Author's note:

Disclaimer: Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age 2 and Dragon Age: Inquisition and all related characters and trademarks are property of EA/Bioware. Rated M for language, violence, suggestive, and explicit themes.

Please read this:

I've noticed some mistakes I've made while writing this story, plot-wise. Most probably stem from the fact that there are times when I don't write and publish new chapters and lose sight of what I've already written in detail or what I've mentioned. Others because this story continuously changes and evolves, because, it seems, I've an endless pool of ideas and things I want to incorporate, some well so far reaching that they'll play a part in DAII and DA:I, though the latter will be severely verging into AU territory as it seems right now.

Regarding the first kind of mistake, for example, at the end of the last chapter when Anethayín goes up into the heart of the camp she ponders who this nobleman asking for her might just be and she knows of the rumours that a Cousland is in camp. That entire scene is, essentially wrong, because Araris had already confessed to her his heritage, but it just slipped my mind. There are other mistakes like this which I've found. I'm aware of them, they upset me. So, please, let it be known, that at some point in the future I'll go over every chapter and correct them and smooth over all the wrinkles I find.

And, just as a heads-up, when Loghain sent Cauthrien out to reel the Bannorn in and stomp the rebellion, he gave her roughly three to four thousand soldiers. I've hinted and alluded that she'd since been joined by Gwaren cavalry and other forces, then again a portion of her armed force she sent away to the north. This isn't in line with the story any longer and with what I've planned and thus will be changed accordingly. Also the Iachus Valley is no longer a valley but a plain. These changes adher from the fact that I've settled for a much bigger confrontation, but for a glimpse of that you need only read this chapter.

I also wanted to thank NightlyRowenTree, Judy, Theodur, lupusadaquilonem and Guest for reviewing the last chapter (which bested my previous highscore of four reviews per a single chapter) and all others out there reading and hopefully enjoying my story.

So thank you and enjoy the newest chapter of a book written In An Age Full Of Heroes.

.

.

In An Age Full Of Heroes

Chapter XVIII

Passage

.

.

'You did what?!'

When the gathered forces, under the banner of the brown bear, led by the young royal commander, named Fledg, arrived and pitched their tents, the King's Blade's dismay was heard by a large portion of the camp at the report they delivered, so loud did she voice it.

Apparently, there'd been some kind of outrageous fuck up in the north at the siege of West Hill.

Commander Fledg crippled and carried in on a stretcher, skin red like a newborn's, blistered by hot oil on the first day of the siege. The seniority of command of the amassed troops in the north had fallen to Commander Blist, lapdog of the newly appointed Teyrn Howe.

The fortress held by the steadfast Bann Fanderel had been besieged day and night for nearly a week. Without success. Whenever the forces of the crown gained purchase on the high limestone walls, climbing the crenellations with ladders, they were either outright routed on the spot or sent tumbling back down to a demise of broken bones and shattered bodies. Soon the ladders had to be deployed on the ranks of bloated carcasses of comrades in arms.

Morale buckled and swayed like a tub in a storm. The royal forces of Gwaren reeled and barked under the command of Blist and slowly insubordination surfaced at the suicidal commands the man issued. Mutiny appeared only a short step off the path, but still the Amaranthine born and bred man ordered his men to storm the walls.

Without the guidance of their own commanding officer, any thought of mutiny was quickly stomped, every tenth man hanged premonitorily to serve as a reminder.

Stricken with famish and disease, that night the defenders of West Hill nonetheless found the energy reserves to cheer and laugh as their enemies did their work for them. Trousers were dropped, cheeks bared and spread, among other obscenities.

The siege went on for another week. By now, the rebel defenders of the fortress used anything even approaching a state of sharpness, be it iron or steel, as projectiles and weapons to fend off the attackers. Then, to top it all off, hurled their faeces and their dead carrying sickness over the walls and in front of the royal encampment.

