Chapter 17: Ambush
Mud sucked at the horses' feet, and murky puddles reflected the diminishing torchlight as they left the Kirkwall gates behind. A full moon supplied light bright enough to allow them to ride confidently. But, less than a mile from the gates, Anders was already clinging desperately to the brown mare as she tossed her head, jigged, and snorted, trying to escape his fear-induced chokehold. The mage was an indifferent rider at best, and the mare was restive in the crisp air with an open road before her.
Calling for a halt, Aithne pulled the roan mare off the road and dismounted. Zevran and Anders circled back to her as the brown mare danced and pulled for more rein.
"Anders, why don't we trade? This roan doesn't know much, but if you leave the reins loose she'll just follow the others. Her temperament seems a bit quieter, and you won't have to fight her the whole time." Aithne took the brown mare's bridle to steady her while the mage dismounted. Passing the roan's reins to Anders, she spent a few moments soothing the impatient brown mare before she climbed into the saddle.
They returned to the road, and Aithne loosened the reins and asked the rangy mare for a trot. The next few miles passed in a blur as the mare, freed from the mage's nervous grasp, reached out with her long stride and consumed the miles. Zevran's bay kept up, though he had to canter, and Anders was forced to stand in his stirrups and grab a twist of mane to stay aboard as the roan struggled to keep the pace. Sky flew alongside, overjoyed to be out of the city. The silvered moonlight had dropped a hand-span toward the horizon before Anders surrendered his pride and asked for the pace to slow.
Aithne looked back to find Anders trailing behind, having already dropped his mount to a walk, though his hand was yet fisted in her mane. The roan was blowing and sweating, clearly unaccustomed to the speed at which they traveled. Circling back to join him, Aithne was pleased to note the brown mare now seemed willing to walk.
Zevran's bay still danced and kept trying to nip the mares, earning him a swift kick in the muzzle with an Antivan leather-clad foot at one point. "Brasca! I warned you about the crow bait, did I not?"
The bay stallion seemed unperturbed by his rider's words, but he at least ceased reaching for the mares, his nose stinging from the kick.
The riders followed the road until the moonlight dimmed as the orb dropped toward the horizon. They turned into the scrub forest at the base of a modest hill for a short rest before dawn. Zevran took watch, staring pensively down the road toward Kirkwall. Senses alert, he filtered out the insignificant noises: pre-dawn sounds as nocturnal animals returned to their daytime nests and burrows, the shuffling of the horses as they grazed at the end of their tethers, Anders' soft snores and the whisper of the waves as the tide crept up the shoreline. He had hoped to out-distance the Crows and lose them by cutting across the Vimmark Mountains and traveling cross-country to Markham. However, given Anders' lack of riding skill and the green mare the mage was riding, it seemed better to plan for when the Crows did find them.
Zevran's gaze drifted to Aithne's sleeping form, huddled under a blanket, only a few feet away. Isabela's second warning had disturbed him - stirred remembered pain, the pull of the rack, heated slivers placed beneath fingernails, days of cramped confinement in a tiny cage, and other tortures designed to break and remold him. If they found Aithne, knew he cared for her, they would not be so kind. His eyes returned to the road stretched below him, winding along the edge of the beach for miles. The Crows would likely be on that road soon, if they weren't already, keen in pursuit of their quarry.
The little group was back in the saddle just past dawn, Pounce hissing as she was placed back in the confinement of Anders, pack. They paused several times during the day to allow the horses to rest and graze for brief periods and dismounted and walked between long sessions of trotting. Again, it was Anders and the roan mare limiting their pace. As twilight descended, Aithne guided them off the road and up into the foothills, following a meandering stream until she reached a suitably defensible camping spot with grazing for the horses.
Anders released Pounce from his pack, not even stripping the tack off his tired mare, before settling to the damp ground with a groan. Zevran turned to reprimand the mage for not doing more to care for his horse or set up camp. The words died in his mouth as he noted the dark stains along the inside of Anders' pants. Unaccustomed to riding and to the stiff cloth of pants instead of the soft fabric of his robe, the mage had worn the inside of his legs bloody.
Stifling a curse, Zevran caught Aithne's attention and directed her to the suffering mage.
She nodded and brought her saddlebags over to Anders, extracted a jar of elfroot ointment and handed it to him. "Clean those up and put this salve on. It should help until you are rested enough to heal yourself."
The mage groaned again as he complied with Aithne's advice. By the time the two elves had the horses rubbed down and staked out to graze, he was feeling well enough to have a small fire started and the beginnings of dinner heating in one of Aithne's pots. The Dalish Warden slipped away to do a bit of scouting, and perhaps some hunting, leaving Zevran and Anders to set up camp.
"You did not heal yourself. Why?"
Anders kept his attention on the pot he was stirring, not meeting Zevran's eyes. "I did …several times."
