell, shrouded in steam. A limping ogre blundered out of the whiteness. Bronwyn forced herself to run at the thing, grasping a massive arm and swinging up to slash the throat open; jumping down and running past to hamstring the legs. The ogre clutched at its throat and sank ponderously to the stones, measuring its length at last. Brosca did a little victory dance on the corpse. Bronwyn scowled and beckoned her away.
"Maker's Breath! Be careful! Their blood is deadly poison, and you have no immunity!"
"But you practically drink the stuff, Boss!"
"I'm a Warden, and you're a recruit. When you're a Warden you can drink their blood, too!" Bronwyn shouted, exasperated.
Alistair began choking. Cullen thumped him on the back. Bronwyn realized what she had said, and burst out laughing. Her people looked at her, wondering if she'd gone mad.
The Legion caught up with them. Kardol looked up at her with some curiosity. "You've got skills, Warden, if not much sense." His eyes slid to Oghren, and he grunted, "Drunks make poor allies."
Bronwyn was perfectly aware that they did, but Oghren's supply of strong spirits was long-since consumed, and the berserker was as sober as he was likely to be. Instead, she questioned Kardol about Branka and the Anvil of the Void. He was convinced that Branka had been dead for two years, and that the Anvil was a fairy tale. He thought her plan to travel beyond the Gates of Bownammar further proof of her insanity, but did not bother to talk her out of it. He wished her luck and turned away.
"Boss!" shouted Oghren. "Over here!" The dwarf was standing in the mouth of a tunnel that seemed to wind past the Gates. Bronwyn walked over, Scout trotting at her heels.
"Look!" Oghren pointed at the tunnel wall, squinting. "More chips were taken here. Branka came this way for sure!"
Alistair looked at her. She walked away to talk to him privately. He said, his voice low, "At least we're on the trail. It looks like we can go another seven days-I mean-marches or whatever they call days around here-before we absolutely have to turn back. If you want to try, I'm with you."
"It's going to be bad, Alistair. From now on it's nothing but darkspawn all the way. I find it hard to believe that Branka survived, even with two hundred followers and good equipment. How would they reprovision themselves? There's been no communication with the rest of Orzammar in two years."
The likeliest scenario was that Branka and all her people had been massacred shortly after she passed the Gates. If they had survived, it could not have been for long. They might eat deepstalker and the occasional bronto, but in the end they would have turned to the darkspawn, or equally horribly, on themselves. At that, if they turned on themselves, at least they would not become ghouls. It was in every way appalling, but Bronwyn must have an answer that Bhelen would accept.
So they followed the signs: through mobs of darkspawn, through traps and ambushes, through ancient tombs and rifled sarcophagi. The name 'Ciry of the Dead' was no exaggeration. Bownammar was nothing so much as a vast cemetery. That, too, disturbed Bronwyn, who found the whole idea of bodies stuffed away in stone boxes to slowly rot-or, as here, to be pawed at by the darkspawn and curious adventurers- profoundly disgusting.
Tara and Brosca walked at the rear of the party, searching the broken coffins for coin and small, portable treasures. Zevran saw them at it and gave them a wink.
"You're sure the Boss doesn't mind?" Brosca asked. "What kind of cut does she get?"
"Well," Alistair said, attempting to make light of it, "that's new. Anybody know what that is?"
Bronwyn shook her head, gazing at the long streaks of red, fleshy matter spilling across the stone floor. "There are worse things than monotony, I suppose," she murmured.
Tara kicked at the red stuff, and then backed away. "It's soft," she said, wrinkling her nose in distaste. "I think...maybe...it's sort of...alive."
Cullen took a swing at it. Very thin ichor oozed from it. The mages leaned over, and Anders pulled Tara's hand away. "Don't touch it. I can say with an expert's certainty that this is Bad Stuff. I don't know what kind, but I know it is."
There was more of it, and it was everywhere, thick and ropy, covering the floor and walls, dripping down from the ceiling, forming nasty, flesh colored pockets and sacs.
They began to have a better idea of what kind of Bad Stuff it was, after they met the crazy dwarf woman. Taint was erupting from her body, greying her flesh, filming her eyes with the blank glassiness that heralded the transformation into a ghoul. She had a great deal to tell them, though very obliquely.
Oghren knew her. She was, in fact, a cousin: his cousin Hespith. The little rhyme she mumbled unceasingly froze Bronwyn's blood.
"First day they come and catch every one;
Second day they beat us and eat some for meat..."
"She was captured by the creatures?" Morrigan mused. "Why would they have let her live?"
"Fifth day they return, and it's another girl's turn…"
"Hespith!" Oghren roared. "Stop it!"
Anders put his hand on the dwarf's shoulders, and told him quietly, "We have to hear this."
