Chapter 10: Return to Ostagar
Redcliffe Castle
It was a bad idea, but Cailan felt he needed to see this through; nothing ventured meant nothing gained. He was going to have to even his odds somehow. This was as good a way as any.
Loghain had told the mage he'd "make it right with the Circle," then left him to rot in the Redcliffe dungeon, at the mercy of the nobility. "I can make it right with the Crown," Cailan said, trying to ignore the dungeons around him. Dungeons were a reality for the nobles, and many in Denerim had their own subterranean cells, regardless of the fact that Fort Drakon stood tall, imposing, and effective in the city. He still didn't like that his own uncle and aunt had them, and worst of all, used them.
The mage, Jowan, looked about as good as Cailan figured he'd looked when he'd woken in Flemeth's hut. His beard was growing in scraggly and patchy, his face was pale, drawn, and bruised. The apprentice blue of his robes barely showed through the dirt and dried blood stains. He kept staring at Cailan, hardly able to speak for fear and want of water. Cailan sighed and ordered the guard next to him to get the mage out of the cell, and take him up to the castle proper.
"The Arlessa said he's to remain," the guard said, as nervous as if violating Isolde's directive would result in being whipped himself.
"And the King of Ferelden says you're to free him," Cailan said, and that settled the matter.
As they led the mage past Cailan, the man looked so broken he almost felt bad in spite of his role in nearly killing Eamon. "We're taking him to Gwaren with us," he told Teagan and Fergus. He thought a moment. "And if we can take a contingent of soldiers, that would be good, too," he said as an afterthought. "We'll be crossing the south, and if the darkspawn are moving north, then we'll want help." Before anyone could protest or ask any questions, he turned and left them standing in the study.
He headed up to the guestroom where Jowan the mage was staying under careful guard. The man had cleaned up, though he was still gaunt and bruised, and more than a little jumpy around Cailan. He was clothed in some old servant's clothing and sipping at a weak wine when Cailan entered. "You know who I am?" he asked the mage, who nodded, his brown eyes wide. "Good. Loghain had you do his dirty work and left you to rot. That deserves vengeance, wouldn't you say?"
Jowan cleared his throat. "Anything you decide for me is better than I deserve," he said, finally looking away. "They left me at the Arl's mercy, when he woke. But… I don't know if that will happen. I don't even know what the poison was. I was never much of an herbalist."
"What were you then?" Cailan asked. Once again, more he didn't know about. He'd assumed all mages knew about herbs, healing, and how to shoot fireballs.
Jowan's cracked lips curved into a smile. "Well, if you ask the Circle, I'm a blood mage."
The prospect of having a maleficar on his side was more enticing than playing by the rules. Cailan knew if he were to prevail, he would have to make his own rules. "The aggressor makes the rules," Maric had told him once, during one of their many talks about diplomacy and warfare. "In my time the Orlesians and the chevalier regiments made the rules. If the rebellion wanted to win, we had to start making our own rules."
So if Cailan's rules meant taking on a maleficar? Game on, he decided.
He also did his best to recover from the humiliating defeat in the practice ring. Though Fergus was skeptical, he too realized Teagan was right and he should train as well. "It would be a little embarrassing for the two most powerful men in Ferelden to be unable to lift their own swords," Fergus agreed, rubbing the back of his neck.
Their swords clanged, and both grunted with the stress of battle, but then decided to start looking through the armor and outfitting for their trip to Gwaren. It was clear to Cailan that the plate armor he was usually used to would be too bulky and hard to move quickly in, so he found a ragtag set of medium weight chainmail. It was rusted in places, but nothing that couldn't be repaired by the village blacksmith.
Within a few days they were ready to leave; but now that Cailan had a plan the idea of following through with it was terrifying. When he'd headed to Ostagar he'd known his enemy; the soulless darkspawn were simple. It was an easy matter of marching south, fighting, and returning to Denerim. He wouldn't have foreseen this.
