Victory at Ostagar

I've decided that the adventures of Fergus, the elves in the Alienage, the Wardens at Ostagar with Loghain, and the fate of Erlina all need their own chapters. Here is the first. I'll post the next one in a few days, but no later than next Sunday. Perhaps Ostagar, with the arrival of the Dalish elves led by Merrill, will be next. Quite a bit of that is already written. It didn't mesh well with this chapter, however.

Chapter 38: "No One Harms Me with Impunity"

A resounding crash shook Vigil's Keep to its ancient foundations. Maids shrieked, dropping trays and pitchers, and huddled together under tables, trembling. With daybreak, the bombardment had started afresh.

The two sturdy young footmen kept on walking upstairs, though the lithe and slender one raised his brows expressively at his big and burly friend. The young teyrn must be genuinely enraged to seek out and harness such weapons. Of course, the Arl had killed Teyrn Cousland's wife and child. His parents, too, if the young men understood the story aright. If this went on, everyone in this Maker-forsaken fortress would die.

In fact, calling the two louts "footmen" was a bit of an exaggeration, thought that was how they described themselves to impressionable peasant girls who were awed by anyone grand enough to live in the Keep. They had been taken on, after much begging and flattery, as kitchen guttingmen, the lowest of the low, needed after the last of the elves had mysteriously departed. They had proved skilled at the job. The head cook had seen with his own eyes how deftly they wielded their knives and cleavers, and even talked of apprenticing them.

That mattered little now. It was only a matter of time before Teyrn Cousland battered his way into the Inner Keep. There would be a last-ditch stand, and anyone with the least bit of sense knew how that would go.

By all the laws of war, handed down for thousands of years, the Vigil would be sacked. That was what happened if a town or castle declared besieged held out to the last. The victors had the right to rape, kill, and plunder without let or hindrance.

"You know, Luke," said the guttingman Galen to his friend, "Very likely, if the old Arl has his way, we'll all be dead by the day after tomorrow."

Luke only shrugged. He was not a talker.

Not even the Arl's daughter—possibly not even the priests –would be spared, though probably the young lady would be kept fresh for the Teyrn's personal attentions. That was the way it was, and the two young men on their way upstairs saw no reason to complain. The world was what it was.

Because they were not so completely unmanned as the other servants, Cook had allowed them to take the breakfast trays up to the Arl and his family, and given them clean smocks to wear. Ordinarily they would have not have been permitted out of the kitchens, but the Arl and his family must have their breakfast, looming apocalypse or no. There was no seneschal to prevent such a lapse of decorum, since old Varel had been demoted to clerk for arguing with the Arl about something or other. Of course Varel was not in the office, but was in his armor and taking his watch on the battlement, along with every other trained warrior.

So up the guttingmen walked, their boots tramping in unison, a hard rhythm like the irresistible footsteps of Fate. They paused briefly in front of the solar door, to put everything in order, and then Luke shouldered his way in. Servants only knocked at the Arl's study and at bedchamber doors.

"Breakfast," Galen announced, adding almost insolently, "my lords and lady."

The old man looked at them only to sneer. The heir, Thomas, was slumped at the table, a tall silver cup of ale already empty before him. He peered up blearily at the servants and gestured vaguely at them to put the food on the table. Useless sot, Luke had called him once; but Galen had held that there was nothing wrong with him that a spot of hard work wouldn't cure.

The young lady was already sitting at her place, silent and sad, with red eyes. Galen looked at Luke, and gave a deep expressive sigh. It was a shame what innocent young ladies had to suffer on account of no-good fathers. Luke just stared at her. He thought she was a very nice young lady, and hoped she would eat her breakfast without a fuss. It was the best thing for her.

He loomed over her, immense and beefy. She looked up at him, a question in her mild grey eyes.

"Eat your porridge, my lady," he rumbled softly. "It'll do you good."

She gave him a wavering, uncertain smile, and dipped her spoon into the bowl. Being bossed by well-meaning, simple servants reminded her of happier times.

"Bit of spiced cider for your lordship," Galen whispered to Thomas, giving him a sly wink. Thomas snorted, and was pleased at how the man had spiked the cider with Antivan brandy. He should slip the fellow some silver later.

