AUTHOR'S FOREWORD: For all those who are unaware, this story now has a fan audiobook version in production! Look up Saidian on YT or go to the TV Tropes page for this story for the link to the playlist.
Chapter Ninety-Five: Faith, Steel & Gunpowder
Sister Nightingale and Tethras brought Louise and I down by the stables, through the collection of tents and construction zones. It was the last unoccupied zone of open space in the fortress. Even the upper gardens were a camp, and apparently the more popular one. It seems whoever had made the decisions in the early days of occupation had been smart enough to keep people away from the unsanitary conditions.
There were a surprising number of horses still alive too, considering how many hungry people there were around. I half-expected them to be killed for their meat by now, but on meeting the stablemaster a little later, I understood how they hadn't been. Not a man to be trifled with, Master Dennet.
By the time we got down there, the only inhabitants were horses that had been let out to stretch their legs a little in a small corral, neither the stablemaster himself nor anyone else to be seen. Relative privacy to be had, and although Skyhold in unnaturally warm due to hot springs directly beneath it, it was still damn cold.
Rubbing my hands together, I came to a stop by a well and turn to our hosts.
"Well then, what exactly is the problem?" I asked, "You complain we don't grant access to your doppelgängers, but there is an Inquisition representative with them both as we speak."
Apparently doppelgänger was a word that existed on Thedas, because neither seemed confused by the term. It's an Anders term for a cursed ghost of a person taken by the darkspawn, though it shares the behaviour of an Earth doppelgänger in that it copies the behaviour of the real person.
Nightingale looked to Tethras to answer me, which I could not help but be surprised at. That woman being at a loss for words was an event of note. Luckily, the dwarf never lacked for words. "We're being told that neither of them want to come here," he said, "But neither of them will say why, at least not to the Chantry idiot we sent."
"There has been a suggestion that you are coercing them somehow," Nightingale added, "Lying to them, using the threat of execution for abandoning the Grey Wardens for my counterpart, or refusal of treatment for the red lyrium infection for Varric's."
"Suggestion by whom?" Louise intoned with menace, "Please direct them to us."
Nightingale said nothing in response. The suggestion was hers, and the reason she had let Tethras open the conversation was she did not want to appear to make the accusation while negotiations were ongoing. A not-so-subtle nod to the tenuous diplomatic situation.
"Let me be absolutely clear" I said, "We haven't threatened or lied to your other selves. The human is now a Grey Warden, but she is free to join other commanderies of the Order if she wants, the Empress has guaranteed it. The dwarf is still having his leg healed, an infection keeps popping up that needs to be dealt with. That is all the information I have about them."
It was possible that Velarana was doing something without my knowledge, but I would've expected Mariette to inform me if that was the case. It didn't seem likely to gain us anything though.
Both Tethras and Nightingale's faces soured. My statement was clearly not satisfactory.
"What exactly did your Chantry brother say to them?" Louise asked, "What did he report back? You appear very adamant about this, my lady."
"He informed our counterparts of the situation in the Inquisition," Nightingale replied, "And upon hearing that their world did not have an Orlesian revolt or a Troy, he informed them of the more general situation and our attitude towards it." Bitching about our existence, no doubt.
"We already told them about this … reality," I stated, "I do not exist in their own one, I guess that had consequences."
"And then some," Tethras agreed, "When they were told that you were considered a menace by most realms and we would rather not ally with you, there was an argument."
Louise scoffed to herself. "Which is what happens when you send a Chantry brother," she said, "He almost certainly exceeded his authority."
"Possibly, but that doesn't explain the precise nature of the argument," Nightingale said, "My other self refused to come to Skyhold because she could not believe 'the scale of stupidity' she was hearing. Her exact words."
"And mine thought we were crazy for not putting you in charge at once," Tethras agreed, looking at me, "They said you ought to be Inquisitor, not Evelyn. I can't believe things would ever get so bad that I would say such a thing. Not after what we've been through."
Not hard to understand where they were coming from by that. To these two, suggesting that I be put in charge was almost as bad as saying the Black Divine of Tevinter ought to be put in charge of the White Chantry until the new White Divine was elected. Sure, it might've provided leadership and certain capabilities, but foxes and henhouses come to mind.
But to those from the other world, it was common sense. The ability to close the rifts was secondary to the ability to fight the demon army that was lurking somewhere in the near-future. In addition my own inability to be physically harmed by any demon, Trojan weapons made the likes of demons and darkspawn things that could be combatted on very favourable terms in open battle.
I had made sure the newcomers from the future had the opportunity to see such weapons in action, at the large hellgate at the Field of Bones opposite Hercinia.
"They've seen hell rise up and conquer most of the world," I replied, "You're both practical people, on both worlds. If I'm in charge, maybe they think I'll start handing out the technology to fight demons freely. Not that I would accept the job."
Louise cocked her head. "It does not help that Evelyn Trevelyan was not their Herald of Andraste," she said, "She died in the Conclave in their world. They cannot feel loyalty towards a woman they do not know."
The three of us looked at her like she was mad. This was any of us were hearing of that discrepancy... but as I thought about it, I only ever heard the doppelgängers refer to the future Inquisitor as 'the Herald' or as a 'she'. Never by their real name. I had simply assumed the Herald was the same person in both realities.
I felt my impatience rising. "Care to explain that?" I asked Louise, "If Trevelyan isn't their Herald, then who is?"
Blondie's masked head tilted forwards curiously. "Ellana Lavellan," the chevalier replied, "The Dalish who served as the third judge in the trial of the Anders."
"I know who she is... how do you know this and why was I not informed?" I pressed, "This seems like pertinent information." More to the point, how the hell did Mariette not know? This would've been in the reports I had received otherwise.