"That shouldn't tire you so much that you can't do it again; the wounds are minor."
"Alright, so I'm worse than a lousy rider. After the first few hours, all that was keeping me on the horse was magic – a carefully applied force field can be used for many things." Anders turned to the Antivan, who now wore his annoying smirk, "And, if you must know, I don't dare take any lyrium for a while. I haven't recovered fully from the overdose during the storm. The stuff is addictive, you know."
"Hmm, so you have studied these applications of magic for… riding? It seems there are uses for mages I hadn't considered." Zevran's eyes held a teasing gleam, in contrast to the seductive caress he gave his words.
"I have spent some time applying my theories." Parry and riposte.
"So, did they hold up in practice?"
"They were rooted in firm ground."
"A fine thing; they stood up to the test."
"I have found that strong magic is essential for good penetration."
A snort of laughter interrupted Zevran before he could reply. Aithne was leaning casually on a tree across camp, eyes sparkling from contained mirth. "You two could make washing socks sound like a trip to the Pearl." She crossed to Zevran, dropping two rabbits by the fire, and leaned in for a quick kiss. "It's a good thing you're a master swordsman."
"Grandmaster at least, my Warden."
"Mmm, even grandmasters need to practice." Her fingers trailed a heated promise down his back as she turned. "Tomorrow you can teach Anders to ride…horses."
Zevran trailed his Grey Warden out of camp, leaving Anders to attend to dinner. He expected the Crows to catch up with them in the next few days; this was likely to be his last opportunity for a few unguarded moments until his former colleagues were dealt with.
They resumed their journey as the first grey light crept into the sky. The horses snorted icy plumes in the cold air and Aithne spent several minutes settling the brown mare before she was content to walk.
Zevran held his bay in check, pacing Anders' roan. "No, no, hold on with your thighs, not your knees. And not so stiff; follow her mouth with your hands – treat her like a lover, flow with her movements. I cannot think so many ladies would fall into your bed if you treated them so."
"It's a horse, not a woman."
"A little pressure here, a touch there, they are much the same. Now, relax the reins and let her have her head. Much smoother, no?"
Anders' riding gradually improved under Zevran's tutelage. Although the mage was still stiff and sore in the evenings, he no longer had to use spells to stay in the saddle.
Three days out from Kirkwall, Aithne guided them into the forest and back-tracked to a low bluff overlooking the road. The bluff loomed with uncertain shadows in the twilight, a sheer rock wall near the road with a few spindly pines clinging to the rocky soil at its crest, and sloped gently down to a clearing in the scrub forest to the north. A tiny stream skirted the base of the bluff to the west.
Zevran nodded his satisfaction with Aithne's choice. Both prey and predator, his awareness of the Crows' pursuit skittered along his nerves. Tonight, he thought, as he staked the stallion near the stream.
Aithne kept watch atop the bluff as Zevran, weapon-callused hands sure in their work, prepared a greeting for his former guild-mates. The former Crow glanced occasionally at Anders, who was partly concealed in the bare branches of an old willow tree, as he laid traps designed to protect the vulnerable mage's position.
The Crows did come, riding boldly down the road on nearly spent horses. Aithne watched them ride past the bluff, past the point where her own party had turned off into the forest. She signaled Zevran as the lead rider paused briefly before riding on; their trail had been marked.
Time passed, motionless, marked only by the progression of the filigreed shadows cast by moonlight on shrub and tree. Aithne watched, even the whisper of her own breath harsh in her ears, and waited for the dense patch of shadow amid a small copse of pines to move again. Slowly, ever so slowly, it shifted west instead of east, contrary to the shadows cast by the descending moon. Her own shadow masked by the dense bulk of the rising bluff and motion concealed by apparently impenetrable brambles, she eased her bowstring back, then let fly.
The muffled cry of her victim blended in synchrony with the whir of Zevran's arrow as he ousted another shadow. The still air was rent by sounds of battle: Sky's growls as she erupted from Aithne's feet, the crack of broken branches as combatants on both sides discarded concealment in favor of open battle, the sizzle and sudden light as Anders engulfed a Crow in flames, the song of steel on steel as weapons clashed. A surreal ballet of death amid the flicker of magical fire, the dancers twisted and spun, not man or elf or dog but sharp-edged weapons in an intricate exchange.
It ended, as always, with the harsh breathing of the victors, the metallic scent of blood and the cloying odor of sundered bowels hanging heavy in the air.
Aithne surveyed the torn bodies sprawled nearby with a mixture of disgust and regret. Zevran had warned her. Still, she had hoped that the Crows would not be so foolish as to spend lives merely to reclaim a man who refused to remain their puppet. Shaking her head at the waste, she proceeded with the grisly task of checking their victims. Three were dead already, with no need for the merciful coup. Zevran was bent over a fourth, with Sky guarding yet another. A sixth figure was weakly crawling toward the stream. Grimly, she committed the spirits of the latter two to whatever gods they worshiped. Brutal necessity forced her hand; they could not afford to have Crow pursuit on their errand.