Despite their best efforts, the men didn't succeed in burning the heaps of fly-attracting meat fast enough. Disease caught and spread swiftly. A quarter of the men couldn't get up on their own anymore a few days after. A third of the men had already been killed in various assaults and by sorties led, according to eyewitnesses, by Bann Fanderel himself on horseback, targeting supply depots, aiming to cripple rather than kill.

Commander Blist broke camp and ordered the siege abandoned, for fear that they might arrive too late to support the King's Blade in her confrontation with the growing rebel host.

When asked, what to do with the sick and dying, he had them put to the sword where they lay. The men under his own command and the mercenaries hired by the newly acquired wealth of Teyrn Howe fulfilled the task without batting any eye, it was said.

Upon his arrival, the King's Blade promptly beheaded the man. The exact charges were unclear. Most didn't care either way. Only the Amaranthine forces cast angry eyes at everyone else, grumbled and insulted but dared nothing else besides.

West Hill, the western gateway to the northern mountain ranges stood uncontested, still firmly in rebel hands.

The royal forces tasted defeat for the first time, shortly before battle.

.

.

The entire camp had gathered. Silence reigned, a heavy oppressor lingering in the very air. Not a breeze disturbed the sullen calm. There lay an eloquence in the absence of sound which couldn't be described with words. Even the insects and birds seemed to hold their collective breath, gawking out from beneath the undergrowth, through bushes, and the trees with beady black eyes, sensing that something was afoot. Something even they shared and comprehended, ingrained in their instincts.

A passage.

Sisters of the Chantry who had arrived with the throngs of refugees, flocking to this convergence of desperate men from every corner of Ferelden, had washed and cleaned Elya Charlotte Amell's body, covered it in oils and balms. Stones, with eyes painted on them rested on her closed lids. Her missing legs and hips were covered with a blanket.

Elya Amell rested, peaceful at last, on a square block build from wood, lying on a bed of laurel wreaths, upon a great plateau drawn up so that all could witness her passage to the Maker's side. Even if Chantry teachings insisted otherwise, for those who wrought magic were blasphemy made flesh. And no blasphemer would be tolerated by their god, or so proclaimed the Chant.

Alfstanna wiped at her eyes, trying to drive away the wetness, clearing her awash vision. It did not help. Cheeks moist with tears shed, her heart ached for this woman who'd stood out among them all. And not only because of her sorcerous talent. Here among them, none saw in her the hideous mark of blasphemy or impiety, but rather this woman stood out because of her humanness, her gentle and kind soul which had driven her, day after day, to exhaust herself in the countless infirmaries to heal and mend and cure. Elya had broken through the superstition.

But in the end, she hadn't been able to save herself. There was something to be found in that simple discovery, though Alfstanna knew not what. Something cruel and unforgiving perhaps. She hadn't been able to bear to listen through the tale Araris Cousland told them of the sorceress' sacrifice. She did not go gentle into the silent night, he'd told her. But the knowledge gave Alfstanna no peace of heart or mind, it poured even more pain in and through her.

The rebellion lost scores of people each day to famish, spreading disease, the quickly cooling temperatures and terrible wounds. But this drove deeper into Alfstanna than any wound or loss she could imagine. The loss of Elya Amell, the loss of her friend. The loss of a bright light for everyone part of the rebel host. Elya had been their beacon of hope with all her altruistic tendencies.

Alfstanna could taste the sorrow of the people, their silent mourning as they stared red-eyed and weeping. The notion granted her a slim measure, soothing, if only just noticeable among the potent concoction of feeling coursing through her, making her dizzy.

All the lords and ladies crowded around the tall, fair-haired figure of Araris Cousland, his passionless expression betraying nothing, not even a hint. He'd always been a cold bastard. Alfstanna chided herself for the thought. Only because he didn't wear his emotions on his sleeve for all to see. That didn't give her the right to feel angry at him. But Elya gave her life for the man, he could at least let something seep through that flat mask of his.