"I spoke with the other Lady Leliana some days ago and she mentioned it," Louise replied with indecent haste, detecting the annoyance at this oversight in my tone, "I thought you knew. You spent time with them, after all." If you can call fighting for your life in an alternate future as 'spending time' with someone.
So, it seemed we had missed an interesting detail all because of the Herald title being overused by everyone. If ever there was an argument for using people's actual names, there it was. Or so I thought until I spoke to 'Blackwall'.
"Well, that explains why they didn't accept the offer of help to escape," Tethras said sheepishly, before turning his amused eyes to the sky, "I think we get the picture now."
I frowned, suddenly wanting to know how they would've gotten their counterparts out of Troy. They'd have been hunted through Valhalla if they escaped, and the eluvians were far too heavily guarded to use.
"We have our answers," Nightingale said to me, "I thank you, Marquis. But we still must convince them. They likely have vital intelligence for the effort against Corypheus. Their place is with the Inquisition."
I cleared my throat pointedly. "Intelligence you'll get when you sign a treaty with us," I said, "Speak with Trevelyan, encourage an agreement. If we're going to survive the next few years, you have information we need too." Namely everything that they had on Corypheus. The so-called Elder One remained an enigma to us.
"It is not our place to tell Her Worship what to do," Tethras said, sly as always, "But we'll give her our opinion."
I rolled my eyes. In my experience, competent subordinates had nothing but ideas on what to do. It was the ones who appeared to have no ideas of their own you had to worry about. Appearances can be deceiving.
There was a rapid movement to my left, as Blondie shifted into a fighting stance and turned towards the direction of the gates. "Trouble," she warned in Orlesian, her longsword leaving its scabbard.
It was easy to see why she had suddenly prepared herself for a fight.
There were twenty armed men and women approaching. All dressed in the typical leather and chainmail mix of Inquisition troops, light protection they favoured as most of their enemies were to be found on rougher terrain. They had a mix of swords and axes, albeit not in hand.
At their head was Cullen Rutherford, Commander of the Inquisition, a black fur cloak over his shoulders, looking like something out of a Hollywood medieval film.
At first glance, they certainly looked like a threat. They were moving towards us with clear purpose. But their weapons were not drawn. They weren't trying to keep our guard down, they wouldn't have moved in as one group directly towards us if that was the case. Their purpose was something else.
Time to see if I could coax it out of him directly. "Commander Rutherford!" I called as they moved closer, "Good to meet you again!"
The man's face broke into a smile, not one you give to a friend but one that you'd see on someone finding exactly what they expect.
"General Hunt," Cullen said softly, as he moved into range for a civilised conversation, "I had heard you had returned and wanted to speak with you."
Either he was an Oscar-worthy actor or he had no ill intention. Beside me, Louise's stance relaxed ever-so-slightly, her swordpoint lowering. She had noticed it too.
"Can't say I'm very busy at the moment," I replied, glancing at Tethras pointedly, "What can I do for you and all your friends here?"
Glancing back over his shoulder for a moment, Cullen actually had the good grace to look embarrassed for bringing what looked like an attack force with him. "Apologies, they're my officers," he said, "I'm here on military business, they are necessary for that."
The Fereldan twang in his accent really struck me, and I had to ask. "You're Fereldan, right?" I asked, "Shouldn't you hate me as the invader of your country?"
There was a rumble of chatter behind him. The Inquisition was still largely populated with Fereldans at this stage, at least where its army was concerned. The Herald had not yet begun to close Orlesian hellgates, her prestige in Orlais resting on the clout of the Madame de Fer and other nobles who understood the importance of the cause.
Cullen was entirely unperturbed by the complaints of his officers, however. And he had a genuine answer for my question. "I did hate you, insofar as I knew you," he said, "But I was on the ship at Antiva when you forced peace. I saw the cannon ripping into the warehouses. I have also heard from survivors of your battle with the King at the Hafter."
I nodded. "You know what we are capable of then," I said, "Not sure I like being feared that much, but I'm sure Machiavelli wrote a word or two about it."
Blondie gave an unladylike snort beside me, the only person present who had read The Prince.
"It isn't fear, or not only that," Cullen said, "I know you could have conquered Ferelden. You could have declared yourself King, replaced the nobles, terrified the common people into submission, even settled huge numbers of refugees from the War of the Lions."
Confused where he was going with this, I tilted my head. "But I didn't do any of that," I said, "What changed your mind?"
"You left Ferelden," Cullen replied, "Do not mistake me, I did not like that you destroyed the Royal Army at the Hafter and took the King prisoner, but you did not do so because you desired to take the country for your own. You were passing through, and from what I hear, you were forced to do so."
Louise and I exchanged glances, as she finally sheathed her sword again. "Gaspard forced us into exile," I confirmed, "But you're the first Fereldan I've met that understood that... well, except for Barris."
"Gaspard is no friend to Ferelden, that is well known," Cullen said, "But very few people are willing to believe an army of Orlesians entered the realm with intentions other than conquest."
There was yet more grumbling from his officers, but he silenced them by holding his hand to the side. They complied at once. Impressive, I thought, he had clearly been integrated Templar discipline to his troops. At least where respect for superiors was concerned.
"I get the picture," I said, "So what military business did you want to address?"
The Commander smiled, knowing he had gotten his message through to me. "A demonstration of your capabilities," he said, "I've been pushing for an alliance with you from the beginning, often in the face of a lot of resistance."
He looked at Nightingale briefly, who scowled back at him.
"I'm hoping if you show what you can do, others will come around to my way of thinking," Cullen finished, "We don't have any veterans of combat against your forces, and the Templars that joined us from Troy keep the information to themselves."