Galen jerked his head at Luke, and they backed away, standing by the door like good, invisible servants. The old Arl flung himself down in his chair and began eating like he was angry with his porridge. Galen's opinion was that he was angry at nearly everything in the world most of the time.

In between fierce, quick, swallows, he was berating his son. "Do up your buckles, for Maker's sake, Thomas! Do you want the men to see you like that?"

The young man gulped down his cider and then obediently fastened his buckles. He muttered, "I don't see that it makes much difference."

"Pull yourself together, boy," sneered his father, still wolfing down his breakfast. "We're not dead yet. I have a plan…"

Luke felt sorry for the young lady, listening to her father going at her brother that way. He probably did it all the time.

Arl Howe lowered his voice, and hissed, "There's a tunnel out of the dungeons that only the Arls of Amaranthine know about. After breakfast, Delilah, I want you to put on some stout walking shoes and go to the dungeons as far as the crypt entrance. I'll get together my picked men. Thomas, you go with her, and no dallying for a drink! Then we'll make our way to Esmerelle…"

"Esmerelle," said the boy, looking disgusted.

His father snarled at him. "Bann Esmerelle to you! Our most faithful friend. She'll stand by us no matter what. The King will not permit his finest port city to be destroyed by Fergus Cousland's infernal machines."

Thomas grimaced. "Yes, Father." He grimaced again, like a man with a bellyache.

"Father," Delilah said softly. "I don't think…" She got to her feet slowly, steadying herself with one hand. "I feel so strange…" She swayed, and stumbled away from the table.

Thomas uttered a soft, guttural belch. Rendon, already exasperated at Delilah for her weakness, scowled at him. It was bad enough that Delilah looked like she was about to faint. Now was no time for Thomas' drunken tricks…

Abruptly, a red spray of vomit burst from the young man. He choked, jerking in violent spasms. Another burst of bloody vomit, and he toppled from the bench, voiding urine in his rigors.

"Oh, no…" Delilah gazed at her brother wild-eyed, and put out her hand to Rendon, feebly. "Help…oh, Father, I think…we are... poisoned…" She sank to her knees, her head drooping like a wilted flower, and then fell sideways, her arms outspread and limp.

Galen rolled his eyes at Luke. He must have put Quiet Death in the girl's porridge. What a big softie.

Howe took a breath to shout for help, when he was seized from behind by a pair of mighty arms. One held him up off the ground, and the other was across his throat, stifling his cries.

One of the servants who had brought the breakfast was grinning at him: the smaller one. He was pulling a dagger from his boot, while he walked up to Howe, careful not to unkindly step on the dying young woman on the floor.

"So, Dog Lord, here we are. You think there were no Antivan merchants in Highever, to carry home the story of your murdering ways? You think Signora Fortuny would let you get away with killing her daughter?" Galen smirked, Howe attempted to struggle, growing weaker, ever weaker. "It never occurred to you that the House of Fortuny would want revenge? The old lady's pretty angry about it, I can tell you. She never wanted to send her daughter off to Dog Land, but the girl was crazy about her big handsome barbarian. Signora Fortuny knew something terrible would happen, and it did. But you know what? You kill one of hers, and she'll kill two of yours!"

Luke grunted in Howe's ear. "That's the Antivan way!"

The dagger struck. Howe thrashed impotently. It was a cruel blow, but not an instantly fatal one. The assassins had their instructions.

Galen went on with the story. "So now that you're on the outs with your Dog King, our Queen gave Signora Fortuny permission to send in the Crows." Galen gave his dagger a twist. "Galliano and Lucian. At your service."

Howe bit back a scream. He would not give this scum the satisfaction of seeing him beg for mercy. Thomas was still jerking, but weakly; and Delilah was already still, so very still, so white...like a statue of Andraste…

"Signora Fortuny gave us a nice box for your heart. She wants to see it," Luke—Lucian—rumbled, his powerful grasp relentless.