The sun rose, red in a gray-brown sky and quickly disappeared behind the low clouds of the Blight. Cailan looked out to the east, shielding his eyes from the direct sun and trying to quell his feelings of trepidation. He moved more easily in his newly repaired and shined mail and he flexed his hands in his gauntlets. Next to him, Fergus was similarly armored; finally, looking even more uncomfortable in an oversized mail shirt over his breeches and loose shirt, was Jowan. He had a sharp knife belted at his waist and they'd found his staff locked in the castle vault, and every so often he looked down at the knife with wary eyes. And with them, a dozen Redcliffe soldiers.
Teagan saw them off from the gates of the castle, a wistful gleam in his blue eyes. "Going with you would be much more enjoyable," he said with a grimace. "But Redcliffe needs leadership. And so does Ferelden, so go and may the Maker watch over you."
"And over you," Cailan said as they embraced roughly, and they set off into the sunrise.
Cailan and Fergus's places in the donkey-drawn cart was now taken up with supplies: food, clean water, weaponry. Cailan and Fergus were, like the rest of the soldiers, walking. Cailan just kept moving forward, aware that as the sun shifted, the miles were passing blank, blighted, and uneventful. Browned grass had been stamped flat by passing darkspawn feet; the muck underfoot was blackened and frozen; things grew colder as their road veered to the south, and the second day Cailan realized with a start that their route would take them straight through Ostagar.
But he didn't have much time to think about it before their forward scouts came running back, breathless and pale with news of the first enemies. "Darkspawn," Ser Kane said, gripping his sword hilt. "About a half dozen, possibly stragglers since the rest of the horde's been progressively moving north. Orders, Majesty?"
The last time everyone looked at him like this Cailan knew he was going to fail, and men and women had followed them to their deaths. He glanced over at Fergus, who shrugged. "Protect the goods, and watch Viviane." He tightened his grip on his sword. "To arms. We're fighting."
The few engagements he'd had with darkspawn before the main battle at Ostagar, he'd been horrified by how awful they truly were. But now he knew what he was facing. He drew his sword and joined the line with his small contingent of troops.
The first darkspawn to crest the hill was a large slobbering Hurlock, snarling and growling at them. A couple Genlocks followed. Their dark cries rang across the dead, dull landscape when they saw the soldiers. Cailan gritted his teeth and cleared his mind.
His blade connected with the first Hurlock, screeching against the rusting breastplate. The air filled with grunts and growls, clangs, bangs, and shouts. Cailan ducked to avoid a swinging sword, and spun around and hit the creature with his shield, right in its deformed face. The Hurlock staggered backward and he took advantage of the moment to drive the point of his sword into the creature's stomach. Black blood oozed out around the blade, and Cailan twisted it before yanking it back toward him and out of the Hurlock. The Hurlock stumbled back and fell, claws grasping at its bleeding abdomen.
The rest of the soldiers were making quick work of their enemies. Fergus swept around and beheaded a Genlock, while Ser Ryder clubbed another Genlock across the face with his spiked mace. It connected with a wet, meaty thunk that made Cailan grateful he'd had very little for breakfast. The creature fell to its knees, and Ryder smashed his mace into its head once more before he kicked it over. Ryder swung his mace through the air a few times to clear off as much of the blood and skin and bone as he could while the other beasts were quickly dispatched. "Not bad for our first skirmish," he said with a toothy grin. He didn't look like he had more than twenty years on him, and had it not been for his skill with his mace, Cailan could have taken him for a raw recruit.
"Perhaps then it is to our advantage that we're moving along so far south," Viviane mentioned, approaching Cailan and hugging her cloak around her. "The lands are blighted, but the horde has moved on, which should mask our presence from any foes in the north."
Cailan looked in that direction and tried to quell his thoughts of the Bannorns and Arlings that would soon face this darkness poisoning their lands and killing their people. There was a strong part of his spirit that begged him to give the command to turn north and engage the foe.
"You cannot hope to triumph in that way," Viviane said in a soft voice, looking up at him. The sharp, chill wind stung at his cheeks like tiny knives; her own cheeks were red with the cold and it was evident she was trying to keep her teeth from chattering. "And you tried to engage the horde with a thousand times more men, in a more strategically defensible location, and were still routed," she pointed out. "Your people need you alive."
"And I have a second chance at that," he said, as if cued.