The idea made perfect sense. A person hasn't understood what a change blackpowder can make to the battlefield until you've seen a musket volley rip through a line of armoured chevaliers, or a cannon shell explode in the midst of a block of soldiers.
And now, that devastation could be turned against Hell itself, against the demons roaming the countryside.
Even though it was obvious the man had talked up our capabilities as a form of flattery, I didn't see any harm in showing off. Our technological superiority being confirmed in person for the officers of the Inquisition's army could only be a good thing.
"Now you're speaking my language," I grinned at the Commander.
Three hours later, and word had gotten around.
A crowd of Inquisition troops, Templars and civilians encircled the upper courtyard of Skyhold both on the ground and on the walls above, in anticipation of what was about to happen. They were in a good mood; our food delivery had come through the eluvian just in time to improve matters immensely, and there was almost a party atmosphere around the fortress.
On the staircase leading to the main hall, the delegates had taken a recess from their negotiations to join the fun. Trevelyan, Velarana, Alistair, Valle, the Inquisition's inner circle, Madame de Fer and the Orlesian nobles, all of them. They looked on with as much interest as the rest. The only one missing was Cullen, who was standing nearby in the courtyard with his officers.
Against the wall which held the soil of the upper garden back, a collection of fine examples of heavy Qunari plate armour stood in a row. This armour had been captured at the Alba, mostly from the troops that Louise and her heavy cavalry had run down from behind. As such, it was mostly intact.
The garden itself had been evacuated for the occasion.
Inside them were barrels of red ale that had soured, a donation from Cabot, with little casks acting as heads for the helmets. Not exactly a great facsimile for a person but better than nothing. The door to the prison remained blocked by rubble, so there was no fears for anyone in the dungeon coming up.
I'm sure the blood of every range officer on Earth would run cold at the sight of the lack of safety involved, but my suggestion to do the whole demonstration somewhere in the valley was rejected outright. It would've required hours for people to get everyone interested down there, and they refused to allow me to bring another eluvian through to avoid the problem.
With serious diplomatic stakes at play, I couldn't refuse them on grounds of safety. Instead, I made sure everyone was well out of the way and mages were on hand to put up static barriers to prevent ricochets.
Opposite the armoured targets, across an empty space delineated by ropes and guards for the safety of the spectators, the Grenadiers stood in two ranks at parade rest. Their round steel helmets and approximations of Earth body armour were both covered with drab green fabric that matched their uniforms, and their weapons were slung behind their shoulders.
Directly to the rear and sides were the other Army contingents, keeping the crowd away with bayonets fixed, keeping the points in the air rather than down to stab.
Right beside me, more excited than anyone else, was Julie. She had Roxane in a sort of sling in front of her, ordering a set of Tranquil to roll her latest creation forwards into line with the troops, the thing itself covered by thick tarps.
Once the emotionless ex-mages had positioned it to her satisfaction, my wife chirped happily, standing on her tip-toes to give me a kiss on the cheek in thanks.
"Still think you're making sales from this?" I asked, amused by her enthusiasm.
"I hope that is a joke?" Julie sniffed, "As soon as the Assembly authorises sales, they'll be fighting for every gun, bullet and gram of powder we can produce."
Having lost her place in our political system, becoming the centre of economic life in the Republic had become her dearest ambition. A motivation I couldn't fault her for by that time, but the arms trade is a fickle bitch.
"Would've thought you would refrain from selling to people we might fight in the future," I mused, before thumbing at the new weapon, "Certainly wouldn't want to be on the other end of that thing."
"Gaspard has the formula for blackpowder, and Celene stole it," Julie shrugged in reply, "They both have more engineers than we do. They'll be able to copy our weapons. But every purchase someone makes from us generates income we can use to develop the next generation. Even if they copy ours, we have designs and ideas of the next one hundred and fifty years to work from."
Not soothed by this line of thinking, I frowned to myself, knowing that Julie's argument was right nonetheless. The odds were presently against us. Around that time, there were about 150,000 Trojan citizens, excluding Jader's population that had not yet moved to Troy. By contrast, Orlais had twenty million and even Ferelden had a million. With so many spare bodies, they could make much of the progress up by sheer weight of numbers. Orlais had orders of magnitude more blacksmiths, forgemen, miners, foresters, etc.
Of course, we would soon discover that both royalist factions of Orlais had already done their best to catch up. We already knew of Gaspard and his grenades, having seen them used against us by Templars at Kirkwall, but those were the least of his innovations.
"We'll see," I said to Julie, "Time to start the fun." I kissed Roxane on the top of her head for luck.
"See you in a bit," she replied, walking off to prevent our daughter's eardrums from bursting as a result of what was about to happen.
I moved forward a few steps.
"BARRIERS!" I commanded, summoning every decibel of volume I could muster.
Our mages immediately raised their staves, and produced strobing white-blue light as walls of magic were thrown up around the firing area. These were transparent enough to allow viewing and protective enough to at least slow down bullets and shrapnel to non-lethal velocities.
Satisfied this was about as good protection as I could give the audience from the deadly weapons they were far too close to, I turned to the Grenadiers.
"Form line of battle," I said loudly to their lieutenant.
"ARMES A PRET!" came the reply, "FORMEZ LIGNE!" Weapons ready, form line.
As one, the Grenadiers moved forward two steps from their parade rest, unslinging their firelances as they did so. On completing the movement, they dressed their line neatly, spacing themselves for shooting in ranks. The lieutenant checked that everything was right, and was satisfied.
So was I. This platoon had been selected for duty in Skyhold for its discipline and excellence at drill, and the result of that choice was plain for any military minded person to see.
"Prepare to fire," I commanded.
The lieutenant gave a firm nod, showing off for the audience, before passing the word along. His platoon-sergeant bellowed the necessary commands.
