Slavers

CONTENT:
Rating: Mature
Flavor: Adventure/Drama
Language: yes
Violence: yes
Nudity: no
Sex: no
Other: none

Author's Notes:

Oops, took a while to get this part typed in :X And I can't think of a title.

Recap:

"Shit!" Bannon yelled, which was the Wardens' universal code for 'Look out, things just got a whole lot worse.'

Then something slammed into Alistair's head, blacking out his vision in pain.

Slavers

==#==

Alistair... a dreamy, echoey voice called from somewhere. Get your shield up!

He didn't know where he was or what he was doing, but his left arm reacted with thousands of hours of training.

Bump... Bump... it sounded like a boat hull nuding a dock on some lazy sunny afternoon. CRASH! Something hit him and jarred him back to reality. His head hurt and his vision was blurred- did I get shot in the eye with a crossbow bolt!?- but his right arm came up over his shield and smashed his attacker right between the eyes. The Tevinter guard staggered back.

"Is it snowing?" Alistair asked, blinking hard.

He didn't have time to contemplate that. Another swordsman charged him. The man was brought up short as a teen elf boy - no wait, girl - sprang onto his back and began stabbing him in the neck.

Alistair blinked again, but the fuzzy whiteness was just getting thicker. The girl had the fighter on the ground and was clumsily stabbing him as he twitched and thrashed.

Alistair stepped forward and drove his sword into the man's gut. He noticed a lot more attackers, in different armor and clothing. "Where did these guys come from?"

"The ship!" Bannon yelled in answer.

"Get behind me," Alistair told the girl, stepping further out of the line to protect her back. She scrambled over the bloody body in a half crawl, staying low. Then he backed to re-close their wall. He spit some fluffy ice off his lips. "It is snowing!"

Rapidly, the air temperature dropped, and a spinning white blizzard engulfed them, leaving them at the eye of the storm. It slowed down their attackers.

Then hailstones rained down from the sky- no! Giant hail boulders. They crashed into the floor, splitting it - as well as a few bodies and limbs.

More crashes stomped closed from the right, a few screams cut short. Then more from the left, and the tall, horned figure of Sten stepped through the curtain of snow.

From the other side, Shale called out, "Six... seven! I am winning, Horned One."

"I do not believe that is so," Sten stated.

"You've got to be kidding me," Alistair said. Then his head felt suddenly clearer.

"I hate snow!" Oghren complained, stomping up behind Sten. "Why did I wake up for this? And who started a brawl without me?" He puffed snowflakes off his moustache.

Zevran countered, "You snooze, you lose."

"Alistair!" Leliana yelled from above. He looked up to the three women at the rail. "You're late for your nuncheon!"

"Oops!" he called back with no sincerity whatsoever. "Sorry! Bit busy fighting for freedom and the Ferelden way."

Sten said, "They are retreating. Is the battle over?"

"No," Bannon yelled. "They're slavers - kill them all!"

He ran forward. With battle roars, Zevran and the young elf lass followed. Alistair fell into step with Sten and Shale, while Oghren grumbled and came along behind. The freed elves with weapons joined them.

==#==

Bannon broke off and went to the nearest cage that was still locked. The elves clamored to be let out. He tried to focus on the lock, but it was difficult. "Dad?" he yelled.

"Bannon?"

"Dad!" Now he had focus. The lock sprang open and he pulled the door wide. Elves tumbled out past him.

Cyrian limped forward, his legs stiff from days spent in the cramped cage. Then he was in his son's arms. They hugged tight, but not for long. There was still more to do.

"Get home, get to Shianni," Bannon told him. "I'll come see you as soon as I can!" He turned to the final cage to spring the lock. Once that was done, he had some slavers to kill.

==#==

Wynne, Leliana, and Morrigan hurried down the steps. "Who is injured?" the old mage called. "Come into the light of my staff."

So many elves were dead. One clung to life as his friend held his hand. Wynne focused her healing magic on him first.

"Thank you," he gasped.

"Your people will help you get home. You're all safe now," she added in a louder voice. Then she cast a healing circle.

The elves grew stronger; they showered her in gratitude. Still, she could see some were yet traumatized. One young woman just sat inside the cage door, clinging to the bars, her glazed eyes fixed on the center of a large pool of blood on the floor.