"Seventh day she grew as in her mouth they spew;
Eighth day we hated as she is violated;"
The women looked at each other, realizing something quite awful, realizing their personal, peculiar, specific danger...
"Ninth day she grins, and devours her kin;
Now she does feast, as she's become the beast…
Broodmother…"
She could not get away. Bronwyn would not let the woman get away until she gave them answers, and the answers were not very satisfactory for anyone.
It was knowledge no one could want, this knowledge of how the darkspawn replenished their numbers. It had never occurred to any of them to think about it, and it was so vile in so many ways that they shuffled and avoided each other's eyes, not wanting to talk about it.
Except for Oghren, who merely grunted, "So that's how it's done."
He was hardly pleased to know that he had been left behind because his wife was having an affair-a poetic, romantic, soulful affair-an affair in which the parties called each other love names like "dream-friend"-with his cousin Hespith, whom he had never though particularly attractive.
She chose her over me?
No one else was pleased to know that the Paragon whom they were searching had used her people with ruthless calculation to further her own ends. The Anvil of the Void was not far away, but it was protected by a gauntlet of ingenious traps. First, Branka had sent her people through, hoping that they would either disable the traps or spring them, rendering the traps innocuous. That had not worked. As the numbers of her followers dwindled, Branka hit on a new tactic: offering the last women of her House to the darkspawn, knowing that they would be made into broodmothers. Their monstrous offspring would be forced into the gauntlet, as a last-ditch effort to clear the way.
"Broodmother," Bronwyn murmured, the new word unfamiliar and sour on her tongue. The word opened a door into terror and darkness: a whole new way of thinking about the darkspawn, a whole new reason to fear them. Who knew about this? Did the Wardens know how the darkspawn reproduced? Had Duncan known? Was that the reason there were so few female Grey Wardens? Had he know of this, and still recruited her?
Hespith whispered on, her story a web of horrors. "…I prayed that they would take Laryn instead of me…she ripped off her husband's face…"
"So Branka," said Bronwyn, "deliberately gave you and this Laryn to be raped by the darkspawn. And Laryn was, and she has…become…this thing?...this Broodmother?"
Hespith stared dully before her.
''That's where they come from,
That's why they need us,
That's why they hate us,
That's why they feed us.'"
"Bronwyn," Alistair said thickly, "maybe we'd better…"
"Right," Bronwyn interrupted him. "This Broodmother creature. We've got to kill it. We can't allow anything like this to go on. We'll continue down the tunnel…very carefully…and I think we can guess what that stuff on the walls might mean. Don't touch it except with your weapons. I wonder how big this Broodmother is…"
They moved along the corridors. One of the fleshy sacs sticking to the wall had grown large, and pulsed like a beating heart. Cullen looked at Bronwyn, who nodded. He cleaved downward with Yusaris, and a half-formed genlock spilled out, squeaking and struggling. The party groaned with unanimous disgust and hit it with everything they had. As they moved along, they found more of the sacs, and destroyed them all.
"They're all attached to ropes of this…matter," Morrigan pointed out to the thick red strands twining along the walls.
"And they're all genlocks, so far," Brosca remarked. "Anything about that seem strange to you?"
They could sense a big chamber up ahead. The air was different and there was a deep groaning sound, as if the earth itself were vibrating. Red matter covered the floor like a vile and spongy carpet. Bronwyn made herself walk lightly, not liking the sensation of sinking into darkspawn flesh…
And then, there she was. 'She,' indeed: prominently, archetypically female, with rows of breasts all the way down her vast, putrid hulk. Legless, tentacled, stinking, pitiful: her tiny, distorted head a mockery of her past existence, mounted like a toy atop her swollen carcass.
Very softly, Bronwyn whispered, "Laryn?"
The Broodmother saw them, and screamed.
Many thanks to my readers and my reviewers: jen4306, Shakespira, almostinsane, Persephone Chiara, Enaid Aderyn, Sarah1281, Eva Galana, JackOfBladesX, Aoi24, Amhran Comhrac, Lehni, mille libri, Kempe, demonicnargles, wisecracknmama, Leafy8765, mutive, derko5, khaos974, roxfox1962, Costin, gaj620, Piceron, Have Socks Will Travel, Dragon Cultist, Gene Dark, Windchine68, Schneewante, ArtemysFayr, and Caleb Nova. I very much appreciate your interest and your contributions.
For Anders' story, I used bits of the medieval legend of Virgilius the Sorcerer, and you can read a bowdlerized version of that by Andrew Lang (The Violet Fairy Book is online). However, I changed the story around entirely. The part about fire issuing from the girl's vagina was a favorite of medieval illustrators.
Next up: The Last of the Paragons