Howe's vision was blurring, turning to grey. This was death! It was wrong, all wrong. He himself had a contract with the Crows to kill the Cousland spawn! Everyone had betrayed him… He had his plans, and Ferelden needed him. All he wanted was a chance to get to Loghain, and explain…

"But first," Gallliano purred, "she instructed me to say these words to you: 'No one harms me with impunity,' and then, of course," he laughed, " to make sure you saw your children die in front of you."

A tiny, red-hot flame of hope lingered to the last, before the grey dissolved to black.

They don't know about Nathaniel…Maker, don't let them know about Nathaniel…the Howes…must live…

Within the hour, a white flag of parley was flying from the shattered battlements of Vigil's Keep.

Fergus approached, and found himself facing Varel, Howe's seneschal. He frowned, wondering if this was some trick. He was not risking himself within bowshot to speak to an underling.

"Where is Howe?" he demanded brusquely.

"The Arl... is dead, my lord," Varel said heavily. "He and his children together. They appear to have been assassinated by the Crows, for that mark and a note were found by their bodies in the solar."

"Killed?" Fergus stared at the silver-haired man, shocked. "Delilah, too? Thomas?"

"I fear so, lord teyrn," said Varel. "Howe was slaughtered gruesomely, but Lord Thomas and Lady Delilah appear to have been poisoned. We are searching the castle for suspects, but in all the confusion… At any rate, I am here to offer our submission. With the Arl dead, there is nothing left to fight for."

"Have your men lay down their arms at once," Fergus said stiffly. He felt oddly bereft. There would be no final battle. There would be no duel, no settling of accounts, no blood vengeance for his wrongs. Rendon Howe was already beyond his reach, and his fate was in the hands of the Maker.

"My lord," Varel said uncertainly, "we ask forgiveness and amnesty for the soldiers of Vigil's Keep, and that punishment for the deeds of the late Arl not be visited on his men."

Fergus stared at him, his face hardening. "I shall use them as they deserve. I shall not give amnesty to men who killed my wife and son—who murdered my mother and my father. I want the names of every man who participated in the attack on Highever, not for collective punishment but for individual justice. Their stories will be heard. At the top of the list I want the names of the officers who led the attack."

"There will be resistance," Varel said quietly. "It may take some time."

"Then you'd better sort it out. The bombardment will resume in one hour." Fergus turned his back on the man and stalked back to his knights.

A watchful silence fell over the besiegers. Fergus took the break in activity for a quick meal, standing up by a trebuchet, munching bread and cheese. Something was going on in the fortress. There was movement and the occasional loud voice. Another silence and then from the courtyard, there was were a group of voices raised in hot debate, growing louder and louder. A clash of metal against metal followed.

"A little civil war in there, my lord," Fergus' squire Seyton laughed.

"Serves them right," snarled one of his captains. "Let the swine kill each other off."

"They're afraid," Fergus said quietly. "They're afraid because they know what they'd do in my place. They know what they did at Highever, and that they have no right to expect anything else."

"My lord!" a soldier ran up. "A pack of the bastards broke out of the outer wall to the east. It's not a sortie. They're escaping. We brought down a few, but half a dozen are headed north, riding hard!"

"Naois! Fenwick! Take your men and ride them down!" Fergus bellowed. "If they're fleeing, they're the ones we want!"

The knights galloped off, hot on the trail. Not too long after, a runner presented himself before the teyrn.

"My lord, Ser Naois is after the fugitives. We examined the bodies of the fallen and took two wounded men captive. They identified one of the dead as Captain Dillon, one of Howe's most trusted officers. Another one of Howe's picked men, Captain Chase, is among the fugitives, and it is thought he is going to the town of Amaranthine, either to take ship or to join forces with Bann Esmerelle. The two prisoners have themselves admitted having been at Highever the night it fell, though they claim they were with the reserves."

"They're lying," Fergus growled. "If they had nothing to fear from me, they would have stayed in the Keep. Keep them close and we'll find out where they really were." He had always known this would be ugly: it had been ugly when Howe began it, and it would be just as ugly when a Cousland made an end of it. He felt calm, but it was bitter and forced, nasty as a slick of grease on a stagnant pond.