Viviane smiled and her teeth did chatter then; she wiped the expression away and appeared embarrassed. "You learn," she said simply, before turning her back on him and climbing back into her seat on the cart.
Night fell, darker than any Cailan ever remembered on the road. The sky was moonless, and the thick clouds of Blight corruption blocked out the stars. The campfire did little to brighten their campsite; if anything, it made it feel as if the darkness were encroaching even more. Sleep seemed a thing to be wished for and not experienced, but it was nothing new for Cailan in these past few strange weeks. What was new was how the soldiers treated him: like a man, not as a king. They talked to him, not at him. All in all, Cailan thought it was funny how the Blight was bringing people together.
The next day Ser Ryder took the reins to the cart so Viviane could scout ahead. She moved through the lands as if she were part of them, and her hide clothes and cloak, and long, pale hair, blended into the landscape. The troop kept moving to the southeast, and Viviane insisted she'd meet up with them again soon. "She's taking the opportunity to ditch us," Ryder said, driving the cart up beside Cailan. "Or to bring more barbarians swooping down on us," piped up Ser Percy on the other side.
"She saved my life," Fergus said, turning to flash a disgusted look at them. "And you'll not speak ill of anyone who does that, whether it's a Fereldan born and bred, a Chasind woman, or even a bloody maleficar." A few paces behind Cailan, Jowan masked a snort as a sneeze. "No pun intended," Fergus added, mistaking the reason for Jowan's derisive laughter. Fergus was still uncertain about having a mage along, and Cailan wasn't sure that revealing blood magic was the best idea right now. Jowan had promised to keep his use of the forbidden school minimal, and only use it when absolutely necessary.
Viviane returned later that day, bracken clinging to her long hair and her face smudged with dirt. "Another group of stragglers, but larger than the last; they at least double our numbers," she said, nodding thanks when Fergus passed her a mug of tea and flashed the Redcliffe knights a stare that dared them to say anything about it. "Their lookouts are sharp of sight and keen of hearing."
"Are any of you talented with archery?" Jowan's timid voice startled the men and they all turned to the gaunt mage.
In breeches, tunic, cloak and mail shirt, Jowan hardly looked a mage; even his staff had more the look of a walking stick, and at first the dozen soldiers underestimated his plan. But when he stood on the crest overlooking the shallow valley in which a camp of nearly four dozen darkspawn was set, the clouds darkened over them. The wind picked up, carrying a mournful howl through the air and slicing down at the enemy with a painful chill. His lips moved though he said nothing aloud, doing what he could to avoid detection. He held his staff aloft; sweat ran down his face, belying the difficulty he was having summoning and channeling his power.
The first flakes of snow spun down lazily, and Cailan would have missed it had not Viviane gasped and thrown up the hood of her cloak so suddenly. He smiled, but then the flakes began to fall in earnest. Jowan's jaw was clenched and his lips pressed into a thin line as he channeled the blizzard at the enemy camp, and then he gave Cailan a terse nod.
It was like reliving his worst nightmare, just on a much smaller scale. The snow obscured the enemies' vision and confused them enough for Cailan to drop his hand, the signal for the handful of archers to let loose their arrows. The air filled with flying arrows and the inhuman grunts of the darkspawn enemy. The archers fitted another round of arrows and let them fly. By this point Jowan had collapsed and the snowstorm was petering out along with his magic. "Viviane, get him off the field," Cailan ordered. He loosened his sword in its scabbard. "The rest of you, let's show these fiends they're not welcome in Ferelden!"
The South Road
"You're certain you want to go back through Ostagar," Fergus said. They trailed their company the next day, just miles out from the ruins that marked the day so much had changed for them. "You don't need to; it won't prove anything."
Cailan couldn't explain to Fergus exactly why he felt the need to go back, and told him as much. "I think I need to see it," he said, frustrated that he wasn't expressing himself as clearly as he used to. "And learn from it," he added, recalling Vivane's earlier comment about his capacity to learn. "Besides, maybe we can salvage some supplies. The Circle was there; maybe there's some lyrium for Jowan. And we can see what weaponry was left."