The troops began by reaching for their ammo pouches, loading up the flintlocks and barrels with blackpowder. The Minié bullets were next, rammed home into the silverite weapons by iron ramrods.
The entire platoon brought their weapons up from standing on the ground and cocked the hammers holding the flints back almost as one, the combined click-click sound loud enough to echo around the courtyard's stone walls. The Grenadiers stopped there, holding their weapons vertically from shoulder height, awaiting the inevitable.
"Fire by section!" I ordered, not of the opinion that waiting around would do any good.
The lieutenant withdrew behind his troops, and repeated my words.
At once the first rank of soldiers dropped onto a knee, still holding their weapons vertically, allowing the second rank to shoot over their heads as required.
"EN JOUE!" shouted the platoon-sergeant.
The forest of firelances went from vertical to horizontal, as the Grenadiers took aim at the closest sets of Qunari armour relative to each of their places on the line. Twenty barrels gleamed in the autumn sun that just barely crept over the top of the walls and the mountains beyond to our north-west.
"PAR SECTION!" came the order, "FEU!"
Ping, BOOM went the first five firelances, as the flints struck sparks into the blackpowder, sending the bullets thundering out of the barrels along with a plumb of acrid gunsmoke. The far-right squad had opened fire on the dummy targets over the tops of the heads of the squad kneeling in front of them. The Qunari armour and the wood underneath it made a double crack sound for each bullet that hit home, red ale splashing and bubbling from the 'entry wounds'.
Impressive enough, but the troops were only just getting started.
You see, the troops of my army had been trained to fire three rounds a minute. Some, like the Rangers, were more likely to fire less than two in battle, as they were marksmen. Others, particularly the Grenadiers, were good enough to fire four or more. Four bullets per minute, twenty line soldiers in a platoon, eighty bullets a minute... And a platoon was the smallest true combat unit of the Trojan Army.
So, when I say the platoon pumped volley after volley into those targets, you must appreciate the full meaning of what I am saying.
To the untrained eye, it was twenty men and women throwing lead down range. Now, most of the people watching had never seen it before, so it did have a certain wow factor. But to people who knew what to look for, it was a whole lot more than that.
The Grenadiers snapped off volley after volley for ten whole minutes. Uninterrupted. If the weapons had been made of anything but silverite, the chance of a serious rupture in at least one of them would've been certain, but the magical silver-steel held very nicely.
You'd think people would be bored towards the end, but all gazes were glued to the display. By the time the troops were finished, you could barely see your hand in front of your face, the brimstone-smelling fog they had produced making your eyes water and your throat scratch.
For the last shot, the lieutenant ordered a mass volley of the whole platoon, which the sergeants and himself joined in on. The final eruption was considerably louder, and knowing it would be, I covered my ears. Once that was complete, the Grenadiers returned to a parade rest, albeit with their firelances held in a position comfortable enough to avoid burning their hands.
The targets were barely held together, holes perforated all over the metal, a pool of ale on the ground by their 'feet' and smashed lead all over the walls behind them.
The audience was stunned, not even waving the smoke away from their faces.
The ordinary soldier or servant of the Inquisition, they were looking on with fear at the other Trojan troops, stepping back a little without even thinking about it. The dread Libertarians had proven their deadly nature.
Cullen and the Inquisition officers on the other hand were practically drooling, no doubt thinking that there wasn't a demon horde in the universe that could stand up to a whole army's worth of what they had just witnessed. And they'd be right, though proving it was easier said that done.
The political leadership were trying to keep poker faces, but ended up looking unrealistically aloof, obviously faking it.
They knew or at least hoped that one fine day this war would be over... and the countdown to the next one would begin. The likelihood of all of us being on the same side was essentially zero. Without similar weapons and training in their use, whoever was on the opposite side was going to be stacking the corpses of their dead in mass graves regardless of whether or not it ended in victory or defeat.
Alistair and Trevelyan looked particularly grim.
The King of Ferelden had faced our firepower himself at the Battle of the Hafter, and the army we had by the time of this display was not the same one we had taken into combat against him. It was better trained and equipped by a mile, and that fact was written all over his face. He knew his realm had dodged a bullet, if you'll pardon the phrase, by signing an agreement with us.
Inquisitor Trevelyan, on the other hand, was probably thinking about how hard it would be to liberate her home from a force that had such weapons. These negotiations might in fact have been her only shot at it.
The show wasn't over yet though.
Once we could see to some degree again and with all due theatrics, I curled my hand over the tarp covering the new weapon and pulled it away. Underneath was our latest contribution to the science of killing.
It was a short cannon, about half the length of our soixante-quinze field pieces, though it used the same ammunition. The barrel itself sat inside a boxy rectangular construction between two small cart wheels, while the rest of the weight leaned on a sturdy trail frame to the rear. A angled wooden shield protected the person aiming and firing it from the blast of the shots, as well as incoming bullets or arrows.
The whole contraption was less than half my height, and it was designed to be brought through any eluvian we possessed with ease. A smaller, lighter, more transportable cannon was obviously more useful to us generally, but that wasn't the real genius of it.
This thing could be reloaded from behind, making it much faster to shoot.
You opened the cannon up from behind, a reinforced door shaped a little like a screw providing access and keeping it from being blasted open with every shot. On top of all that, there was a system for dealing with the recoil. Instead of the whole carriage being pushed back, the cannon itself could recoil on rollers and pistons at the bottom of the rectangular structure which held it.
Julie had outdone herself with the whole idea, and it provided a real advantage to us; namely a cannon that we could quickly get to the battlefield, position without the need for horses, then rapidly fire and reload. It also used less silverite than a regular cannon, which was the real bottleneck in production at that time.