He waited, his anger turning sour. Delilah was dead. He had never really wanted that. He had pictured her kneeling for mercy before him, and then he would have said something sad and noble and spared her life. If Thomas has surrendered, he might well have done the same. Childhood companions were dead: poisoned by the Crows. He had contacted the Crows, yes; but surely that ship had not yet reached Antiva. And he had never suggested killing Delilah and Thomas. Who had arranged this?

The hour was gone, and there was still noise from the Keep. Fergus swore, and turned to the dwarven engineers.

"I've had enough of this. Send a missile into the face of the Inner Keep. If they can't make up their minds, I'll make them up for them."

Machinery creaked and squealed, as the engines were cranked into position. Fergus pushed a dwarf aside and muttered, "I want to send them the message myself."

The lever was filthy with oil and required a hard pull. It was satisfying to release his anger and disappointment and sorrow like this. With a tremendous THUMP! the rounded stone flew up and made a slow and graceful arc toward the Keep. The quarrel and fighting in the keep changed to screams of alarm. Stone met stone. A crash followed, and stone splinters exploded outwards. More screams rose from the courtyard. Fergus put up his hand, gesturing for the dwarves to hold the positions, and wait.

They did not have to wait for very long. The white flag was up once more, and Varel, looking very much the worse for wear, limped into view above the gate.

"My lord teyrn!" he called, sounding a little desperate. "We accede to your terms. We surrender unconditionally. Vigil's Keep…is yours." Thumps and thuds sounded from the gate, as the men inside unbarred it and swung it open.

"Summon my officers," Fergus quietly ordered his squire. When they were assembled, he addressed them briefly.

"Victory is ours, gentlemen, not so much by our own valor as by treachery within the Keep. My wife's family sent the Crows, and I regret that I have lost my opportunity to face the murderer of my family face to face. Seek out the assassins and bring them to me, and any of Howe's officers you find as well. As for the others, the defenders of Vigil's Keep have surrendered, and I will not have them harmed unnecessarily. Soldiers are to be questioned, and those who participated in the Highever massacre will face their just punishment. For the rest, kill only those who resist. Spare the servants and the unarmed, I command you. I despise cowards who think to prove themselves men by committing rape. Rapists will be hanged. I hold you responsible for the actions of your men. You have served bravely and unflinchingly, and there will be rewards for all. Now let us enter my fortress of Vigil's Keep, not to seek revenge, but to deliver the innocent, and to mete out justice for all."

Prudently, he sent in an advance guard. They picked their way through the bloody debris of the shattered courtyard, past the dead and the dying. Reports were coming in that there had been other defections. Some men had slipped through the west pastures; others had been seen running down along the river. They would catch those they could, but they must secure the Vigil, first of all.

The surviving defenders were rounded up. From smithy to storehouse to stable, the compound was combed for potential threats. A few warriors were hiding, but most of those they flushed out were frightened maidservants and trembling stableboys.

Varel stayed close at hand. Unless there was some proof that he was involved with the events at Highever, Fergus felt he would have little choice but to keep the man on as seneschal. Who else knew Vigil's Keep as he did? For that matter, who was better qualified to administer the arling for him? What was he going to do about Amaranthine, anyway? Would the King want to recall Nathaniel from the Free Marches? That was the logical solution, but at the moment Fergus could not think of a man he had less desire to see.

"Have the dungeons searched as well," he ordered another pair of officers. "They're large enough for quite a large force to hide in."

He remembered that the dungeons were accessed by a separate building in the courtyard that was outside the wall of the Inner Keep. It was an eccentric arrangement: one that Father had said dated to a time when the actual fortress was in a slightly different location. Nonetheless, a strong party was sent down to clean the dungeons out and to look for possible captives. Not that he held out much hope of finding Highever survivors, but he had to try. The search parties encountered scattered resistance from soldiers hiding in the dungeons, but found no prisoners, other than the usual local malefactors.

Then it was time to enter the Keep proper.

"Take me to Howe," he ordered.

Varel led the way. Fergus, his knights around him, followed through the damaged structure. He had commanded that there was to be no murder or rape of the unarmed, and his men seemed to be obeying, at least anywhere that he might see such offenses. There would be looting, of course. It was beyond any commander's power to prevent that.

