Chapter 19
By the time that Matthew and his companions had reached the surface, the sun had already sunk halfway below the horizon. Not willing to run the risk of being caught at night in an area so infested with darkspawn, the group had fallen back to the outer ruins of the dwarven fortress they had just cleared, and set up camp a medium sized room that had a minimum of tainted biomass covering it. The entrance was immediately barricaded and laced with traps and magical glyphs to ward off any attempt from their enemies to kill them in their sleep. Anders was given first watch, though he did so under protest.
Their makeshift camp may have been safe, but that was about all that could be said about it; everything else fell far below even the most basic campsite. At least out on the road, they didn't have to sleep on solid rock. Only Sigrun didn't have any complaints about the sleeping arrangements, as she had used little else throughout her life, whether in the Legion of the Dead or, as the brand on her cheek indicated, a casteless in Dust Town in Orzammar. Even Matthew himself was not comfortable, for while he had slept on the stone floors of the ancient dwarf tunnels before, in the last few months he had been spoiled by the soft beds of Denerim, Highever Castle, and Vigil's Keep.
As he set up his own bed roll, he saw Velanna walking up to Nathaniel out of the corner of his eye. She was fidgeting, and looked distinctly uncomfortable. "I…owe you an apology," she stuttered out to the archer.
"Just the one," Nathaniel replied, cocking an eyebrow.
Matthew fully expected the elven mage to punch the rogue in the jaw, but instead she merely averted her eyes, and muttered, "Sometimes I paint all humans with the same brush."
Smirking, the Howe replied, "So long as it's such a pretty brush, I don't care."
Well done, Nathaniel, Matthew thought, rolling his eyes. That was the epitome of subtlety.
To his amazement, however, Velanna gave no other reaction than one of confusion. "What is that supposed to mean?"
Rolling his eyes, the rogue said, "It means that you're apology is accepted, my lady."
"Well, good." Velanna turned to walk back to her own bedroll, but stopped when she ran right into Anders, who was staring at her with a highly uncharacteristically livid expression.
"WHAT IN THE VOID DO YOU MEAN, YOU SOMETIMES PAINT ALL HUMANS WITH THE SAME BRUSH!" he roared indignantly.
Snickering, Matthew rolled over, and tried to fall asleep amid the Circle Mage's continuing tirade.
oo-00-oo
After a highly uncomfortable night on the storeroom floor, the group finally set out after a few hours of sleep. Killing the scant few darkspawn stragglers still in the ancient fortress, they finally exited out into the sunlight. Sigrun had to stop and lean against the side of the collapsed tunnel for a moment before continuing; while she had been in that same spot before, she had been fighting for her life, and hadn't had time to focus on the open sky above her. Now that she could, she was undergoing the same reaction that Oghren and many other dwarves had experienced when leaving the Deep Roads for the first time. Fortunately, as a Legionnaire of the Dead, she was increadibly quick to adjust, and within ten minutes, they were on the move again.
Apart from a scuffle with a pack of wolves, the day passed without incident. Once dusk fell, they made camp in a small clearing; it would take them at least another day to get back to Vigil's Keep. The only thing of any note was the fact that, for the first time, Velanna, actively sought out company amongst the group, namely Nathaniel. The two talked together for no less than an hour before they finally went to sleep. Matthew, who was on watch, smiled; not only was this a sign that the elven mage would better integrate herself into the Fereldan Grey Wardens, but may also enkindle some sort of relationship with Nathaniel.
The world could always use a little more love in it, he thought.
Back in Vigil's Keep, he "felt" Morrigan pretend to throw up.
oo-00-oo
After breakfast the next morning, they again set off; baring any further interruptions, they would be back in Vigil's Keep by mid-day.
Unfortunately, judging by the raised voices they heard just around the corner of the road that was not to be.
Gesturing to his followers to advance with caution, Matthew drew the Summer Sword, and advanced along the dirt trail in the wood they were in, and was confronted with a standoff; four Dalish hunters and eight Templar knights stood against each other, and while they were not drawing weapons, they were both plainly frothing at the mouth.
"I have told you before, Templar," the leader of the Dalish spat. "We don't answer to you, your priests, or your god; you will not take our Keeper to your prison because of your fear and hatred."
"And I told you, Pagan," the leading Templar, a Knight-Lieutenant, replied. "Nothing will stand in the way of our divine mission. Now stand aside, or we will be forced to end all of you." When the elf hunters did not move, the Templar snorted in disgust. "Of course you savages wouldn't get the hint; none of you knife-ears have any sense at all. We should have eradicated your entire vermin race during the Exalted March on the Dales when we had the cha-"
At that moment, a crossbow bolt drove into the Lieutenant's chestpeice, the bodkin head piercing the steel breastplate, and driving deep into his ribs. The Templar fell like a sack of potatoes, gasping as blood began pouring into his pierced lung. Taken completely by surprise by the attack, the Templars were thrown into confusion, most not having seen where the bolt came from. One Knight-Corporal did, though, and turned to see Matthew put his crossbow back across his shoulder, draw the Summer Sword, and advance on the remaining Chantry men.