Our older designs were behemoths compared to it, as much designed with knocking down castle walls as anything else. This new one was not for that; it used less gunpowder, it fired with less force. That didn't matter, because we had explosive shells that didn't rely on the force of impact, as well as canister shot, which didn't require the same force to do its job either.
A pity it was only one of four, and real production would only start towards the end of this particular war... just in time for the battles in the Arbor Wilds.
Satisfied that everyone had seen the thing now, I ordered the Tranquils forward to use it.
They aimed the 'infantry cannon' at the already-devastated dummy targets, using little wheels to move the whole barrel on both axes. This was followed by opening the breech-door, shoving the canister shot in and then a bag of blackpowder in a reuseable brass shell. They primed the trigger system with more powder from a horn, and cocked the flint inside its covered waterproof box.
Finally, as I yawned a little from fatigue, the chief-gunner handed me the cord that acted as a safe trigger. Technically, you could go right up to the cannon and pull the trigger yourself, but our doctrine preferred not to do that in non-combat scenarios. The design had been tested for safety thoroughly, but even so.
The grand-finale being seconds away, I gathered the cord up so it was taut... but then I paused. A piece of inspiration struck me. I let the cord go loose again and looked behind me, to where Cullen was standing.
"Commander, care to do the honours?" I asked, waggling the end of the rope as I spoke.
Cullen grinned like a kid in a candy store, striding forward to me and taking the cord with enthusiasm.
"Give it a sharp but short pull," I said to him, stepping back, "There'll be a small delay in the firing."
The Commander did as he was told, gathering the cord, holding it tight and pulling with a short twist of his upper body. The flintlock mechanism pinged then hissed as the powder ignited, sending the hot sparks down into the cannon breech itself.
When the cannon fired, it did so with a much deeper boom than the firelances of the Grenadiers had. Ahead of the smoke of the powder, dozens of flying iron darts the size of nails burst forth and slammed into the two centre targets, turning them to scrap metal and firewood in an instant, and with a violence that sent the targets to either side falling over hard.
In truth, this was not the best use of the new shot type; fletchettes, soon affectionately nicknamed 'beehive canister' after the firelances the Qunari had used against us at the Alba. The fletchettes were meant to provide us with a sort of medium range version of the grapeshot. That type used metal balls in the cannons to kill many at once who were charging down our cannon close-by. Same sort of idea with beehive canister, just at a different range.
The entire audience had found their voices again, and were discussing what they were seeing at length. And they seemed to have a lot to talk about. I couldn't hear much, except about how anyone could possibly face such weapons. I was half tempted to point up at Alistair and say 'he did'.
We had made our point, I thought, as I looked up at Valle talking rapidly to the Inquisitor and the other bigshots.
"I must confess," Cullen said from beside me, "That was far more satisfying than I thought it would be."
I smirked to myself, knowing I had created a gun-nut. I wonder if that's how the Europeans who first got their hands on decent firearms felt like. 'Holy shit, this is great.'
"It's a pretty thing," I agreed, "At least until you're chewing men and women up with it, or you have to fight against it."
"I won't cry for the demons we kill," Cullen smiled earnestly, "Assuming you're willing to arm us with this sort of thing. We could certainly use it. Wait until you see the reports we've been getting."
I saw where he was going with that line of discussion. "I'm sure the news is all bad, there are demons wandering around," I said, "But the decision to arm you isn't mine to make."
The Commander did not believe me. "No offence, General," Cullen replied, "But that isn't what I've heard. If you suggest it, your Chancellor would take notice."
I bit down a rebuke and instead opted for an explanation, one he might not get. "Oh, I'm sure the lady who called me Emperor at every opportunity would love that," I said, "But we're trying to build a different form of government, and I won't undermine that."
The Commander did understand and looked disappointed, looking away towards his officers for a moment pensively.
I had to admit I felt a bit guilty about that outright denial; the Inquisition was likely hostile to our interests, but even from what our own intelligence networks had gathered, the world was facing mass famine at the very least. We would never get the other realms to cooperate with us, but a small dedicated organisation like the Inquisition could really make the difference, while never being strong enough to threaten us.
"On the other hand, some things that are within my power to grant," I sighed, "No reason we can't start weapons training for your people that I can think of. What about you?"
Cullen's lips wobbled into a grin, like he was suppressing heavy laughter. "Even if I could think of one, I'd hardly speak it aloud," he warbled, before levelling off, "It'll just be a pity if it all comes to nothing, if the negotiations don't go well."
I saw my own chance at an opportunity in our own interest. "Make sure they do go well then," I said, "You're Commander of the Inquisition. Trevelyan has hard choices to make. Help her make the right ones."
Cullen did let out a laugh now. "I will try," he said, "In the mean time, how does tomorrow morning sound for the first drills?" Eager as can be.
And at that moment, I knew I had the military people of the Inquisition as friends, at least as long as we were fighting demons. All we had to do to earn it was show them the tech. The backstabbing would come from somewhere else, if it came at all.
The next day, as agreed, we assembled at the stables courtyard for drill.
About twenty Inquisition men and women at arms had shown up. I had specifically requested people with experience with crossbows in particular, as they had certain similarities to firelances; mechanical means of loading and firing, being deadly to your friends if pointed around by idiots, not requiring constant physical exertion to aim, and having a flatter trajectory for useful hits than a bow.
There were no shortage of such people, but Cullen had likely identified the best possible teachers too, so he wouldn't need to rely on Trojan personnel later.
In addition to this group and the Commander himself, the young woman from the tavern was there too, dressed as before in red silk and yellow breeches. A stain of something was on the front of her tunic, but she at least had flat leather shoes on this time. She had also brought a longbow with a quiver of arrows.
I couldn't help but wonder what she was doing there. Was she going to try and prove the superiority of the bow over the firelance or something?