"Morrigan, you look spent. Would you help these people back to their town square?"

The witch straightened. "I have enough for one more spell." She took a breath and transformed again into a giant spider.

"Leliana?" Wynne turned to the bard.

"Our leader said-" she cocked her crossbow and seated a quarrel- "'kill them all.'"

"Very well." To the elves, Wynne said, "The way back is clear. Help each other."

"I'll help them," came a voice from the balcony. Wynne turned to see the red-headed elf from the square. She rushed down and began organizing the wounded, the children, the supporters. Then she went to the stricken woman.

"Let's go," Wynne said to her companions. "Before those boys get into any more trouble." She paused to cast a warding on the three of them.

Leliana added, "May the Maker have mercy on the slavers' souls."

She and Morrigan dashed for the doorway, Wynne trotting behind.

==#==

Alistair took a deep breath. Remember, they're more afraid of you than you are of them, Leliana had told him. This is it.

He pushed the door open and strode into the dining hall, where half the nobles from morning nuncheon were waiting and demanding to be seen as promised, along with all the nobles invited for afternoon tea. Alistair still wore his armor, still dented from battle, and he stank of sweat and blood.

The gabbling crowd stopped in shock, staring at him. At least they weren't too scandalized, being Ferelden nobles and used to a warrior's life.

"Where have you been?" Lady Echia demanded.

"Killing slavers," he answered bluntly. "Slavers who were invited to Denerim, to start taking people away - to Tevinter."

"Invited? By whom?"

"What proof is there?"

"There's this." Alistair produced the papers they'd found on Caladrius' corpse, and handed them to Ban Geraint.

"Is this... blood?"

"Yes. The Blood Mage Caladrius had these, granting him the right to take slaves."

"It's signed by Rendon Howe," Geraint snarled.

Bann Taft took the papers next, others crowding in to read over his shoulder. "This says elves," he noted.

Zevran had already given Alistair this answer. "They're Blood Mages of Tevinter. They keep human slaves as well as elves - do you think they'd stop at the Alienage once they got a foothold here?" He clenched his teeth. "And need I remind you, we are not Tevinter or Anitva. The elves of Ferelden are free, just like all our citizens!"

The nobles moved back by the table, laying out the writ and examining it.

Alistair gave them some time to absorb it, then he said, "You need to think about who you want to support at the Landsmeet. I'm not going to bore you with talk about how I hope it will be me. I think actions speak for themselves." Maker, he hoped. "I apologize for missing nuncheon and tea, but refreshments will be served shortly. I need a bath." He turned and walked out.

In the hall, among his friends, he finally let his breath out. Leliana and Arl Eamon were telling him how brilliantly well he did. Then Alistair put his face in his hands and blurted, "Oh, Maker, I just told them all I was taking a bath! Now they'll be thinking about me all naked!"

Zevran patted him on the arm. "There, there. And what delightfully sinful dreams they will have over your most handsome physique."

"You're not helping," Alistair moaned.

"No? You do not feel better? Allow me to bathe with you, and I will-"

"Gah! No!"

"What? A massage will make you feel truly relaxed."

"Just, no."

Bannon said, "Next time, just tell them you're going to the garderobe. I doubt anybody will want to imagine you taking a-"

"GAH! Stop talking!" Elves! Not helpful. Alistair heaved another breath. "Well, at least I didn't have to do all that politicking while nibbling on sandwiches and sipping tea. I'd rather fight Blood Mages, slavers, and pirates any day."

He headed off to the bath.

==#==

Bannon collared Zevran when the Antivan tried to follow.

"What?" Zevran frowned at Bannon's very serious expression.

"We have to kill Howe."

"I do not disagree, but... tonight?"

Leliana interrupted them. "You can't do that."

They flinched guiltily, but then Bannon demanded, "Why not?"

"Howe is doing so well incriminating himself with his underhanded tactics, it would be a shame to stop him now." She tilted her head. "It is probably better to give him more rope with which to hang himself, yes?"

"Si."

"All right. But what if it just gives him time to cover his ass?"

The Chantry Sister smiled sweetly. "When a rat feels a snare closing around his neck, does he calmly grasp it and slip it over his head? No, he thrashes and only draws it tighter, faster. You will see. There will be an opportunity."

==X==