But what he couldn't tell Fergus was that he needed to find his personal effects. He'd kept his trunk locked and closely guarded while in camp, and the thought of it being violated by darkspawn, or worse, Loghain's troops, filled him with disgust. But the feeling was also mixed with fear, for what secrets he kept stashed away.
They reached the western edge of the ruin as the sky began to grow dim. Here, snow covered the ground in a thick blanket that was miraculously untouched by the tramp of darkspawn feet; it was as if the dirtiness of the taint ended with the spread of this white blanket. Even crunching into the snow Cailan felt the air he breathed was cleaner, like something here emanated from within and kept the Blight itself at bay.
The soldiers began to set camp at the edge of the ruins, shrugging and saying it was as good a place as any to set up. "They are afraid," Viviane whispered, appearing at his elbow like a ghost. "This ground has been hallowed with the blood of many warriors, and yet the dead do not rest. They haunt this place." Her voice dropped to a murmur and her words became garbled to Cailan's ears as she dissolved into her native language.
"I think we should move in further," Cailan said to Fergus. "Scout out with what daylight we have left. We might find a better campsite," he said when Fergus looked doubtful.
After a moment Fergus sighed. He didn't have the same connections to Ostagar as Cailan did, and as such, could find no logical reason to deny Cailan. "Do you regret it yet?" he asked when they'd moved away from the main camp.
"Regret what?" Cailan asked. "Everything? Pretty much."
"Coming back," Fergus said, looking around.
"Not yet," Cailan answered. Their boots crunched through the snow and the clear air was a relief after the days spent slogging through the blighted south of Ferelden. For the first time since waking up, Cailan felt his mind clear and felt like he could think, even though he was walking the grounds where this nightmare had all begun. "Over there," he said suddenly, pointing to an orange glow across the ruin. "We're not alone."
Fergus drew his weapon and Cailan followed suit as they took slow, purposeful strides toward the glow. The closer they got they could see it was a fire, with the shadows of two people sitting near it. Cailan tightened his grip on his sword; they could be more straggling darkspawn. Took another step. Refused to let the element of surprise take him ever again. Moved closer, held his sword at the ready.
"Drop your weapons," said a female voice behind him, and he felt the cold steel of a dagger against the back of his neck. "Got 'em," she called to her companion, who rose, and Cailan could see the second person was really a suit of familiar armor propped up like a body. His armor!
He wheeled around and snatched at the girl's arm, but she was light and quick and easily dodged him. She held two daggers at the ready, all but daring him to rush her. Fergus was fighting with her friend, a well-built and very well-trained fighter. The two men were evenly matched, leaving Cailan to fight off the human equivalent of a very annoying stinging fly.
In the flickering firelight it was hard to get a good look at her, but she had short dark hair that swung at her jaw line, and her moves were those of back alley fighting rogues; this struck him as odd compared to her companion, who moved with the precision of a trained knight.
She kicked snow up in his face and lunged at him with her daggers, sweeping them across where his abdomen would have been if he hadn't jumped back, blinking the stinging cold out of his eyes. Cailan found himself right against a tree and she closed in. At the last moment he dropped his sword and shield and spun around the trunk, reaching for her and grasping the back of her leather armor. He slammed her face-first against the trunk. "Let's try doing this the right way," he said, wresting one blade from her hand. "Drop the other."
"Let her go."
The voice was sonorous, and even a bit familiar. Also familiar, and annoying, was the feeling of steel against him, and Cailan turned around, one hand still keeping the girl pinned against the tree.
He stared into the face of a ghost. In the shadows of sunset and the campfire all he made out were the lines and angles of the cheeks; the strong jaw, the straight nose; the face of his father. His hand dropped, and the girl quickly gathered up her blade. "Alistair," she said. "If you're not going to dispatch him, let him go and be done with it."
Alistair. For years Cailan had done all he could to learn about his half-brother. But he could count on one hand the few times they'd been face to face like this. He'd thought their chances gone when he'd sent his brother off to the Tower of Ishal, resting easily in the knowledge he'd kept him safe.
"You," he breathed at last. Alistair dropped his blade some and a hint of a smile softened his stern face. "Alistair. Is it you?"