She was also of interest to my troops, because horny young men and women in uniform can rarely control their eyes. Despite her dishevelled appearance, the girl had the physique of a top-tier archer, and her clothes were slightly too small for her.
This was not some seduction strategy, however... I got the distinct feeling it was because she wasn't rolling in money. She didn't strike me as the huntress type that Mike had been when she first showed up, nor was she a gangster like Soprano had been. So how did she make money?
The Trojan Army uniform, being designed for both comfort and ruggedness, was something of a point of pride among the citizenry that had not been born into money. 'The best set of clothes I ever wore' was how one enlisted soldier reported it to me once, around the time we marched out of Antiva. That practically became a slogan in the years afterwards, until our textile industry got moving.
No doubt demands for clothing would soon be stacking up on the desks of our logisticians the second an agreement was signed. Winter was coming and food supplies weren't the only commodities not available courtesy of demon interference.
With everyone assembled, Cullen got them into a line shoulder-to-shoulder, though none stood to attention and the tavern girl was leaning against the wooded frame of a well at the end of the formation. I detected a distinct note of impatience in the whole lot of them. It was time to address the group.
"Welcome to basic weapons familiarisation," I declared, in Common, "I am General Samuel Hunt of the Trojan Army. Today, my sergeants and I will be instructing you in how to operate our weapons."
"We've heard of you," the tavern girl said, "Ex-emperor and all that. Get to the good part."
I exhaled a breath through my nose in exasperation. Not two seconds into my introduction and I was interrupted.
Not about to abandon my authority by letting that go, I paced down the line towards her, inspecting the Inquisition troops one at a time. It was clear every single one of them had seen combat. They did not shrink from my gaze, and they had the sort of stare you get after a real fight. What had happened at Haven was still very fresh in their minds.
"Normally, none of you would be allowed anywhere near blackpowder and bullets!" I growled at them, "In our army, there are many things we must drill into a soldier before they are allowed to shoot. Basic discipline, physical fitness, march and combat formations, signals and commands, military language, and firearms safety..."
I gestured to Cullen.
"However, your Commander has convinced me that every man and woman standing here is worthy," I said, "That you have been in the thick of it, you know to do what you're told and you have an aptitude for shooting."
There was an appropriate swelling of chests with pride at that, at least among the younger ones... though the tavern girl just rolled her eyes at Cullen, who was suitably nonplussed. Had he even invited her?
Still at a loss at her behaviour, I wandered over to the rack of firelances we had requisitioned for the purpose of the training. I picked two weapons, one in each hand, before turning back to the trainees.
I held one weapon up first, in my right hand. "This is the Modèle 38 rifled-firelance," I said, borrowing a speech that Soprano once made, "It can kill a knight in plate armour from three hundred yards, and unarmoured men or horses from five hundred."
I lowered my right arm again and raised the other weapon with my left.
"And this is the Modèle 40," I said, "It works the same way as the other one, except it is a little shorter, has a foregrip, better rain-proofing, and a better stock and sight." Julie had taken elements of the much more advanced Earth firelances and applied them to the older technology, particularly to allow soldiers to handle the things more easily. Like the short cannon, it also used less silverite in the design.
The lot of them were salivating over the things... At least I could count on them being well motivated. Hopefully that meant I wouldn't get shot at by one of them in a fit of religious zealotry. It would've been a pity to see them all die by bayonet.
"Can I have that long one?" the tavern girl asked with maximum cheek, "And don't make jokes." Presumably she thought a That's What She Said line was coming as a response. She had a private soldier's sense of humour anyway.
Her interruptions were irritating me now though. "What's your name?" I asked, sternly.
The she-elf glanced around, like that was a strange question to be asking and answering it was embarrassing. "Why?" she asked in protest, "Does it matter?"
"Just curious," I replied, "You seem to be … different than the others here, and I'm not referring to your ears." Namely that she was a damn loudmouth. She was the only elf too however, at least as far as I could tell. All the others were wearing helmets.
My answer seemed to satisfy her, at least partially. "I'm Sera," she said, "I'm not one of Cullen's lackies, I fight with Evelyn and the others. You know, the Inquisitor? Used to be one of the Jennies too, though I guess I still am one?" She grimaced, apparently confused about her own status.
Irritation flowing away, I nodded, understanding now why she was there. Sera's reputation preceded her.
We had received intelligence about both the Inquisitor's personal retinue and we already knew about Red Jennies on account of Julie having been one, once upon a time. The commoner network for pranking, punishing and stealing from nobles was widespread across Thedas, with each city and large town having at least a small group.
Julie was the Red Jenny of Hearth for a number of years, before she radicalised due to the harsh tax collections.
Which left me with a problem; rebuking her harshly might affect our relations with the Inquisitor.
This was the first time I put a face to the name Sera though. Somehow, I was expecting someone more like Julie or Mike; more middle class. The report on this young woman had a laundry list of skills worthy of a spy or an assassin, a person didn't usually pick those up on their own without money. But apparently, Sera had done exactly that.
I decided she was better to have as a potential ally, given her obvious anti-authoritarian leanings. I walked over and offered her the '38, the long firelance. She beamed happily as she snatched it out of my hands, playing with the hammer and aiming it off at the sandpit we had as a safe target area. She knew not to aim it at people, I noted.
"Today you will be taught firearm safety and how to shoot these weapons," I said, to the entire group, "I'm sure you'll find it fun, but please, please do not forget the safety rules. Just like a crossbow, don't point it at something you don't want to make a hole in."
"We're not stupid, you know?" Sera said, balancing the firelance over her shoulders, "After yesterday, no one is going to be like 'look down the throat of this deadly new weapon', are they?"
"Not that killing a bunch of ale barrels is the same as killing men," Cullen interrupted from behind, "But she does have a point. You can trust my people to adhere to the doctrine. We all saw what these things can do."
