CHAPTER SEVEN: In Your Arms...
As I sprint up the steps to the courtyard landing, the assault on the gatehouse begins behind me, a cacophony of death and magic that chases at my heels, overwhelming me with guilt at abandoning Aeron.
Below me, on the grass, Father leads six guards toward a side door to the Kitchen Proper. They plan to barricade the doors and clear the path through the basements, while I get Mother, Iona, and Oren from the great hall.
At the top of the stairs, gasping for breath, I direct a handful of guards to reinforce Aeron at the gatehouse. They respond immediately, running back in the direction from which I've come. They're almost certainly going to their deaths, something they must know, and yet they offer no complaint, display no hesitation. I've little time to ponder their sacrifice, however, as I pull open the doors to the great hall.
Inside, a guard is helping mother lash together a crutch they've improvised from the remains of her bow and the mage's iron staff.
Nearby, another guard kneels with Iona, tending to Oren, who has been laid on his back, face up. Madra is curled around his tiny shoulders, licking his forehead with affection and concern. The guard is listening intently to Iona, nodding and pressing hard with both hands, just above Oren's wounds. Something smokes in Iona's fingers, and she presses it into one of the deep gashes on Oren's stomach.
As I walk closer, I see she's holding a broken piece of metal, one end of which has been heated in the embers of the big fireplace. She has twisted cloth, torn from her dress, around the other end of the metal, to protect her hand as she presses the hot metal against Oren's wound. His little body spasms once, twice, then goes still.
The guard removes his hands and bends over Oren's mouth. He's still for a moment, then exhales visibly in relief and nods to Iona, who sits back on her heels and drops the smoldering cloth to the floor. I see now that the other wound is burnt over as well, cauterized by Iona's makeshift torch.
She takes my hand and I pull her to her feet.
"How did you...?"
"Hahren Valendrian taught me," she says tiredly. "I'm not very good yet. If we can get him to the Alienage, someone there might be able to do more."
I nod, crouching and stroking the back of Oren's head, wet from sweat and blood and Madra's kisses.
"We're taking the servant's exit," I tell Iona. "We can get to the Alienage from there. Will you be able to make it down the stairs?"
"I don't need my arm to walk," she says, determined. "Your mother, though..."
"I'll help her." We stand, and I kiss her forehead before turning to Mother. "Can you walk?"
"Of course," Mother snaps, affronted, but her face is tight with pain.
"Help her," I tell the guard who assembled the crutch.
Two others, I instruct to take the lead as we climb down the stairs to the kitchen. They draw their swords and move to the staircase door, waiting while their comrade helps Mother onto the crutch over her protests.
I send the remainder of the guards to the front gate. Like the men on the landing, they can surely guess that they're being asked to buy us time with their lives. And yet, like the men on the landing, they do not hesitate. I wish I had words to give my thanks, but there's a thick lump in my throat, and already they are running toward the doors.
...
Although we only have to descend a few floors, it's slow going. Despite her bluster to the contrary, Mother can barely walk, even with the crutch and the support of the guard. Iona has again tied herself to Oren, and although she does not complain, she is beginning to look pale, the combination of her injury and Oren's weight beginning to take its toll.
Every step, every corner, my nerves are at the edge of breaking. I want to believe there are no more enemies within the castle, just as I want to believe that Aeron can hold the gates long enough for me to see my loved ones to safety, but too much has already gone wrong tonight.
We're nearly to the bottom of the last flight of stairs, the door to the Kitchen Proper in view, when my fears are proved out. Soldiers carrying Amaranthine shields spill from the kitchens into the hallway at the bottom of the stairs,
"It's them!" the first of the soldiers calls back into the kitchens, before rushing up at us.
The two guards at the front of our group leap down the stairs, killing the soldier before he can even raise his shield in defense, and then fall upon his comrades with ferocious intensity, forcing the intruders back.
I draw my bow, but nearly lose my footing as Madra bursts past me, followed closely by the third guard, the man who was supporting Mother. Behind me, I hear her gasp, and wonder if she's fallen, but I can't spare a glance. Steadying myself, I draw and fire arrows as quickly as I can, felling two soldiers as they exit the kitchen. Those who follow recognize the threat and raise their shields, blocking my next shots.
Their shields are no help against Madra, however. As the guards and soldiers clash, she twists past to worry the intruders from behind, tearing savagely at exposed calves and ankles, ripping free whole chunks of flesh, her teeth shredding trousers and boots. The soldiers scream as their legs go out from under them, and as they fall they are cut down by the guards, and in the chaos, the other soldiers lower their shields to ward away my Mabari, and in so doing open themselves to my arrows.
Oh so briefly, the fight becomes a massacre, and nearly a dozen of the Amaranthine soldiers die in a matter of seconds. The few who remain hesitate at entrance to the kitchens, shields up. The three guardsman rush forward, looking to finish the fight, and are outpaced only by Madra, whose coat, normally sleek and clean, is now slick with blood and matted with gore.