With a rustle of leather and chainmail, Araris Cousland stepped forward. A Highever knight, one of the Mortal Swords, handed him a torch. Since his arrival, the men of that famed company hovered around him wherever he went, at minimum a full squad at all times. Protecting the man whom they were sworn to give their life for, unquestionably and without hesitance. Their oath filled with purpose and meaning once more.

Picking his way up the wooden plateau with calm steps, Araris Cousland lowered the torch, its flame licking at one corner of the pyre. Sparks and fire jumped and found a new home, began hissing and popping away.

Seven sisters of the Chantry, beyond care who lay on the funeral pyre by now, their faith jaded by what they'd witnessed, and one mother began to intone a song, filled with darkness, shadow, but also light. For death is only a door to the next world where awaited He Who Shepherds The Departed To His Side. The song danced and weaved itself into the cackle of the growing fire, a background cadence supported by the sniffles and sobs of the mourning.

Alfstanna had never heard anything more heart-wrenching and beautiful at the same time.

Araris turned back, his lean frame illuminated by the fire and retreated down the plateau. Alfstanna's heart pounded in the cavity of her chest. The Last Laurel halted before her, something in his eyes, a knowing look as he passed the torch on to her.

Alfstanna went forward and did her duty with a heavy heart, a shudder escaping her as her shoulders sagged. For her friend. For Elya. The woman who'd been loved by the entire encampment.

One after the other, they went forward and set fire to the body of Elya Amell, watched her burn without a single word spoken. There existed no need. The proceedings went by in a haze. Alfstanna couldn't tell how long she lingered on. She already trembled from the cold, gazed at the blazing fire, this edifice of death and life renewed at the Maker's side.

Slowly, the people filed and shuffled away, heads kept down, arms draped over shoulders to consolidate each other. They returned to their lives, torn, not knowing how things would ever be the same without Elya, if they even felt a sliver of what Alfstanna had rummaging around inside her, reshuffling her insides.

After what seemed like hours, none were left, bar her, Araris Cousland, hand on the pommel of his longsword, now sheathed at his hip, and his personal guard. With a sign, he sent them away. They were hesitant at first, but abided his command after a few traded looks.

Araris came over to her side and spoke, 'We shall keep vigil over her. Us two.'

Alfstanna managed a terse nod, thankful.

.

.

'This is madness,' said Bann Ackley of Bright Hills, slowly shaking his rotund head from side to side. His bulbous red nose and veiny skin bespoke of his most beloved leisure activity. 'Even you must know that, Your Lordship.'

The plump man gestured helplessly. 'Even Arl Bryland realised that meeting the King's Blade on the open field could only result in disaster.'

Leonas appeared stricken, though it wasn't meant as an accusation by the bann. That much was clear. How quickly they turned when it suited their needs. One time an insult, the other a grounds for argumentations of reason and logic.

Then again, maybe Bann Ackley didn't want to go down into history as the bann on whose land had been waged the biggest battle in the Fereldan civil war. Or bear the responsibility for nurturing the field of battle back to normality after a blanket of carcasses and blood soured the Iachus Plain's fertile ground.

'Why did you join our cause, Bann Ackley?' asked Araris, out of nowhere, staring at the man with a barely interested gaze from his seat at the head of the table.

'Your Lordship?' Heads swivelled from side to side to gauge reactions and follow the conversation, for the bann of Bright Hills occupied the other end of their council.

'It is a simple question, my lord. Why did you join us?'

Bann Ackley glanced around, eyes shifty, searching. 'Y-Your Lordship,' he stammered, 'your host made camp on my lands. Practically before my homestead.'

Leaning back, Araris inhaled and licked his upper lip. 'So it was not then, because you feared the King's Blades wrath?'

'I never did the crown any ill, Your Lordship! Not until your host did not want to leave my lands. What choice had I?'

A flicker of a smile twitched over Araris' lips. 'True. But the King's Blade's armed forces would've reached your lands, as well. Eventually. Did you think they'd just march by you and leave you to your hooch?'