That satisfied me. "Good," I stated, "Then we can begin."
And so we did.
I assigned Sera to work with a sergeant from the Rangers' regiment, figuring that accuracy rather than rate of fire would be her thing, while the others including Cullen were shared out between some other sergeants. The safety part of the training went very well, and not one of the Inquisition soldiers made even casual mistakes about the weapons.
The shooting part proceeded with an audience again, to my annoyance, as I had to call up more of my troops to guard the area. Last thing we needed was some moron getting in the way or a spy walking away with something they shouldn't.
In the end however, the Inquisition people were getting the hang of it, and most interesting, Sera was more or less at the top of the class. She was beginning to remind me of at least a dozen of my former comrades in arms back on Earth, cheeky fucks who could not keep their mouths shut every last one of them. It endeared me towards her quite a bit, actually.
This despite her pestering me towards the end of the day's training to let her try the Earth firelance hanging off the front of me.
To my surprise, it was Cullen who explained why that wasn't allowed; the National Assembly had passed a law that anything from Earth was part of the National Regalia, i.e. property of the Empress. That included every single weapon that had come through with me and those we had brought through from Bizarro Boston. And he correctly surmised I wasn't about to ask Tam whether or not Sera could have a try at my G36.
Cullen must've already asked Valle about the advanced weapons and received that explanation as an answer in rejection.
Sera pouted, but accepted the situation with as much grace as she ever could muster. The weight of the long firelance in her hand likely helped her get over the refusal. She quickly returned to the sergeant from the Rangers to practice again.
"Kids today, eh?" I joked to Cullen, "Sometimes I wish I was her age again, without all this shit to worry about." Father, Emperor, General, Outlander, Andraste's Chosen... no matter the title, it was all exhausting, no matter how fulfilling. I felt a pang for Tam and Julie. We all recharged each other.
The Commander let out a breath of amused disbelief. "You know you're not getting that back, right?" he chuckled, "That's Sera's weapon now, and she will fill you with arrows if you try and take it back."
The young woman herself completed a reload and fire drill as fast as any regular Trojan soldier I had seen, blasting the lead bullet into the sandpit. Dust from the impact floated on the air, through the horses' stalls.
The animals neighing drew my attention, and I saw Thom Rainier standing, leaning from the side door of the barn building, watching Sera begin to reload again. He had a thick black beard, unlike his future-self in Redcliffe Castle's dungeon, but that brow and those eyes were unmistakeable. Not to mention the Grey Warden armour.
Another one of the Inquisitor's retinue had made an appearance at last. I decided I needed to feel him out, see what his attitude was towards us. His future counterpart had been very helpful, and a great swordsman.
"Tell her she can keep it if there's an agreement," I said to Cullen, "Call it a gift from me."
The Commander shook his head in half-faked disbelief, but did not object. Good. I informed him that I would be right back, and walked over to the barn.
Thom Rainier was alone, stroking his whiskers as he processed what he was seeing. Another soldier unable to tear his attention off the new, powerful weapons, though this one was not considering how to get his hands on them but rather what it meant for his fighting style; shield and sword was going to be obsolete soon, at least against human opponents.
He noticed me approach and stood up from the doorway, not quite standing to attention like he was my subordinate, but rather as a matter of his own pride when running into someone important. He was just as much a man as I was, being the message. Always funny when it's that obvious.
"Thom Rainer, good to finally meet you again," I said in greeting, "If you wanted to see the firelances, you could have joined the training. A man of your experience would've been welcome." I offered my hand. He did not take it.
Examining him, I expected hatred or detachment or apathy, anything but the panic that seized the man. Rainier's eyes darted this way and that way, checking for people. None were nearby, yet he did not calm down. I opened my mouth to ask what was wrong, but before the sounds came out, he grabbed my arm roughly, the one not outstretched, and dragged me into the barn.
Not having expected it, I wasn't prepared to resist and was inside before I started to.
"Where did you hear that name?" he asked, keeping my left arm in a vicegrip as he asked.
Not knowing what the hell was going on and frankly a little disturbed by his reaction to saying his name, I held up my right hand before his eyes, which got him watching it, so he could see when placed my fingers around the grip of the handcannon in my right hip holster.
"Release me," I stated, "Now."
"Where did..." he began to repeat.
I pulled away from him, but he kept holding on. My handcannon left its holster and I thumbed the safety off, though I held it across my belly, muzzle still down. Rainer glanced down at it, nervously, but did not let go.
"You know what that is," I said, with a nudge of my chin towards the weapon, "I'm perfectly willing to answer your question, but let go of me, right now."
At last, the Warden's grip loosened, enough for me to shake him off and take two steps back. He scowled, his moustache twitching with irritation. Lucky for him that he had made the decision when he did, as Ciara and five Grenadiers burst into the barn from both the front and side door.
My companion held an Earth assault firelance in her hands, ready to use, while the others had their bayonets fixed to their muskets. She must have arrived just in time to see me pulled into the stable with her own escort in tow.
"What is this?" Ciara asked in Orlesian, not taking her eyes or weapons off of Rainer, "Should we arrest him?" In a display of intelligence that had been lacking until now, the offender himself raised his hands in protest but said nothing to object. Showing that he was effectively defenceless against us... and that he spoke Orlesian.
Not pleased with the man, I considered the idea... but rejected the notion for diplomatic reasons. "The Chancellor would not be pleased if we seized Inquisition agents," I replied to Ciara, "He grabbed my arm, no harm done." She relaxed a little, though her weapon did not move from its place up against her shoulder, her chin not leaving its rest by the scope that allowed her to aim.