Zevran was still attending the final Crow when she finished rinsing sword and dagger in the stream. Striding toward them, she was aware of the subtle tension in her lover's relaxed pose.
"Enzo, you will tell me why so many Crows have flown so far from home, no?" Cleaning his dagger on a scrap of cloth, Zevran barely glanced at his victim as he made his query.
"You have done well for yourself. Perhaps you will tell me why you return," the swarthy Crow wheezed, his lips flecked with bloody spittle.
"Why? Because I wish to; I find that Ferelden is sorely lacking decent fish chowder."
"You always were an arrogant bastard." Enzo's eyes flicked over to Aithne. "I think you have simply found a new master. Pity our old one never could beat the heart out of you. You might have been the best Crow assassin in a hundred years."
"Might have been? I am, that is all there is to it."
Zevran's cool declaration elicited a choked laugh from Enzo. "I'm almost glad I won't be around to see what the Grandmaster does to you. You do know he fancies your hide for the wall of his estate?"
"I think he will need better than you to part me from it. Now, tell me about the Crows." Shifting his weight, Zevran ground the heel of his boot into his former comrade's hand.
"No, I think not. I'm dying anyway; at least I go to the Maker watching you squirm. You're not on top anymore, Zevran…." Enzo's words trailed off into gasping breaths; foam and blood stained his mouth as he wheezed and choked.
With the flash of a dagger, Zevran ended the Crow's life. Turning, he strode stiffly to disarm the traps below the willow so Anders could vacate his arboreal perch.
"A murder of Crows in truth," Anders quipped as he descended the tree, looking askance at Zevran.
"It was necessary," Aithne cut Anders off. "Isabela warned us that the Crows have suddenly taken interest in the Free Marches; we need to know why."
"We could have taken them prisoner, asked them…"
"No. Enzo wouldn't talk, and he was their leader. The others would have known little or nothing." Zevran began placing the salvaged trap supplies back in small leather pouches.
"You knew him, and you still hurt him, tortured him?"
Straightening, Zevran faced the mage. "I grew up with him. If you think what I did was real torture, you have a lot to learn."
"Pack up, Anders. We're not spending the rest of the night with these bodies." Aithne tossed saddle bags at the mage and went to gather the horses.
Shortly after first light, Aithne found a lightly used trail off the main road, and they began their ascent into the Vimmark Mountains. The trail left the scrub forest of the coast quickly and rose through vast stands of hardwoods, stripped bare in winter dormancy. The Vimmarks lacked the towering crags of the Frostbacks. These were older mountains, slopes worn by time in softer, rounded shapes.
Trying to make up for lost time, they broke camp early and traveled until evening dulled the landscape. Over the course of the next week, the track they were on guided them through a low pass where the snow was only a difficulty to overcome instead of the insurmountable obstacle it would have been in the Frostbacks in late winter. Another week's travel saw them free of the mountains, disgorged onto the vast plains of the Free Marches.
Only a few days after their descent, the bustling town of Markham appeared on the horizon, and the weariness melted from the companions at the thought of warmth and a hot meal beneath a roof. Blending with the light traffic on the road, they entered Markham, noted only as three travel-worn mercenaries by the gate guard.
A few coppers to a street urchin garnered them directions to "The Lady's Harp." The inn proved to be a modest but reputable establishment, catering primarily to caravans, traders and local merchants. The presence of three mercenaries, even if two of them were elves, was little to be remarked upon with the diverse nature of her clientele. The Harp was a place where deals were made, goods were contracted and guards hired.
Carefully phrased words to the innkeeper about the wool trade in Amaranthine generated a startled look and rapid service. Given the appropriate code, there weren't even any protests about the presence of a Mabari and a cat in the common room.
Settling into a corner table, Aithne sighed with pleasure as a mug of steaming cider was placed before her. Wrapping her frozen fingers around the wooden cup, she noted that Anders and Zevran had done the same, though Zevran kept one hand below the table, resting idly on his belt knife. The companions wasted no time in ordering food, uncertain how long it would take the message to yield results.
The serving girl was clearing the remains of their meal when a slender red-haired woman stepped through the door. In moments, she had found them and worked her way confidently toward the table.
"Leliana." Aithne rose to embrace her friend. "The child?" she whispered under cover of hugging her friend.
"Safe for now. Come with me, and you can see for yourself."
Leaving a handful of coins to pay for their meal, the companions rose and followed the Orlesian bard out of the inn.
Once again real life interfered with my writing, my apologies for the delay.
Thanks as always to my betas Erynnar and Brownc0at who catch the little things that make such a difference.
As always, Bioware owns all. I'm just playing with their toys.