Flabbergasted, Bann Ackley's face reddened. He couldn't force himself to bring out a single coherent word.

'No, they wouldn't have. The King's Blade would've given you an ultimatum like all the others who had not yet taken up arms against the usurper on the throne. Do you know of this ultimatum, Bann Ackley?' Araris paused, looked around, let it settle and then voiced the answer to the rhetoric question they all knew. Laconic, he said, 'Submit. Or burn. Oxfurd, Kingsfield, Dogwood, Red Valley, Greybear, Calder Hills, Calenfort, Garrik. All bannorns which submitted in the end. Some had to burn first, at others only a few were hanged, crucified or beheaded to assure stability, as the king-regent calls it. You would've submitted right away, of course. You are a sensible man, after all.' Alfstanna had to suppress an amused snort at the bann's expression. Oh, how his still red face lit up under the praise, the insult from afore already out of mind. 'No need to send your young to certain death. Yet, to submit means that precisely these young men and women are conscripted to the cause of the King's Blade. Your firstborn heir and half your family with him are taken hostage. Just in case. Tell me then, is this the fate you wish for yourself, Bann Ackley? For those under your care and everyone else of the Bannorn?'

'No, Your Lordship,' he answered, meek.

Araris nodded to himself. 'I thought not. Then running from the King's Blade isn't a viable option. Not now. Not ever.'

'Very good, Your Lordship. I bow to your wisdom.' Bann Ackley actually bowed, while seated, which made the movement awkward. But with his potbelly in the way it presumably would've been awkward no matter what.

'To business then.' Araris waved. 'Captain Bars, what of our situation?'

The captain of the Mortal Swords, a stern fellow, with hard eyes the colour of stone and his dark-skinned forearms criss-crossed with pale scars stepped forward from behind the man he swore an oath to and addressed the gathered nobles. This time there were only those required present. Alfstanna recognised the subtle outlines of a carefully studied play. Araris probably knew all about their bleak situation by now.

'We're able to field about thirteen thousand soldiers by trade, Your Lordship. Again as much and a bit more are refugees attached to the camp. About a third of them is in fighting shape, but they know nothing of soldiering. The rest is folk to old or young to even pick up a shield.'

Eyesight turned inwards, Araris Cousland said, 'Very well. Send out scouts and foraging parties to assess the King's Blade's location and strength. She probably split her force to cover more ground and will meet up shortly before making contact. Then find every able man and woman among the refugees and have them form a militia. Whip them into shape, captain. I want a regimen of drills to be performed every day until we move out. That goes for everyone. Knights, men-at-arms, infantry, skirmishers, sappers. Everyone.'

Captain Bars bowed, saluting. 'It shall be so, Your Lordship.'

'One more thing, captain. Once you are done organising, meet me back here.'

Grey eyes betraying nothing, he nodded and ducked out the tent to obey the commands of his liege.

'Bann Ackley,' Araris called. 'Since you know these lands best, you will lead a small troop to report on the current state of the Iachus Plain. Report back to me once you return.'

Bann Ackley's eyes nearly bulged out of their sockets. 'Me, Your Lordship?'

'Yes.'

'But, but-'

Araris lazily swiped his hand through the air. 'You leave immediately. The men accompanying you await outside with your horse readied, my lord.'

There was nothing left for the man but to scamper out the tent, shock written on his features, still sputtering. Once gone, Gallagher Wulff rumbled a laugh and mumbled something inaudible into his beard, shoulders shaking with mirth. Alfstanna stole a glance at Leonas, sitting across her, both of them on each side of Araris Cousland. Even he appeared to be smiling, cleverly hiding it behind the rim of his goblet.

Bann Calder of Eoforstown piped up in the more or less silence. 'Your Lordship, if I may?'

The stifled laughter and bemusement settled down and receded. Araris inclined his head at the wild-looking, red-headed man, imitations of Avvar tribesmen tattoos curling up his neck and around his ears.

