Chapter 5: First Line of Defense

Alistair put his hand over his mouth and stifled another yawn. Over his shoulder, Eamon continued to drone on and on about the details of the latest law that required his signature, something about adjusting the yearly grain quotas. Alistair had tuned him out after about three sentences, now his aged advisor's voice was little more than monotonous background noise. Monotonous, that is what his life had become, monotonous and tedious. Thirteen years he had sat on Ferelden's throne, and it was becoming increasingly difficult to remember the man he had once been. The formative years of Alistair's life had been spent as a soldier, first with the Templar Order and then the Grey Wardens. Day after day of arduous training and marching from sunup to sundown. Then the Fifth Blight struck, and he had walked from one end of Ferelden to the other and back again, carrying everything he owned on his back and fighting for his life against darkspawn, assassins, mercenaries, undead, and a number of other unpleasant monstrosities. How was it that during those times, he never felt as thoroughly exhausted as he did after a day of sitting in a chair?

The years of kingship had taken a toll on Alistair. He had lost several pounds of muscle and gained more than several grey hairs. Worry lines were etched permanently onto his face, and his mouth seemed to be ever turned down in a worrisome frown. Sometimes when he saw his own reflection he couldn't help but marvel at the strange face staring back at him. He was not a young man anymore, but neither was he old, so why did he feel so positively ancient?

Alistair snapped back to reality as the large parchment was placed on the desk in front of him. He pretended to read it over once more before signing his name and stamping it with the royal seal. No sooner was it removed from his desk than Eamon began expounding on yet another law, a pending trade agreement with one of the city-states of the Free Marches. The king barely noticed when the sergeant-at-arms opened the door and stepped discreetly to his side until the man cleared his throat. Eamon stopped his sermon and gave the soldier a disapproving glare. Alistair sat up a little straighter, grateful for the brief reprieve.

"Begging your pardon your majesty," the sergeant said, "But an Inquisition courier has just arrived with a message. He says he is under strict orders to deliver it to your grace personally. Shall I show the man in or have him wait?" Alistair shrugged.

"As much as I'm enjoying being regaled with the details of our new trade agreement with…" Alistair looked at Eamon and raised an eyebrow, "…Kirkwall?" he guessed. Eamon made a sour face and sighed.

"Ansburg, your majesty."

"Ansburg…right," Alistair felt his face flush red. "I wouldn't want to keep a messenger of our dear friend Marcus Trevelyan waiting. Show him in." The guard bowed and exited the office. Alistair drummed his fingers on the desk and looked up at Eamon. "So, what are we trading with Ansburg now?" he asked as innocently as possible. The old man gave him another scolding look.

"Sheep, your majesty," he replied. Alistair stared at him blankly for a moment.

"Sheep?"

"Yes your grace. Or wool, to be more precise." Alistair blinked slowly.

"I see. And this…sheep agreement really requires my personal attention?"

"All new trade agreements with foreign powers must be ratified by the crown," Eamon said sagely, "In accordance with article six, section forty three of the Ferelden…"

Alistair heaved a sigh of relief when Eamon was cut off by the return of the sergeant, who was leading a young man in Inquisition armor. The soldier put a fist to his chest and bowed respectfully.

"Your majesty," he said, "Inquisition Lieutenant Sutherland at your service, bearing dispatch from Inquisitor Marcus Trevelyan, who sends his compliments." Sutherland produced a sealed parchment from his pouch and handed it to Alistair somewhat stiffly. He took the letter and nodded his thanks.

"Thank you, lieutenant," Alistair said, "Do convey my regards to the Inquisitor. Sergeant, see to a bed in the barracks for our visitor." Sutherland shifted uncomfortably and managed another polite bow.

"Thank you for your hospitality, your grace," he said, "But I must return to Skyhold immediately." Alistair nodded and set the letter aside.

"Very well," he said, "But please, at least avail yourself to a warm meal before you go."

"I will that, your majesty, thank you." Sutherland bowed a third time, but instead of departing, he remained standing awkwardly where he was. Alistair looked at the sergeant, and then back to Sutherland.