Alistair's smile grew, but he seemed uncomfortable. "Yes, that's generally what I respond to," he said.
"Which means she's…" Cailan forgot about the fight, forgot about the Blight and the civil war and having almost died. "FERGUS!" he bellowed, his voice resounding off the cold ruins.
"Fergus?" the girl asked. "Fergus? Where?" Tree branches rustled and the snow crunched and then she shrieked. Fergus grunted and laughed more loudly than Cailan had ever heard.
Cailan and Alistair stood a moment, staring at one another in the shadows before Alistair turned away and headed toward the fire, leaving Cailan no choice but to follow. He hung back a few paces, mindful of his brother's straight back and purposeful stride, and the way his hand rested comfortably on the hilt of his sheathed sword. This wasn't the boyish Warden of a month and a half ago.
"Why did you come back here?" he finally asked Alistair, as the younger man took a seat on the snowy ground by the fire. Cailan stood, arms crossed over his chest and not sure if he was accusing Alistair, or truly curious.
"Same reason as you?" Alistair asked. "Though I thought you were dead," he added, shaking his head and staring up at his older brother.
"Rumors of my death are highly exaggerated," Cailan said with a shrug.
At that moment Fergus and Fianna joined them. Cailan remembered Fianna from Ostagar, a serious Warden recruit who'd lost everything except her life. The person before them now sparkled like sun on the new fallen snow, even in the growing darkness. She bounced on the balls of her feet, staring up at her brother with what could only be described as adoration. "Alistair. This is my older brother, Fergus. He'll be the Teyrn of Highever, now."
Alistair smiled at Fianna, a different smile than what he'd given to Cailan. It was warmer and more comfortable. "But you were so looking forward to being Teyrna," he said with a wide grin. He shielded his face from the plume of snow that she kicked up at him, and his laugh filled the little clearing. Alistair rose and held out one hand to Fergus, resting the other on Fianna's shoulder, and neither Cailan nor Fergus missed the way she leaned into his touch. "It's a pleasure, your Grace," Alistair said, bowing his head a bit while it was Fianna's turn to smile at his formality. "Your sister spoke very highly of you at Ostagar, and when we spoke along the road."
Fergus raised an eyebrow. "Fianna? Are you certain we're discussing the same young lady?" he asked, trying unsuccessfully to mask a smile.
But she'd gone quickly serious again. Alistair adjusted the thick green cloak about her shoulders and she nodded her thanks. "You probably aren't discussing the same girl," she said. She looked up at her brother. "I've seen a lot in the last weeks, Fergus. I've seen horrible creatures and even worse injustices. I've looked people in the eye and left them to die." She looked away, and though she worked to keep her voice steady, it was evident that it was a strain. "I think you'll be surprised by what I've become. The Blight…does something to a person," she said.
Cailan watched the play of shadows on her face and the way Alistair rested his hands on her shoulders as if he alone could hold her up. And Fianna, for all she was a fearsome fighter and Teyrn's daughter, allowed him to support her. A pang gnawed at him, and he realized he really missed that about Anora. Those moments when she was vulnerable and just plain Anora. Not the queen, but his wife. And seeing the way Fianna and Alistair just melted together, like two halves of one whole greater than the sum of its parts, Cailan envied his younger brother.
"We have about a dozen troops, a Chasind girl, and a mage with us at another camp not far off," Cailan said at last, breaking the contemplative silence that had descended. His voice sounded odd over the crackling of the fire and though he tried to sound authoritative, he didn't quite hear it in his voice. He sounded tentative, and the instinctual way he looked to Alistair for affirmation stirred up something odd within him.
"You and I can collect them," Alistair offered. "Give the two Couslands some time to get caught up," he added with a nod to Fergus.
And that was how Cailan wound up traipsing back across the snowy fields under a waxing moon with his brother at his side. Not the king and his bastard half-brother; not even two soldiers of Ferelden. Just two brothers. Alistair told him of his quest so far. They'd managed to invoke the Grey Warden treaties with the Dalish Elves and the Circle mages. "They're honoring the treaties because they must," he explained. "But if we could unite them, as well as any soldiers the Bannorn and rebelling Arlings can offer, under your banner, we could be a force neither Loghain nor the darkspawn could ignore," he said.
