Solona's lunge took Betron by surprise – apparently he had thought that the mage had carried Spellweaver only for show – and it was only by the barest of margins that he turned and stepped out of the way, but the damage was done – a shallow cut opened on his right cheek, and started to bleed into his black beard and mustache.

She smiled, her eyes narrowing, as she purred, "First blood goes to me, Betron."

His eyes narrowed in piggy hate as he bellowed and lunged at her, swinging the mace at her with all his strength.

Solona backpedaled, dancing out of reach. She didn't dare catch the mace with her blade – it would probably shatter poor Spellweaver. Ok, Lona, THINK.

She wore no armor. That was both a blessing and a curse. Her knowledge of the elven arcane warriors allowed her to wear plate armor simply because her magic strengthened her and let her use it to lighten the load. She was not burdened with armor she could not bear, but she also was not protected. She was less protected than Zevran was at any time with his leathers at the moment – so that meant she would have to be very very fast or she would be very very dead soon.

Fortunately, sparring with the Crow had made her fast. Likewise all the swordwork with Sten, Oghren, and Alistair had trained her. Though her magic would not be able to help her, the muscle memories and the training that had made her lean and wiry certainly would.

Her reach with Spellweaver was longer than Betron's with his mace – which had allowed her past his guard to gash his cheek open. But he could swing much harder – and shatter bone or blade if he connected.

He must not connect.

His armor was a problem. Solona had certainly driven Spellweaver through Rylock, but she'd taken the templar by surprise in cramped quarters. That was not going to happen here. Solona decided it must be death by a thousand cuts, then… and hope that his armor tired him out and gave her the opportunity to strike a final blow.

"Stand and fight, Fade take you!" Betron swore, swinging at her head.

Solona waited until he was committed, until the mace was at the point where a return stroke would be awkward if not impossible, and ducked. The tip of Spellweaver stabbed into the space between his chestplate and underarm, and he swore as he yanked away.

Solona felt the whisper of magic starting to come back, but she didn't try to access it. She did not need to be Smited on the spot. Better to save it for when it was desperately needed.

Betron was breathing hard now, blood trickling down the side of his armor, and Solona circled away from him, eyes narrowed, watching him as he pressed the advantage.

And then, her foot slipped as she stepped on a stone and her ankle twisted.

Solona went down hard, and Betron immediately lunged after her, the heavy head of the mace aimed straight at her skull. With a yelp she rolled aside, but the heavy weapon slammed into her left shoulder, and she screamed as she felt bone smash. She managed to get to her feet somehow and away, but her left arm hung useless and she vomited as she moved away from him.

"I think that pass goes to me," Betron smirked. "Do you know what I will do, Amell, when I have you beaten like that cur of yours?"

She spat, trying to clear the acrid taste from her mouth, unable even to lift her left hand enough to wipe her mouth.

"I will make you beg," he hissed. "First, for me to stop… then for me to kill you… but I won't kill you, mage… I will hold the brand to you myself and make you Tranquil… and then, you won't beg or fight anymore…."

She fought for calm. If she let him rattle her while she was wounded, she was dead. "The only way for you to find a willing bedwarmer?" she hissed.

Their next pass was furious as well, and though she managed to cut him over the right eye, blinding him as blood dripped there, he'd ducked under her sword stroke, caught her right knee and smashed it. Solona went down curled around it and her sword, shrieking in agony, and Betron stood over her, his bloodied mace held loosely in his right hand, grinning at her.

"When will you learn, Amell…."

She dragged herself backward, trying to pour what little magic she had into a healing for her knee, but as soon as she committed herself to the spell she saw his mace and hands begin to glow blue with a gathering Smite.

She dropped Spellweaver, scuttling backward. "I yield," she said, "I yield!"

"Far, far too late for that." He grinned and began to advance on her. "And now, Amell… we're going to reestablish that you are powerless and will do whatever I wish of you…."

Solona reached into the waistband at the back of her breeches with her right hand, and in one smooth motion, grabbed the dagger hidden there by its blade and threw.

There was a horrible wet thud, and Betron wavered a moment, then fell bonelessly to the ground, her dagger protruding from his right eye. When she smelled that he'd loosed his bowels and bladder, she slumped to the ground, gripping the hilt of Spellweaver.

So tired.


When she opened her eyes again, she felt the world swaying, and there was nothing but pain. She was seated upright on a horse, leaning back against a warm chest, her body wrapped in a cloak, arms on either side of her holding her safe.

She made a strangled sound, and a familiar voice purred in her ear, "Querida… I've got you."

She closed her eyes again. "Sorry, Zev…," she said quietly. "I think I lost the dagger you gave me for my name day." She felt tears welling up… somehow her beautiful silverite dagger with its ebony hilt became of paramount importance to her.

"As if I would leave it that marvelous blade in the substandard sheath you used?" he scoffed.

The horse jostled her knee, and Solona went white, the breath knocked out of her and tears blinding her. Zev somehow managed to cradle her in a way that didn't hurt her shoulder worse or her knee, and didn't let her slip.

When she got her breathing under control again, she said blearily, "Whose… whose horse is this?"

"Mine," said a nervous voice near the front of the animal, and she looked down and saw a templar leading the horse.

Solona cringed against Zevran, and the hair on the back of Zev's neck started to rise as Solona's magic started to gather.

"Corazon," he said quietly, "he brought us to you. He saw it was not justice and he went against his brothers."

Solona let the magic fade, and leaned against Zev's shoulder again, closing her eyes. Within seconds, she was back in the fade.


When she woke again, it was screaming and fighting as she was being held down, her broken leg being yanked at until it snapped back the way it was supposed to be oh Andraste's flaming arse, Oh Maker's Balls! and the healing magic sent through it…. As soon as she'd caught her breath she was held down again. Fighting desperately, her throat so raw it threatened to swell shut, and the bones in her shoulder and collarbone pushed back into place.


"It was a truly glorious throw," Zevran told Anders as they sat just outside Solona's quarters, listening for any signs that she might regaining consciousness or be in pain. "Supine, her shoulder and knee smashed… we had just burst into the clearing. Nathaniel had an arrow nocked, and I a dagger in hand when Solona reached under her hip and threw right into his eye. Remarkable."

Anders still looked pale – the healing had taken a lot out of him. "What did you do with the… templar?"

"Nathaniel is with him, escorting him to Revered Mother. The boy may well wish to transfer far away from here… Nathaniel will speak in his defense. And he means to make sure that Revered Mother understands that the Wardens will NOT tolerate further aggression from the Templars."

"If she does not accept it?"

"We continue to send them back in a box."