Then the door to the kitchen is darkened, and an enormous man steps into the hall, wielding with two hands a broadsword that's almost as long as I am tall. I recognize him immediately: Ser Randolph, Arl Howe's steward. He shoves past his men with a roar, and in a single sweep of the blade beheads one guardsman and cripples the other.
Madra lunges for Ser Randolph's throat but he raises his knee and catches her chest, knocking her aside. Before she can recover, he delivers a powerful kick to her ribs, sending her crashing against a wall.
She slides down, landing near the remaining soldiers; one raises his sword to finish her, but dies with my arrow in his chest.
My next shot is aimed at Ser Randolph's unprotected throat, but he sees it coming and shifts his weight, taking the projectile in his shoulder. Its force is blunted by armor, but the arrowhead still sinks into his flesh, and I expect at least a flinch. Instead, he merely snaps the shaft against the staircase wall and continues forward.
I fire again, and this time Ser Randolph deflects the next arrow with his sword, then twists the blade back to catch a strike from the last of our guardsmen. He parries with such force that the guard's sword clatters away.
Disarmed, the guard yells "For Highever!" and draws a dagger, but before he can lunge, Randolph cracks him in the forehead with the butt of the broadsword. There's a sickening crunch, and the man falls to the stairs, dead instantly.
Near the kitchen door, the last of the Amaranthine soldiers dies as well, having needed two arrows to be successfully put down.
Now Ser Randolph is the only attacker left, and I the only defender.
As he paces toward the bottom step, I spare a glance behind me. Mother is trying to find a weapon, while Iona tries to cradle Oren and tug Mother back up the stairs.
Ser Randolph advances slowly, his broadsword canted forward so it points up the stairs, directly to the center of my chest. There's no chance of retreat, and little chance of rescue, and I'm hopelessly outmatched. I've seen how Ser Randolph moves. If he gets close enough, one flick of his wrists and I'll lose a limb, or my head, or be split open, and there's no room to try to dodge such a strike, and there's nothing with which to parry, even if I had the strength. My only hope is to fell him with an arrow, and I have one nocked, drawn back to my ear, trained on his throat, but if I loose the string at the wrong moment, he'll bat the arrow aside and cleave me in half before I can duck or draw another arrow.
My helplessness before Ser Randolph, and even more so in the face of Howe's treachery, feels absolute, overwhelming. My life, everything and everyone I love, it feels as though we are being batted about as playthings, subjected to the violent whims of faithless men. All my rage is ineffectual, the fury of a child's wild tantrum, pitiful, protesting an incomprehensible world that's utterly indifferent to my prior understanding.
"I was told you were an honorable man!" I call out, nearly choking on my anger. It's meant to be an accusation, but I fear it comes out more like a whining plea.
Ser Randolph pauses his ascent and looks me full in the face, his sword still poised to block or lunge. He raises his eyebrows expectantly, waiting, apparently, to see if I have more to say before I die.
"Would you slaughter women and children?" I demand. "You are a knight! A bann! There's no honor in this!"
"Indeed there is not," he answers gravely, when it's obvious I have no more accusations to throw. "But our country has fought too long, and too hard, for our freedom. Your father fought with us, once. He did what needed to be done, and I still do the same. This brings me no pleasure, young Cousland, but if more blood must be sacrificed, even innocent blood, to preserve Ferelden, then I do not hesitate."
Nothing he's said makes sense to me.
"Fuck you," I spit, surprising myself.
Ser Randolph inclines his head slightly, unperturbed. "You've fought well, young Ser," he says. "Maker take you to His side."
Then he begins his advance again.
I have no chance against this man. Luck has graced me already tonight, more than anyone could hope for, and even if there is still more luck to be had, it could not possibly be enough to outweigh Ser Randolph's size, and speed, and blade, and skill.
As he takes the steps one at a time, I decide to wait until I see him tense for a final attack before I loose my arrow. Perhaps it will find its mark as he brings the broadsword down, and carry him after me into death.
The next moments play out exactly as I envision. When he has closed within a few steps, I see Randolph's hips shift almost imperceptibly, forewarning an attack. As the point of the broadsword drifts sideways, I loose the arrow.
So fast my eyes can barely track the movement, Ser Randolph twists again, but instead of taking my head off at the shoulders, he knocks the arrow aside mid-flight, striking its head with his sword's cross-guard.
Although I have no weapon in hand beside my bow, his pivot has left an opening, his longsword angled slightly away, its tip scraping the wall of the stairwell. Unthinking, acting on a madman's instinct, I lunge, hoping to tackle him down the stairs. If nothing else, maybe we'll both break our necks on the way down.
But he's so fast, and he twists again, flattening his back against the wall, and as I sail past, now in free fall, his blade scrapes my left arm, shaving off a long sliver of flesh from wrist to elbow. At the same time, he jerks one armored knee up into my path, connecting solidly with the side of my head, and my body spasms in midair.
I crash to the hard stone at the bottom of the steps, near where Madra lays motionless. Desperately, I kick at her side, hoping to wake her if she's still alive, hoping she can save me, or at least my family.
Madra shifts, whines, tries to raise her head, but drops it again. She still lives, and there's some consolation in that, but she'll need a few more moments to get to her feet, and those are moments I don't have.