The opulent Great Hall was not in terrible shape, other than some of the high clerestory windows being broken. Fergus and his men marched up through labyrinthine passages to the well-protected Lady's Tower. Vile as the murders had been, Fergus was bitterly relieved that he and his men would not have to fight their way through the castle, inch by bloody inch.

Some frightened Howe soldiers were posted outside the solar's open door. At the sight of Fergus and his men, they dropped to their knees.

"Lord Teyrn," they muttered.

"This is the place, my lord," Varel said quietly.

Fergus had been in this room many times: generally when he and the other men had interrupted the ladies having tea. It had smelled of sweet herbs and sunlight; of silks and sugared cakes and expensive floral perfumes. He could almost see them now: his mother and Arlessa Mechtilde... Bronwyn and Delilah...Oriana...

Now it was a slaughterhouse, stinking of blood and voided bowels.

"Maker's Breath!" a knight swore, staring at Rendon Howe's mutilated body. "It looks like someone cut his heart out!"

"That's a shame," murmured another knight to a friend, pointing discreetly at Delilah's body. "I heard she was a nice girl. Shame to get mixed up in this."

"Almost looks like she's asleep," the friend replied.

Fergus hissed in disgust. Delilah did not look like she was sleeping to him. She was crumpled on the floor, pale face turned to the side. Her father's blood was everywhere, and had crept across the floor to her, where it was drying in a crust along the pure line of his daughter's profile. Delilah's lips were blue, and her eyes half open. Looking down at her, he felt nothing but grief.

"Some of her women must be alive," he said, "Have her delivered to them so they can prepare her decently for the pyre."

Thomas—silly, good-hearted, drunken Thomas— was almost unrecognizable. He had grown a beard since Fergus had last seen him, and his face was smeared with blood and vomit. Whatever the Crows had used on him, Fergus would wager it had been extremely painful.

And Howe—well, Fergus could not bring himself to care how much that man had suffered. His plots had ended in the death of his own children: a terrible judgment on him. Howe's eyes were open, staring at the empty air in agony and disbelief. Outrage was there too, frozen into his dead face. His murderers had seen that face, and had been unmoved. The terrible injury to his chest did indeed appear to be from someone cutting into him.

A piece of parchment was nailed to the breakfast table with a table knife. It bore the sign of the Crows and a clear message:

"Blood will have blood. Nemo me impune lacessit."

It was her, then. His bitch of a mother-in-law. The motto of the Fortunys, written in Old Antivan, was in effect Sanguina Fortuny's signature. She had stepped in, meddling and poisoning as she had back in Antiva. Fergus had nearly been poisoned by her himself. He had taken Oriana away from her, and the old woman had hated him for it, but not enough to refuse the trading concessions Father had paid for Oriana's marriage to Fergus. Oriana had always insisted that her mother loved her "in her own way." Fergus had thought that the Waking Sea had put enough distance between them for safety. Clearly, he had been wrong.

Well, I suppose this does indicate that the old woman felt something for Oriana. Love or pride, it's come to the same thing.

"I've seen enough," he said harshly. "Prepare their bodies for the pyre, and cover their faces. Retrieve the Arl's rings and seals and anything that may give a clue to his doings. I wish to see where he kept his papers."

Out and down, down the stone steps. Women whispered and squeaked as they huddled away from him. Another door, this time opening to a blessedly quiet place.

"This is the study, my lord," Varel said. "I have impounded the Arl's papers for your examination."

"Thank you, Varel," Fergus murmured. He slumped tiredly into Rendon Howe's chair, staring at the pile of loose parchments and account books on the writing table. After a blank moment, he said, "I want to be alone now."

"As you wish, my lord," the seneschal acquiesced. "A meal and a bath are being prepared for you. And a room…the best guest room, not the family quarters…I thought—"

"Yes, yes, that's fine. I don't want to sleep in Rendon Howe's bloody bed! I really need to be alone, Varel," Fergus growled.