"It's the Warden Commander!" he exclaimed, voice filled with shock. "To ar-"!
Like his commander before him, Matthew cut the knight off, this time driving his blade into the gap just underneath the man's breastplate up to the hilt. Twisting the sword to cause further trauma to the man, he ripped the flaming blade out; it hissed and sizzled as the Templar's lifeblood boiled on the enchanted fire. Immediately, he struck a horizontal slash at the nearest other warrior, slashing his head clean off his shoulders. Again, the flames on the Summer Sword seared the blood vessels shut, and very little blood escaped the wound.
By this time, the remaining five templars had regained their senses, and charged him, screaming war cries. To most, having to face so many of the greatest military force in Andrastrian Thedas would have them running in terror, but Matthew had long since studied the tactics, weapons, armor, and most importantly the mindset of his most hated adversary. With the right tactics and application of force, he was confident he would crush them.
Merging with a spirit of compassion from the Fade, he feinted an overhead blow to the first Templar, than slashed at his legs instead. Templar armor sets had most of the protection focused on thick plate mail on their upper body; this was in response to their having to fight abominations and insane possessed corpses and skeletons, which focused their attacks on the head, torso, and arms. However, it came at the cost of protection to the legs, which only had a brightly colored kilt with Chantry symbols on top of a set of thin chainmail.
Neither posed any challenge to the Warden's weapon; the Summer Sword cut through the Templar's legs at the knees, and sent him to the ground, screaming in agony. With both legs amputated, and his heavy armor pinning him to the ground, he was no longer a threat, so long as Matthew kept his distance.
His next opponent immediately closed the gap between them, and began slashing at him with a complex series of attacks. Thanks to his Arcane Warrior abilities, though, Matthew easily dodged the attacks, swaying like a branch in a gale; occasionally, the bit missed his flesh by infinitesimal amounts. Finally, his enemy brought his sword down in an overhead attack, and the blade stuck fast in the ground. The Warden Commander smashed his foot into the Templar's wrist, feeling the bones break. His opponent dropped the blade, shrieking in pain, until Matthew cleaved his head in two.
The final three of the holy warriors finally displayed something resembling intelligence, and grouped close together in an attempt to overwhelm him. Unfortunately for them, Matthew had again prepared for this eventuality, and lobbed a fire grenade at the center soldier of the trio. The fragile glass container shattered on the ground at the Templars' feet, setting the kilt of the center warrior alight. He then did the exact thing you should not do when on fire; he panicked, jumping around and fanning the flames. The remaining two quickly broke rank and hopped away from the greasy flames.
And Matthew struck like a snake.
He began a complex series of blows against the Templar to his right. The soldier was clearly an excellent swordsman, but in the end, Matthew got past his guard, slashed his sword arm clean off, and drove the Summer Sword into the gap between his back and breast plates, skewering his lungs and heart. The Templar convulsed once, than was still. Yanking the blade from the corspe, it fell like a potato sack.
Suddenly, he felt a blow fall squarely on his side. Fortunately, it did not make it through his armor, but it did knock the wind out of him, and would undoubtedly leave a massive bruise. Before he could recover from this, the last Templar smashed his shield into his helmet, sending him reeling, with a ringing sound in his ears. Stumbling backwards, he was barely able to avoid the next blows from the enraged knight. Once he had regained some semblance of coordination, Matthew swung his sword out in front of him, trying to gain breathing room. The last Templar jumped back to avoid the blows, and by the time he was back within striking distance, he had recovered his senses.
Bringing the Summer Sword up to his chest, Matthew blocked next blow, and locked their blades together. He couldn't get a good look at the man through his helmet, but he could see his opponent's eyes, and they promised death for him. The Templar knew he could not kill Matthew and the Dalish Hunters, but he did not care; all he wished was that the man who had slaughtered his comrades died before he himself perished.
Matthew could almost admire that.
Leaning back, the Grey Warden kicked the Templar in the chest, forcing him back. He tried for a decapitation blow, but his opponent leaned back in a manner that belied his heavy armor. Instead of his neck, the Summer Sword smashed into the back of the man's Sun Shield, ripping it from the leather straps that allowed him to hold the shaped steel, and sending it flying ten feet away. The lone Templar gripped his long sword with both hands, clearly dismayed by the loss. It was not hard to see why; he had just lost his best protection. Matthew's longer reaching greatsword, and lighter armor, combined with his own sluggishness and lack of any real defense, would most likely spell his death.
A fact that was not lost on the Warden Commander.