'One of my men approached me the last day. Reporting that he'd spotted a spy of the king-regent. Though he didn't know the woman's name, he claimed to have seen her dispatch a message via raven.'

The sudden change of topic, this particular topic had shifted the mood in the entire tent. Araris, merely blinked, as if he knew already. 'Did you follow up on his allegations?'

'Yes, Your Lordship. The woman could nowhere be found. And when we asked around if somebody'd seen her, nobody knew. I assigned the man as latrine warden for not bringing her to me immediately.' That lightened things up a bit, but the strain still existed as an undercurrent.

'I see. Well, it was to be expected.'

Alfstanna cocked her head. 'What do you mean, Your Lordship?' Keep up appearances. Only because you know him since you both were children, doesn't mean you can throw respect out the window. More so when others are present. Alfstanna drove her mother's voice from her head. At least, that's what she imagined her mother would've said, chiding her before she even did something wrong.

Araris peered around from face to face, then looked back at her, a strange expression flickering over his pale features. 'You mean you didn't know that there are spies in camp?'

Alfstanna frowned, traded a look with Leonas, who shook his head ever so slightly.

Araris sighed. 'There are. You can be sure of that. By now the King's Blade probably knows there's a Cousland leading the rebellion.'

Alfstanna pinched her nose. 'What are we to do about it?'

'Nothing.'

Her brows rose. 'Nothing?'

Araris shrugged. 'We would never get them all. Couldn't even be sure about it. Move against one and all the others go into hiding. Paranoia is also a weapon and the King's Blade would make use of it against us. All we have to manage is to draw some of them out and spot them. Then we can control what we let trickle through to the King's Blade and what she may know of our plans so as to nurture our advantage.'

Alfstanna had forgotten.

Of course, that's Araris Cousland's way of thought. Not how to deflect or dodge a blow, but rather how to reverse it altogether. The shared looks around the table appreciated his counsel and keen guidance.

Araris rose and with him all others.

'That's it, for now. Go brief your men and be ready to move out when the call comes.'

They bowed in unison. 'Your Lordship.'

'Bann Fanderel, stay for a moment longer.'

.

.

The worm screamed.

With a tightening of his massive fist, the spine broke and flesh split open, innards and squashed organs squeezed out between his fingers, abruptly silencing the wails of unfettered terror. With a sharp pull he tore off the worm's head, whitely glinting spine along with it, still covered in bits of flesh.

Plucking the bones from the corpses of those whom they had butchered moments ago, the three Che'ell brothers sucked the sweet marrow out of them, delighted at the opportunity to feast on these frail humans. They fell even easier than their horned brethren.

But their flesh tasted sour. Of fear and other passions. Their blood, too, as if a curse lingered on it. Thankfully, bones are pure, the pillars which kept life from slacking into a muddy sack of meat. Without order, without stature. Bones kept upright, gave strength to what would elsewise be naught but weak flesh. And weak flesh split easily. As did these bones.

The seventh of the Che'ell brothers chortled and continued sucking on the broken human bones.

The Che'ell brothers had split up a fortnight ago, to better stalk their numerous preys across the green plains of this sphere of existence. And just as the Master had promised them, their prey was aplenty. Horses which they ate alive and humans which they slaughtered to enjoy them for dessert.

Forgotten, all of them had, the echoing howl which cursed through their war-scarred souls at the dealing of death to those beneath them. Seven of them, and they'd all along lied to themselves so convincingly they already believed to be woodcutters in truth. The Master had seen beyond their façade, penetrated the fog, he'd stared into the whirling depths of their desires and didn't shrink back from what he found. Rather, he embraced them and guided them back to where they really belonged.

Among the blood-soaked fields, dancing among the endless rows of the dead.

Howling with laughter.

But something he forgot . . .

If he could just remember.

.

.

Note: There'll be another chapter later this week.