"My lord." The door closed, leaving Fergus to the anguish of memories. Perhaps somewhere in this study was the forged letter that had sentenced his family to death. A subtle, heartless trick by an Orlesian agent had killed his father and mother, his wife and his child, and all the loyal retainers of Highever. Marjolaine was still killing: today she had killed Rendon Howe and Delilah and Thomas—and all and the soldiers and servants who had died to defend the Vigil. He pawed blindly through the parchment, praying that Marjolaine would prowl the far edges of the desolate Void for all eternity.

And her Empress with her. This is her doing, as well.

He owed his family more respect than to collapse now. He wiped his face and then began reading through Rendon Howe's account books. By the time his meal was ready, he knew why there were no elves within the walls of Vigil's Keep. Once he found Howe's treasury, he could rebuild Highever from top to bottom...with accursed gold paid by Tevinter slavers for free Fereldan men and women. Highever's Alienage would exist now only in memory.

When his hands stopped shaking, he took pen and ink, and wrote a message to the Queen.

Your Majesty—

Vigil's Keep fell to me just before noon today. Crow assassins, hired by my late wife's family in Antiva, came secretly into the Keep before our engines broke the gate; and they assassinated the Arl of Amaranthine, Lady Delilah, and Lord Thomas Howe. With their deaths, resistance largely collapsed. I have sent my men in pursuit of the assassins, but there is great confusion, and they are not the only ones fleeing the siege. I examined Howe's accounts, and discovered a new outrage. It appears that he financed his rebellion by selling elves to Tevinter slavers. According to his records, he sold the entire Highever Alienage, his own servants in Amaranthine, and any unfortunate elf he could lay hands upon. In addition, under the guise of needing "labor crews," he paid Bann Vaughan to permit elves from the Denerim Alienage to be sent to Amaranthine, where they were sold and shipped away. Bann Esmerelle is implicated in this as well. It is clear than she knew about the slavers, and accepted a portion of the proceeds. It is not likely that Bann Vaughan knew that the elves were to be sold, for then I think he would have demanded more to ship them north. This deed is a shame and a disgrace to Ferelden. As soon as the Vigil is secure, I shall take some of my troops north, to deal with Esmerelle and confront the Tevinters, if they have not already fled.

He hated the idea that anyone would believe him the sort of man who resorted to poison and treachery, and so he added a disclaimer—

I swear to you on the soul of my son that I had nothing to do with the murder of the Howes. I had every intention of sparing Lady Delilah, and also Lord Thomas, had he made his submission. That I cannot now show them mercy grieves me more than I can express.

Believe me, Your Majesty, your most obedient servant,

Fergus Cousland, Teyrn of Highever

He laid the quill aside, wishing that none of this had happened, and dropped his head into his hands.

And thus, Fergus Cousland had his victory, after a fashion; and took possession of Vigil's Keep.

Thanks to my reviewers: Valmothg, cloud1004, Zeeji, kart87, Zute, callalili, Anime-StarWars-fan-zach, Morwen33, Menamebephil, Blinded in a bolthole, Josie Lange, Aoi24, demonicnargles, JackOfBladesX, Jenna53, Judy, Juliafied, mutive, almostinsane, Thomas Blaine, Samara-Draven, Costin, Kira Kyuu, The Moidart, Shakespira, euromellows, Pirate Ninjas of the Abuss, Enaid Aderyn, Lehni, Angurvddel, mille libri, kwintessa, BlackCherryWhiskey, Dante Alighieri1308, Jyggilag, chocolatebrownie12, Gene Dark Tyanilth, nataliexo, and Remenants. Your remarks mean so much to me, and they keep me thinking!

I've always had problems with the lack of consequences for Howe's murder of the Couslands. I realize the limitations of game design, but we are told that Oriana came from a powerful and wealthy family of Antivan merchant princes. There must have been trade agreements. There must have been Antivan merchants in Highever. Howe massacred everyone in the castle, but he could not have killed everyone in the city. As I see it, the Antivan merchants rushed home to give Oriana's family the news. The only feeble excuse I can give for her family not to pursue revenge in canon is that possibly the crown of Antiva did not want to cause an international incident by killing the Regent of Ferelden's right hand man. It's not much of an excuse, but it's all I've got. As Howe is not the Crown's right hand man in my story, there was no reason for them to hold back.