"Is…um…is there anything else?" Alistair asked. Sutherland looked embarrassed and glanced from side to side.

"Forgive me, your majesty, but I was asked…ordered, to confirm you had read the letter before taking my leave." Alistair raised an eyebrow and suppressed a smile.

"Urgent then, is it?" he asked.

"I believe so, your grace." Alistair sighed as he broke the seal and opened the letter. He read it over once and, not sure he had read correctly, read it over again. His brow furrowed as he looked over the edge of the paper at Sutherland.

"Do you know what is in this letter?" he asked.

"No your majesty," Sutherland replied, "Only that it is urgent." Alistair nodded, folded the paper and tapped it on the desk thoughtfully.

"Very well," he said finally, "Please convey my thanks to Inquisitor Trevelyan and inform him I shall take this under advisement." Sutherland bowed and departed with the sergeant. Eamon turned to the king curiously as the door closed. Alistair was silent for several minutes, his eyes fixed thoughtfully on the letter in his hand. "Eamon," he said, "What is the current state of our military?" Eamon was surprised by the question and shook his head.

"I would say about one thousand troops at the ready, your highness. Perhaps double that if you call the banners." Alistair nodded.

"And our naval forces?"

"A hundred warships and two score smaller support craft, your majesty. Most are currently guarding the shipping lanes on the Waking Sea." Alistair nodded again and stared pensively at the surface of his desk. Suddenly he stood and straightened his tunic.

"Place the army on high alert and call the banners," he said, "Recall all of our ships to Denerim, immediately." Eamon's eyes went wide and his mouth dropped open in shock.

"What? Why?" he demanded.

"I do believe we are about to be invaded," Alistair responded grimly. He didn't think it was possible for Eamon's mouth to get any wider, but the old man made a go of it.

"Invaded? By whom?" Alistair handed the letter to Eamon as he walked out of the room and down the hall to his personal suite. Eamon scurried after him, reading the letter as he went.

"This doesn't make any sense!" Eamon scoffed. "We can't call the banners and redeploy our entire fleet based on this, we have no way to confirm the validity of this information." Alistair reeled on Eamon, and something in his expression made the old man stop cold. The reluctant and bored king was gone, it was a battle-hardened soldier who stood before him now. Alistair plucked the letter from Eamon's hands and held it up in front of his face.

"This is from the Inquisition," he said firmly, "Can you recall a single instance in which those people have been wrong about anything? Have they ever given us even the slightest cause to doubt the information they provide us?" Eamon straightened a bit and held his head up high.

"No, your majesty," he replied professionally, "But what this letter suggests is beyond logic. No ship has ever crossed the Amaranthine. If there is a civilization across that ocean, none of their ships have ever landed in Thedas. There is no logical reason to suspect that there is an army crossing that ocean as we speak, nor does the Inquisition offer any sound evidence beyond idle speculation!" Alistair's eyes narrowed and his lips twisted into a sneer.

"Idle speculation?" he said bitterly, "I seem to recall haughty old men dismissing the warnings of the Fifth Blight as idle speculation, and half of our kingdom burned for their skepticism." Eamon's face flushed red and he looked at the ground, momentarily embarrassed. He knew better than most how close Ferelden had come to total destruction because of the unwillingness of some to act. Still, he recovered himself after a moment and stubbornly clung to his argument.

"That was an entirely different scenario," he insisted. "The darkspawn were at our doorstep, they were not some phantom army from an unknown and far away continent that no one is even certain exists!"

"A phantom army from an unknown continent?" Alistair asked, "Like the qunari?" The rhetorical question struck Eamon completely dumb. "My history is a bit hazy, Eamon, so correct if I'm wrong," Alistair continued, "But didn't the qunari sail south from an unknown continent and conquer half of Thedas before they were pushed back?" Eamon didn't answer. Alistair stepped close to him and held up the letter again. "Something like this has already happened once, and you call it idle speculation? No, Eamon, this is not idle speculation. This is, and always has been, inevitable." Eamon looked at the letter in Alistair's hand and then to his king's face. Finally, he took a step back and bowed.

"As you command, your grace. The banners will be called."