I looked over my shoulder at Ciara's Grenadier guards. "You guys, guard the doors," I commanded, "We're going to have a private discussion with the Warden."
"Yes, your Excellency," the Grenadier corporal in charge of the group responded, pointing half of them off to the front door while moving to the side one himself with the rest. I frowned at him, trying to remember if Excellency was the correct term of address for a General, before shrugging it off.
"You're lucky they didn't get here sooner," I said to Rainer, "Is Thom Rainer not your name?" I realised that I was asking him a question instead of answering one, but I was firmly in control of the situation now.
The man knew it too, and paused, clutching the edge of his silverite breastplate. "It is," he replied, "Everyone here knows me as Blackwall, but that is my real name."
And it was a problem that I knew, for some reason.
"You told me it yourself," I said, finally answering his question, "Has Dorian not talked to you?"
Rainer's lip curled back in a half-offended, half-amused grimace. "The Tevinter boy?" he asked, "A mage who struts about in silk and velvet, proclaiming his superior knowledge? No, I haven't talked to him."
It was my turn to be offended, though I restrained myself from repeating Blondie's mistake of challenging Rainier on his behalf. Dorian didn't need my help to defend himself, certainly not from this guy.
"Dorian Pavus is worth a lot more than his clothes and his sharp wit," I stated calmly, "And if you had talked to him, or anyone of importance about his presence, you would know that we travelled to the future together. Your future self was in prison, we broke you out, and you helped us fight demons until we could return."
Rainier's thick eyebrow cocked upwards. "I thought it was only Leliana and Varric who were in the future?" he said, "I'm not even sure I believe that."
Details of our little trip through the Fade were not common knowledge, but rumours abounded.
"How else would we know your name?" Ciara interjected in Common, still aiming at him, "You aren't a high noble, a rich merchant, a celebrated mercenary or even a high ranked Warden. Why would we care?"
I was really glad she had pointed that out... because it left one distinct possibility, when combined with the fact he had obvious military or paramilitary bearing.
"Let's not play about," he half-spat, "I am sure your people are looking into the background of every single person in any way close to the Inquisitor." Which was true, but that process had only started on our return to Troy and was ongoing. Ironically, if I had waited a few days, it probably would've been Mariette talking to Blackwall, with blackmail in mind.
"Impressive combat skills, known under one name, doesn't want his real name known," I said, "It doesn't matter how we know. You're pretending to be someone you aren't... Are you even really a Warden?"
'Blackwall' said nothing, wearing a face for a table where Wicked Grace or poker is being played. My instinct was this showed his guilt more than an admission would have, but I couldn't accuse him of it. I had reasonable doubts.
"We could bring Tam in to check," Ciara pointed out, "I think she can sense these things." She could indeed, being a Grey Warden herself and with an unusually early ability to sense the Taint.
I could imagine Tam's annoyance at having to deal with the matter personally. "No, return to Troy and go to Mariette," I said to my companion, "Get her to investigate Thom Rainier and Blackwall as a priority and report to me at the earliest convenience."
Rainier breathed a long sigh. "That won't be necessary," he said, "I'll tell you who I am. I'm a murderer."
I honestly had no idea what to say to that... looking to my companion in confusion.
Ciara rolled her eyes. "Aren't we all?" she asked, though the question was rhetorical, "Anyone who has been at war becomes a murderer eventually."
"What I did wasn't war," Rainier replied immediately, "I killed a whole family because one of Gaspard's nobles promised me coin when I was down on my luck; The Calliers, the husband, the wife and the children. Their only crime was loyalty to Celene. Later, I took Warden Blackwall's name and armour when he died soon after he recruited me for the Order. I've been wandering ever since, doing what I can to protect folks."
To my own surprise, I felt nothing but sympathy for the man at first... He was not the first pawn in the Great Game of Orlais, nor would be the last. But I remembered the Day of the Long Knives, when men paid to kill went about the Eastern Dales and slaughtered anyone who supported our cause... and Julie's own sister, Élodie. He was the same calibre of man as those assassins.
Rainier had to answer for his crimes.
He looked at me with sad eyes. "There is no way I can escape," he continued, "The Inquisitor will be forced to try me, or she'll hand me over to the Orlesians. And I deserve to be punished." He sat down on a table, his head hung.
His words reminded me of where I was and what was happening at that very moment. I couldn't just clap him in irons or accuse him openly.
"You deserve a life sentence one way or the other," I agreed, "But I get the feeling that my bringing this to the attention of Trevelyan now wouldn't do any good. It would seem like just another manoeuvre in the negotiations."
Rainier tilted his head slightly, agreeing with my assessment. Trevelyan certainly didn't trust us enough to take our word, and the whole thing would be a distraction we could do without.
"So what do we do with him?" Ciara asked softly, "He's pretending to be a Warden..." Given that Tam was also Warden-Commander, it did seem like something to bring to her attention now.
Reasons of state gave only one possible answer to that question. Particularly when the fate of the world rested on our making this alliance. "We ignore this, for now," I replied, "If he feels so guilty, he'll admit it himself. We deny that we knew at all if it comes out. I'll tell Tam when I go back home tonight, but I doubt she'll disagree with this approach."
Ciara clicked her tongue, not liking the plan but accepting my judgment.
"You're letting me go?" Rainier asked, incredulous, "After what I just admitted?"
"Trust me, it isn't what my instincts are telling me to do," I said back, crossing my arms, "I suggest you avoid us. The moment it becomes possible to arrest you, when I feel we've earned enough trust from Trevelyan, I will give that order." Not that it was likely to happen any time soon.
That ultimatum delivered, I left the barn to 'Blackwall', striding out into the courtyard again with Ciara in tow. I didn't even bother looking at him, and hoped I would never have cause to do so ever again.
Fate had other ideas, unfortunately.