Ignoring the fiery pain in my arm, I force myself to my feet, choking back the vertigo and nausea that pulse from my throbbing head. I unsheathe my sword and draw my knife, and try to run up the stairs.
My legs won't cooperate. All I can manage is an unsteady hobble, barely better than a crawl, balancing against the wall with my injured arm just to stay upright.
Above me, I watch helplessly as Ser Randolph raises his longsword over Iona.
Seeing the blow coming, she twists away, shielding Oren with her body.
I scream in rage and horror as the sword falls.
Her blood sprays across the stone, a long arc, and her body shudders once and goes still.
I try to push my feet faster, and instead fall to my knees.
Behind me, Madra growls.
Above me, Mother curses. She's further up the stairs, no doubt dragged there by Iona, trying now to draw the knife from her belt.
Ser Randolph advances, stepping over Iona's body, raising his sword again.
Madra passes me, her teeth bare, her feet pumping up the steps.
Above me, impossibly, Iona's hand moves. Slow, weak, sluiced with blood, it reaches out, and her fingers close around Ser Randolph's ankle.
He stumbles, his sword scraping harmlessly against the wall. Before he's even regained his balance, he's lashing out with his foot, kicking Iona's hand free.
Just as he does, Madra clamps her jaw onto his leg, just above his heel, her teeth sinking deep into the tendons of his hamstring. Ser Randolph's back arches, and he pitches forward onto one knee, but he does not release the grip on his sword.
I'm only a few feet away now.
Just a few more steps to go.
Passing Iona's body, now motionless.
Almost in reach.
With a yelp, Madra releases her grip as Ser Randolph kicks hard, slamming her against the wall. But no sooner is his ankle free than she lunges again, springing up beneath a wide backhanded swing of his sword. She buries her teeth in the flesh below his armpit, exposed by joints in his armor. He roars in pain and finally drops his broadsword as he twists, trying to grab hold of Madra.
Finally, I'm within reach.
I lash out with my short sword, aiming for his neck, but the strength in my arm fails, and Ser Randolph spins around, knocking aside the diminished blow with his armored gauntlet. As he continues to twist toward me, one hand flashes out and his fingers close around my neck.
His hand is gigantic, its span almost wider than my head, and his grip is stronger than I'd have thought possible. There's no slow loss of oxygen: one instant I can breathe, the next I cannot inhale, or swallow, or even think.
With his other hand, Ser Randolph catches my sword arm as I try to draw it back for another strike. Effortlessly, he wrenches the blade from my grasp and throws it down the stairs.
I try to strike with my dagger, and its tip bites into the arm he's using to strangle me. He doesn't even flinch. I strike again, trying to cut his throat, but his arms are too long, and I can barely reach his shoulders, let alone his neck.
Even if I could, my arms have gone numb. It's a struggle just to hold onto the knife, let alone raise it.
My vision begins to collapse inward, darkness clouding everything but Ser Randolph's face, and the knife clatters on the stone steps.
"I'm sorry, lad," he says.
Then, as suddenly as my breath was cut off, his fingers release me and I collapse forward, falling against Ser Randolph's breastplate.
Warm liquid splashes down onto me, and as I tumble sideways I catch a glimpse of Randolph's face, his eyes wide, his mouth working silently. A knife is buried to the hilt in one side of his neck, its point protruding from the hollow of his throat. Bright red blood pulses from both wounds, and gurgles up from his mouth in a pink foam.
Then he collapses, his body rolling over mine and down the steps below.
Jostled by Randolph's fall, my head strikes a stone step, and the world spins away into blackness.
...
Madra's tongue is rough on my face. Mother is saying my name, over and over.
"Liam! Get up, Liam! Get up!"
My eyes flutter open and I pull myself up until I'm half-seated on a step.
"Thank the Maker," Mother says, and she keeps talking, but I hear no more.
Several steps below me, Iona is facedown, her back opened from shoulder to waist. Her blood is spattered across the walls and steps, her blond hair stained dark.
Beneath her body, untouched by Randolph's blade, Oren stirs.
Sobbing completely uncontrollably, blinded by a mixture of tears and blood, I slide down the steps until I am beside Iona. My mind is on fire, thoughts crashing against each other.
She grabbed Randolph. She saved Mother's life. She took the blow for Oren, and thanks to her, he still lives.
All this is true. She must be alive, too. She must.
I pull Iona against my chest, my arms around her back, and I can feel the long, deep cut beneath my fingers, and find I am half right.
Her eyes are dim already, and tears have streaked the dirt and dried blood on her cheeks. One side of her body is shaking uncontrollably, and the other is limp in my arms, and her breath rasps in her throat.
"Liam..." she murmurs, and her gaze slowly focuses on my face.
"No, no, no." I don't even mean to say the words, but they spill from my lips uncontrollably. "No, no. No. Don't go..."
"...in your arms," she mutters, without context, and her eyes roll back.
"Don't go!"
"Like you did last night..." she says, her voice trailing into nothing.
And then she exhales one long, last breath, and her body spasms once and then relaxes.
And just like that, she's gone.