"You have it in for Loghain as well?" Cailan asked.
Alistair paused to look over the snowy ruins; under the moonlight they looked sad, with no hint of the majesty they displayed in the sun. "He effectively killed all of Ferelden's Grey Wardens," he said. "And he left his king and my… brother, to die."
"Then we may have to toss a coin when we meet up with him again," Cailan said. "To determine which of us gets to execute him."
Next to him, Alistair smiled, but his golden-brown eyes were hard. "You should know he's accusing the Wardens of treason. He says Duncan lured you out onto the front lines, knowing it would likely mean your death, and that those fighting with you did nothing to stop it." He paused to glance over at Cailan, and when he did, his face had softened. "I told you to let me fight on the front lines. I could have tried to save you."
"And you may have died yourself," Cailan said, a bit too sharply, but his rage at Loghain burned inside of him. "I knew what I was doing when I went to the front." It was a simple statement and lacked any tone of accusation. And he wasn't trying to convince Alistair or himself. He had always believed that fighting the Blight on the front lines was his place. "Loghain knew what he was supposed to do, and then willingly turned aside from the duty he'd been ordered to. That is treason, and I will see him executed for it," he said vehemently, his face burning with anger and making the cold feel like hundreds of tiny pins pricking his cheeks.
"I'd heard you were alive, but it seemed too much to hope for after everything else I'd seen," Fergus said once Cailan and Alistair were gone. It was still strange to him that Cailan, who'd been his friend for so long, as well as his king, had a younger brother. Of course, as a noble he understood the reasons. But it didn't make it any easier to accept.
"I had no hope for you, if we're being honest, here," Fianna said, tucking her dark auburn hair behind her ears. She looked away, blinking rapidly so Fergus would not see the tears glimmering there in the firelight. "I wondered why I even survived Howe's attack, and then why I was the only one to survive the Joining ritual; why I was the last Cousland alive. If not for Alistair, I would be completely alone." She looked back at him, a curiosity and grimness in her eyes he'd never thought he'd see. Fianna had never done serious. "But… you're alive. It's more than I'd ever hoped for." Her voice caught in her throat and then she flung herself at Fergus.
He was knocked back against a snow bank, the cold soaking into him from the back while the warmth from Fianna's arms soaked into his front. Her shoulders shook and there were strange muffled sounds coming from her and it was all very awkward, since she'd never been very emotional, either; his younger sister had always been a smiling enigma. But she was alive, solid against him, and not an abstract rumor.
"Cailan told me about Howe's attack. It's true?" Fergus finally asked when Fianna sat back, rubbing her swollen red eyes. She nodded and her lip trembled anew. Some of his elation at having found her alive dissipated, and a weighty sadness made him almost dizzy. She tried to explain to him in a halting voice what she'd seen but at last shook her head and turned to face the fire, pulling her knees to her chest and hugging them there. "I didn't realize Cailan had a brother," he ventured after minutes of silence broken only by the pop and crackle of burning logs.
"Half brother," Fianna said. "The Arl of Redcliffe raised him until he was ten and then sent him off to the Chantry to train as a templar." She did smile a bit at this. "The first time we met he was bringing a message to the mages from one of the Revered Mothers in camp. We have a couple mages with us now," she said, which piqued Fergus's interest. "They love to tease him. And he's such a good sport." Her smile grew, as if discussing Alistair pushed away the bad memories the way a candle flame pushed away darkness.
"I know that look," Fergus said with a knowing grin, and though he couldn't see well in the shadows, he knew Fianna was blushing. "You used to get it when some noble brought his handsome son around."
"Fergus Cousland you take that back," Fianna demanded, picking up handfuls of snow and packing them into a ball that she weighed in her hand while glaring at her older brother. Fergus just laughed, and his laugh grew even louder when Fianna hit him in the chest with the snowball.
They were still laughing when Cailan and Alistair returned with the rest of the party, and the laughter and peaceful conversation carried on into the night.
For Cailan, listening to the easy camaraderie around the fire, here where everything had gone so horribly wrong, it was as if some of the wound had started to heal.