Ginning wolfishly, Matthew lifted the Summer Sword over his head, and brought it down with armor-rending force. The Templar deflected the blow with a parry. Matthew struck again. And again. And again. Each time, he advanced, forcing the Templar to backpedal. Rage for all the crimes this man's Order had committed, both in his lifetime and throughout its existence, filled him, and his blows came harder and faster, while his opponent only grew weaker; Matthew could feel the man's arms tremble more and more with each successive blow. Finally, he smashed the Templar's sword out of his hand, and struck a blow on his opposite hip, cracking open the bone. Unable to support himself, Templar finally fell to his knees. Stepping forward, Matthew ripped the man's helmet off, and brought his flaming blade's tip up to his throat.
The Templar, a man at least 5 years his senior, made no effort to resist, panting for breath, and grimacing in pain. Looking into Matthew's eyes, he whispered, "Do you really think this a victory, Warden? My brothers will come with the strength and righteousness of the Maker, and-"
"Oh will you shut up, you pompous windbag," Matthew snarled. "Do you honestly think that after fighting a Blight that I find you or your Order of adulterer worshipers threatening at all?" And with that, he stabbed the blade forward, impaling the man through the neck, and, with a twist of the sword, popped his head off like a cork.
Panting, Matthew wiped the sweat from his brow, and paused to catch his breath. Hearing footsteps approaching, he turned and saw both the Dalish hunters and his Wardens come out onto the field of battle. Taking a deep breath, he walked back across the clearing, jamming the Summer Sword into the mouth of the whimpering burned Templar, ending his pain.
Nathaniel was the first to speak.
"Commander," he whispered, clearly in a state of shock by his commander's outburst. "Are you completely insane? What have you done? Why would you do this?" The rogue's voice raised louder and louder with each word.
"Don't give me that, Nathaniel," Matthew replied slowly. "I know how these bastards work; they would have killed these hunters no matter what we tried to do or say. They would have attacked them, and demanded that we assist them. This was the only way that we could have ever stopped them."
"Well, we appreciate your assistance, Grey Warden," the leading Dalish replied, looking rather wary at Matthew, clearly concerned with his martial outburst. "However, I must question why you would do so; don't most humans revere the Templar order as great guardians and protectors?"
"They do," Matthew confirmed, placing the Summer Sword back on his shoulder. "But I'm not most humans."
"Clearly," the Dalish answered with a wry smile. "Anyway, thank you again for your help, Warden. Now, we should leave, before…"
The elf trailed off as he looked over Matthew's shoulder, and his features twisted into one of surprise and disgust. Turning, he saw that the hunter had focused his ire on Velanna of all people, whose features had tightened.
"Meron," was her barely audible greeting.
"Velanna," he replied, his mocking voice sickening polite. "Well, well, this is certainly a surprise. You travelling with…"
"Humans," the mage finished. "I know, Meron. The irony does not escape me, clanmate."
"We are no longer your clan, Velanna," Meron rebuffed.
Confused, Matthew turned to his Dalish Warden, and said, "Velanna, I thought that your clan had been killed by darkspawn in the Wending Wood."
"They were my closest friends, but not all of my clan."
"Velanna and her ilk," Meron explained, "were exiled. She has no clan. We-"
"STOP," Velanna demanded immediately. "I do not wish to speak of this, Meron. The others are dead, and Seranni is gone, taken by the darkspawn."
"And infected by them," Matthew muttered under his breath.
"Ilshea warned her not to go with you, Velanna," Meron said sadly. "Do you see what you've brought on her?"
"Then tell Ilshea that she was right," the ex-Keeper snapped. "Oh, I can see her smug-"
"Ilshea has passed on Velanna," the hunter cut off. Shaking his head, Meron continued mercilessly. "You know nothing but hatred. The clan is better off without your poison."
At this point, Matthew was about to intervene and request that the hunter stop insulting one of his Wardens, but before he could, Nathaniel beat him to it. Towering over his Dalish counterpart, he snarled, "I won't have you insulting her, hunter. Velanna has been nothing but an asset to the Fereldan Grey Wardens since her Joining. She has saved our lives more times that I can count."
Meron looked Nathaniel in the face with a look of utter disbelief on his face, than looked at his former clanmate with an expression of awe. "A human is willing to defend you? This speaks volumes Velanna." Turning back to the Commander, the hunter said, "I'm afraid that we have lingered here too long. I bid you farewell, Wardens."
Matthew gave the Dalish his own farewell to the hunting party. Once the elves were half way down the road, he was called back to reality by his resident swill-smelling dwarf.
"Uh, Commander," Oghren grunted, holding out a piece of blood-spattered velum out to him. "I think you might want to have a look at this."
"What is it," he asked, taking the piece of paper from him and opening it to look at what was written.
"Well," Oghren elaborated, "according to that there letter, these skirt men came all the way out here to ambush us. Apparently, some bitch that goes by the name of Marog wants you dead."
A.N.
I am terribly sorry that I haven't updated this story for so long. The truth is, over the summer, my muse for my stories has been seriously slacking off; it took every ounce of my willpower to get this together.
So, just to make it clear, I have not abandoned this, or any, of my stories. Updates will just be slow and all over the place.